Did I mention this is a manufactured experiencement?
Anyway, here I am in some Pantene gig where the Pantene song is playing over and over and over again, so much so that I’m tempted to translate “Feel the Rain on Your Skin.”
Anyway, here are this week’s Lyrics Translations.
3 Comments Let us deal with a question of national interest: was ABS-CBN right in suspending Cristy Fermin for two months?
Yeah… we can’t be high-brow all the time. This question comes from a guy:
Yes, I am a regular showbiz fanatic. If I had my way, I’ll stop writing about politics together and I’ll keep writing showbiz entries. If I had my way, I’ll be the Philippine blogosphere’s equivalent to Billy Bush.
Anyway, I think this whole Cristy Fermin-Nadia Montenegro war started when Gabby Concepcion came back here. I have nothing personal against Gabo - I still remember those “Shawee-Gabby” games back in the schoolyard - but they weren’t kidding when they talked about a “monster comeback.” When Gabby returned, all hell broke loose.
Fast-track to this week, when ABS-CBN management slapped a hefty two-month suspension on Manay Cristy. From what I read, it seems that Manay Cristy went just a tad too far in saying that Nadia had a baby when she was still in-the-know, had it delivered at a Pasig hospital, and then months later presented said child to the world as her adopted kid. So bye-bye for now to Manay Cristy.
Earlier I went on a short blog-hop of countless sites where a lot of Fermin-bashing has been going on: it seems to me that Cristy Fermin has become our equivalent to the Antichrist. I wouldn’t be surprised if people will demand the return of the garrote just for Cristy’s purposes, or have her lynched.
Although I’ll be rather surprised to see if anyone has the idea to carve out a couple of logs, put Cristy in it, feed her honey and milk, and throw her into some dank marsh somewhere in the dengue-infested cesspools of the MWSS and have her consumed from the inside-out. Ah, yes: good old scaphism, look it up.
Hmmm… for someone who’s a self-confessed has-been, Nadia’s been appearing a whole lot on TV these days… I’m just saying.
If you asked me, it couldn’t possibly end this way. The saga shouldn’t end this way. It’s just so… corny, for ABS-CBN to stop the madness in such a corporate fashion. The least I expected was a bitchslap in front of a nationwide audience. I expected that, in their rage, these two non-entities in my perennial showbizzy thoughts would grab Jobert Sucaldito and use his hair to strangle the life out of that motherfuckin’ bitch.
I’ll leave you to make up your mind about the point of reference, but this is just a stupid way to end it. I was expecting more along the lines of Japanese deathmatch wrestling. Cristy Fermin and Nadia Montenegro: no ropes 200-volt double hair double barbed wire double land mine glass-crush death match.
I’ll pay to see that one.
I was about to make my calling cards (sheesh) when, in my infinite egomania, I decided to Google my name. There’s the usual problem of spelling my thinly disguised pseudonym: Patricio Mangubat often spells out the cute and saccharine “Marochim,” which reminds me of this character:
Yes, Murumo! Cute, and saccharine! Marshmallows! ANTENNA BEAM!
I’m rather surprised that quite a number of people (not just Jen) have mistakenly referred the name of this blog - The Marocharim Experiment - as The Marocharim Experience.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not offended. For one, I only have myself to blame for giving myself a thinly disguised pseudonym and naming my blog a’la a certain Jamie Kennedy show. People still can’t figure out how to pronounce my pseudonym, and to be honest I have no problems being called “Maro-KA-rim” (as MLQ3 pronounces it) or “Maro-TSA-rim” (as The Jester-in-Exile pronounces it) , though some people have just taken it upon themselves to call me by the hip-hoppish moniker “Ma-Ro.” Holla at me playaz, Ma-Ro’s in the hood. Don’t be takin’ no Hate-A-Rade, holmes.
As far as “Experience” goes, I’m torn between two interpretations of the idea. For one, there’s Jimi Hendrix:
I know that my blog can sometimes read like you’re high on LSD, and it seems that my “adik” lapses can get that purple haze up in my brain, stone free to ride the breeze, and yes, manic depression is touching my soul.
It could stop there, but there’s always the other implