When I was young, I argued with theories.  I thought that my intelligence was the weight of the argument.  There was the compulsion to drop name after name, theoretical concept after theoretical concept.  I argued with the contempt and impunity that can only come from someone not old enough to be proven wrong.  I was on a mission to prove to the world that I am right, and everything in it is wrong, stupid, and idiotic.  Big words, too; words that, from the perspective of a youthful version of me, can summarize – and solve – the problems of the national Gessellschaft.

Then I grew old enough to take up a job.  After three or so years of writing copy and etching a name for myself in the glass walls of multinationals and transnationals – from newspapers to BPO to advertising – I realized that I only “knew everything” when I was young.  In the brave new world, beyond the shelter of the Geisteswissenschaften and the arguments of privilege that came with a chair in the classroom and a book from the library, there are some things I realized.

If there’s anything I can empathize with the bulk of young, opinionated writers on the Web who’ll fight tooth and nail for what they believe in, I’d (somehow) act like a big brother and ask them if they truly believe that their big words would pay taxes.  If their arrogant swagger would get that promotion.  Or if those sharp retorts put food on the table, pay the bills, or make one a good citizen.

I’m young (25 years old), and I’m as opinionated as any one out there, but after tempering my pen – and my enormous ego – with the fact that working people I rub shoulders with in the train don’t give a fiddler’s fart about my blog and my grand ideas about society, I realized something very important.  It’s not what you know that counts; it’s how you apply that knowledge.  The key to success is to translate that intelligence to wisdom.

I was never paid anything for big words and literary expositions, but for simple articles that people can understand.  When I wrote copy, I was never paid anything for a big word, because the limits of the copy design didn’t allow the phrase laissez-faire. In meetings, ideas were never discussed on the basis of their grandiosity and complexity; but whether or not they could be executed on time and implemented within a budget.  There were those times that I gave my all to try and impeach the President and create manifestos for groups of netizens willing to support a cause, but the rest of the day, I work in an office earning a living.

The stinging truth gets worse from here: nothing in society, no matter how big or small, was ever accomplished by dropping big words, by invoking grand concepts, the argument from that privileged position, or just being an asshole.  If any realization mattered more, it’s that when I was young – and as I grew older – I didn’t know everything.  Beyond moving along corridors in college there was something bigger that lay ahead: the school of life itself, where the big words and theories bought you a paycheck that’s gone in 10 days.  Intelligence makes you think you’re wise and you’ll never compromise, and it’s kind of hard to come to terms with reality when you’re out of touch with it.

Indeed, the very core concepts of the things I was taught remained with me – and are the very things I apply in my field in advertising and marketing – but the big words and the verbose theories remain anecdotal.  They facilitated learning, but they were never the lesson.  The difference between intelligence and wisdom is that the former is potential, the latter is practiced.  “Free market economics,” for example, can always be defined along the lines of Hayek’s spontaneous order or Misesian sovereignty of consumers, but to an ambulant peanut vendor along EDSA, it’s the freedom to peddle his goods from bus to bus without being rejected by the conductor.  To a poor mother, it’s to “economize” the pack of noodles in such a way that it becomes “free;” watering it down to serve as viand.  To a guy with an office job, “free market economics” is the 15th and the 30th.

Which brings me to something that has been gnawing my brain for quite a while now; shouldn’t our writing be for them?  To make them understand, to empower them?  Do our thoughts have value if they float around in cyberspace for purposes of proving intelligence?  Indeed not.

When I was young, I knew everything.  As I grew older I realized I knew very little of everything: snippets of physics here, bits of sociology there, pieces of politics every now and then.  Fiery idealism, tempered with a cold dose of hard reality, can either make a brittle rod of failure and missed opportunities, or the sharp-edged sword you need to succeed in a battle against life itself.

* – From “The Freshmen,” by The Verve Pipe

Lyrics translations, of course.  Let’s start with Charice Pempengco… and let the flaming begin.

Tagilo
Translation of “Pyramid” by Charice Pempengco

Pag-ibig ni pandak parang tagilo
Hanggang sa huli tayo’y nakatayo
Wala nang pag-ibig na tulad ng ganito
Iyaz at Charice tara na’t humayo

Bato
Kasing-bigat ng pag-ibig mo
Sintatag ng lupang alam mo
Gusto kong magpatuloy

Sinimulan mula sa baba
Kahit sa silakbo ng disyerto
Tayo’y sintibay ng bato
Sana ang sandali’y maging yelo

Gusto ko lang malaman mo
Sa lindol, di tayo magigiba
Sa unos, di masisira
Kahit bagyo, di matatangay ang ating pag-ibig

Tagilo, itinayo natin sa isang bato
Haplos ng langit ang nadarama ko
Magkasama sa tuktok
Tulad ng tagilo

Kahit sa hagupit ng hangin
Di babagsak, sulong pa rin
Habangbuhay, ikaw at ako
Tulad ng tagilo

Parang tagilo, parang tagilo, hoy
Parang tagilo, parang tagilo, hoy
Parang tagilo, parang tagilo, hoy

Lamig
Di nadarama kung ika’y nariyan
Di hahayaang matutupi lang
Kuwentong di sinasabi
Tulad ng lihim

Lumaki tayo sa bawat hakbang
Tignan mo ang bilis ng panahon
Lakbay sa kung saan hindi alam
Gagawa tayo ng kasaysayan

Sa lindol, di tayo magigiba
Sa unos, di masisira
Kahit bagyo, di matatangay ang ating pag-ibig

Tagilo, itinayo natin sa isang bato
Haplos ng langit ang nadarama ko
Magkasama sa tuktok
Tulad ng tagilo

Kahit sa hagupit ng hangin
Di babagsak, sulong pa rin
Habangbuhay, ikaw at ako
Tulad ng tagilo

Tulad ng tagilo, halika’t ipapakita ko
Na mahal kita ng tunay, at susulong tayo
Kahit malakasa ang bagyo, narito ako
At narito akong magliligtas sa yo, hoy

Apat na pader at paggiliw, higit pa sa sapat
Hawak kamay tayong dalawa, alalay sa iyo kung mahirap
Inang Kalikasan man o sakuna
Ay di titigil sa ating habambuhay na ligaya

Tagilo, tara na’t ipagpatuloy
(Parang tagilo, parang tagilo)
Whoa
(Parang tagilo, parang tagilo)

Tagilo, itinayo natin sa isang bato
Haplos ng langit ang nadarama ko
Magkasama sa tuktok
Tulad ng tagilo

Kahit sa hagupit ng hangin
Di babagsak, sulong pa rin
Habangbuhay, ikaw at ako pa rin
Tulad ng tagilo

Itinayo natin sa isang bato
Haplos ng langit ang nadarama ko
Magkasama sa tuktok
Tulad ng tagilo

Kahit sa hagupit ng hangin
Di babagsak, sulong pa rin
Habangbuhay, ikaw at ako pa rin
Tulad ng tagilo

Parang tagilo, parang tagilo, hoy
Parang tagilo, parang tagilo, hoy
Parang tagilo, parang tagilo, hoy

*     *     *

Oh yes.  Oh yeah.  Oh baby.  Oh baby, baby baby oh… why I am translating this song, I do not know.  Maybe I’m just waiting for the L.A. Lopez-Gloc 9 remix.

Giliw
Translation of “Baby” by Justin Bieber

Oh whoa…
Oh whoa…
Oh whoa…

Mahal mo nga ako, kinaiingatan
Sigaw ka lang at ako’y nariyan
Puso ko’t pag-ibig, ang gusto mo
At kailanman di tayo magkakalayo

Bagay ba tayo? Wag nang maglaro
“Kaibigan lang,” ano bang sabi mo
“Merong iba,” tingin sa ‘king mata
Ang una kong kinagiliwan sa aking puso’y sumira

At ako’y parang
Giliw, giliw, giliw, ohhh
Parang, giliw, giliw, giliw, wag
Parang, giliw, giliw, giliw, ohh
Akala ko’y ika’y akin kailanpaman

Giliw, giliw, giliw, ohhh
Parang, giliw, giliw, giliw, wag
Parang, giliw, giliw, giliw, ohh
Akala ko’y ika’y akin kailanpaman

Para sa ‘yo, ginawa ko kahit na ano
Di ako makapaniwalang di na tayo
Gusto ko swabe lang, pero nawawala ka na
Anuman ang gagawin, bibili ng anumang singsing

Ako’y watak-watak, ayusin mo ako
Pilitin mo akong gisingin mula sa bangungot ko ko
Ako’y nararatay, nalulungkot, natutumba
Di makapaniwalang ang aking unang pag-ibig ay lumayo na

At ako’y parang
Giliw, giliw, giliw, ohhh
Parang, giliw, giliw, giliw, wag
Parang, giliw, giliw, giliw, ohh
Akala ko’y ika’y akin kailanpaman

Giliw, giliw, giliw, ohhh
Parang, giliw, giliw, giliw, wag
Parang, giliw, giliw, giliw, ohh
Akala ko’y ika’y akin kailanpaman

Nung ako’y trese, ako’y umibig
Walang katulad ng aking baby at walang makakapagpigil o makakapagtigil sa ‘ming dal’wa
Sa kanya’y torete
Ako’y nawawasak
Araw-araw ang gising
Kahit ‘lang zTaRvUcKz
Puso ko’y tumitibok
Lumulukso ang aking pulso kung siya’y nakikita ko
Sa paaralan sa palaruan
Sa tuwing matapos ang linggo makita siya ang gusto ko
Siya’y aking tinititigan
Siya’y di karaniwan
Puso ko ma’y sirain
Ito pa rin ang sasabihin

At ako’y parang
Giliw, giliw, giliw, ohhh
Parang, giliw, giliw, giliw, wag
Parang, giliw, giliw, giliw, ohh
Akala ko’y ika’y akin kailanpaman

Giliw, giliw, giliw, ohhh
Parang, giliw, giliw, giliw, wag
Parang, giliw, giliw, giliw, ohh
Akala ko’y ika’y akin kailanpaman

(Wala na)
Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah
(Ngayong wala na)
Wala na

About a year ago, I wrote that the word “diaspora” may not be the right word to describe – or to appropriate – the phenomenon of Filipino migration.  It’s about linguistic precision; that words like “Maafa” evoke a meaningful experience to Africans, and there’s meaning evoked when you refer to the lower Hindu caste as “Dalit.”  I used the word “pakikipagsapalaran” – gamble – for the sake of some linguistic precision to the Filipino experience of migration, but somehow that begs a revisiting.

I’m not a “translator” per se (only in the sense of pop songs), but the term is actually “pandarayuhan.”  A root word – “dayo” – means to “visit.”  Another root word – “dayuhan” – means “foreigner.”  One must make distinctions, though, between “dalaw” and “dayo;” that while the former assumes that you were invited, the second one assumes force.

I think it is in the word “dayo” where we should form that narrative of our people.

Don’t get me wrong: no narrative will ever encapsulate the entirety of our experience of migration, and each story is unique.  “Dalaw” assumes welcoming; that things are all set for you, that everything is prepared and ready just for that moment of your visit, that you are a very welcome guest.  “Dayo,” on the other hand, assumes that you’re out on your own.  “Dalaw” assumes complete, positive choice; “dayo” assumes some degree of coercion.  The calling of need – not the penchant for tourism – is a very common reason for leaving.  On one extreme, it’s the story of having to raise a family yet not finding the right job, or having enough income.  On the other extreme, it’s the story of making it here, but not having – or making the best of – the opportunities for success found in other countries.

Seeing my relatives and friends during Christmastime lends well to the narration of “dayo” I’m forming in my head.  There’s my uncle who has never let go of his Filipino roots, who during dinner would keep talking about adobo mixed with American soy sauce and vinegar that makes him wince.  Then there are my friends who have taken to the bleaching of their Filipino identity, whining in faux Southern California accents about the state of the Philippines.

Yet I digress: the whole point is to frame the Filipino experience into something Filipino.  “Diaspora,” as common a word as it is, impinges on a whole new different Exodus: not the exile from the promised land, but “pakikipagsapalaran;” adventure, gamble, the seeking of fortunes.  Again, it is negotiating the situation: “to stay or to go” is different from “go on or die.”  Negotiating leaving is different from being a refugee: it is to earn the money or take out a loan, minding the lines at the embassy or the agency, and – still – negotiation by the time you reach the airport terminal.

There are negotiations that succeed, in the form of Balikbayan boxes from OFWs who willingly share their wealth to their families and friends, precisely the reason why they’re there.  There are also those that fail, in the form of coffins bearing OFWs who bore pain and suffering for their families and friends, which brought them out and back.  “Dayo” is the narrative: it may not be the coercion that comes with slave-ships and masters bearing whips, but walking to a place not your own, visiting indefinitely.

So whether it’s the often-romanticized nostalgia for the overseas Filipino, or for the self-flagellation of the Filipino who divests himself of that identity, the narrative isn’t “diaspora.”  Diaspora assumes exile, deportation, the removal of identification.  “Dayo,” like “pakikipagsapalaran,” represents the hope for return; of when, they can only tell.  Of where… it depends on where “home” is.  For those of us who seek the narrative of a people, perhaps the word where we base it on may tell more stories than the chocolates and sneakers.

In a GMANews.TV report, the Coconut Palace – that edifice to anything and everything Imeldific, one of the many monuments to the ostentatiousness of Martial Rule – is being considered as the official residence for Vice President Jejomar Binay, who seems to be getting a little bit of cabin fever from his office.  Apparently, the office in the PNB Building isn’t dignified and respected enough for Binay to exercise his duties.  As such, the office that he represents should have an official office and residence fit for his position.

There’s no better manifestation of a “structure of power” than a house.  It’s more than just a place to live: it’s a status symbol.  We add floors, create wings, fill rooms with furniture and create fences and gates to affirm class and status.  It’s a matter of giving something prestige, of creating (literal) structures that affirm our lot in life.  That, in effect, is what Binay is trying to do: give some weight to his position.  In this case, a nicely-appointed residence.

I wouldn’t really mind if Binay would occupy Malacañang if President Aquino chooses to stay at his house in Times Street, but it does beg the question of how much importance and prestige is there in being the Vice President.  Some popular perceptions of the position include succession, the national caretaker in the event that the President is not in the country, a free pass at a Cabinet appointment (ideally, the Foreign Affairs portfolio: the highest in the Cabinet), a goodwill ambassador, and a springboard to the Presidency.

The challenge to Binay is to define, for his position, a constitutional, legal role to his position that provides him the importance and relevance that makes him more than just a crutch, or an accessory.

Yet the insistence on houses in this case is a wee bit questionable.  For someone who held a very tastefully-appointed office at Makati City Hall, it seems that Binay wants his structure of power for it’s own sake: that if the President has Malacañang, then so must he have a similarly tastefully appointed house.  Somehow, part of the exercise of duty is hinged on having something palatial and prestigious, something symbolic and sacred.

In the case of Binay, it is not function, but prestige.  It is not leadership, but pomp.  It is not initiative, but that he can’t be the Vice President in an austere office because because because.  Of course, this is perfectly normal and acceptable behavior in a nation where public school principals spend much on their own office chairs, where “it’s okay” to eat at fancy restaurants abroad because of the position you have in Government, and wang-wang, at the expense of the public good, is encouraged.

I believe in feeding the ego of authority every once in a while, if it means the better and more prudent exercise of duty.  If we need to wire a Government office to the fastest possible Internet connection, it must be done.  If we need to dispose of austerity to give the President topnotch medical treatment, then we should.

Yet palaces, castles, and mansions have, more often than not, served the purpose of symbolizing oppression, dereliction, and ostentatiousness: that it is not the gilded columns and marble floors that validate leadership, but the ability of leaders to make do with what they have and make wonders out of them.  The office at PNB, as official as it is, doesn’t make Binay any less of a Vice President, but his inclination to occupy a palace “befitting his position.”  A palace that carries with it the arms meetings of Muammar al-Gadaffi, the piano pieces of George Hamilton, a sleepover by Brooke Shields, and a stopover for The Amazing Race.

How prestigious, indeed, compared to the relatively honorable work done in less tastefully-appointed offices at the PNB complex, at barangay halls, and in other less-palatial places where Government officials carry out their duties with the barest of essentials with the most barebones of operating expenses.  What of them, compared to a Vice President who wants his palace?

Decades past, Pope John Paul II declined Imelda Marcos’ offer for him to stay at the Coconut Palace, saying that it was not appropriate to stay there in a place where people suffer for want of a home.  For Mr. Binay, maybe it should not be the house that he would stay in for the next six years that counts, but the house of accomplishments, achievements, and milestones he could make, even without it.

The big idea for Freshman Masculine Wash is simple: if there’s shampoo for your hair and toothpaste for your teeth, then there must be something for your intimate areas (the word “pototoy” makes bad copy).  A pH-balanced manoy, coupled with the fresh scent of tea tree oil (for whatever it’s worth), apparently gives you that cool and fresh feeling as “she.”  I doubt if the same feeling can be achieved by splashing tea tree Eskinol – or Gilbey’s Premium Strength, on one’s tarugo, but a titi smelling like a tea tree (good grief) would probably be in vogue once Freshman becomes acceptable and quite ordinary.

It didn’t fly (no pun intended) with Penifresh, but once you get the hang (again, no pun intended) of shower gels formulated and manufactured exclusively for your crotch, then Freshman may be for you.  Who wouldn’t want a cool, refreshed, moisturized, bacteria-free manly intimate area?

Surely there’s a market for Freshman: there’s probably research out there that justifies the existence of the product, like Blackberry devices and TENGA Onacups.  Like, 94% of men want a Lactacyd to call their own: after all, numbers don’t lie.  We wanted fully-functional email and push messaging on our cellphones and close-to-the-real-thing masturbation, but we have yet to see a product that gives us both.  Such is the way of economics: innovation either supplies a demand, or creates it.  Think pearl shakes (once more, no pun intended).

Or maybe they want to replicate the habits of a particular peoples (I’m not sure if it’s Hindus or Native Americans) who dunked their testicles in cold water to promote testicular health and virility… I read that somewhere.

A friend of mine over at Facebook says that it’s about time something like this existed for guys.  I don’t really know: I’m part of that fraction of the population who believes that a brisk and vigorous washing with soap is enough to kill bacteria in your intimate area (the phrase doesn’t lend well to masculinity), and if you take the time to select underwear fabrics and styles you don’t have to go through manly kulob feeling.  Coupled with hygienic sexual and urinary practices, guys don’t really need Freshman.

Yet we do, the manufacturers of Freshman claim: a three-minute lathering with their product can maintain a man’s pH levels (there was probably a litmus test here involving three men, Freshman, vinegar, water, and three strips of litmus paper) and give you a cool and fresh feeling.  Those are things that are important to men: once you start foaming up the fandangle with Freshman, even bacon briefs will start smelling like tea tree cologne.

Of course, there’s the need to overintellectualize things so that this blog entry becomes properly situated as “commentary” (lol).  Thorstein Veblen (a social theorist, but makes for an awesome penis name) lends a legacy to the idea of conspicuous consumption, where products are made and things are bought to meet ends of status, not necessarily utility.  Surely there’s a usefulness for Freshman, but it’s not in the “clean penis;” it’s in the “clean and fresh as She” penis that wants menfolk to invest in a soap exclusive for their private parts.  Even if soap and shower gels would give you a perfectly clean penis, it just isn’t enough: you need to care about pH balances, scent, tea tree, and cleansing agents for your pulsating python of love (yee-haw).  Soon enough, someone out there may think you need a specialized instrument to clean the back of your scrotum.  Who knows?

The thing I’m driving at (no pun intended) here is that Freshman isn’t “wrong;” I’d love to see this product succeed and see the day where I can confidently walk up to any pharmacist in the world and ask for a penis soap without shame.  Growing pains (no pun intended), I guess, for a product that fills a created need: that if this world would be a better place if we all had clean crotch Colossi, fresh frigamajigs, and tallywhackers that smell of tea trees.  So hooray for Freshman, more power for their makers, and in the meantime, I’ll muster up the courage to buy a bottle and write a proper, independent review.

* – Photo from the Freshman website.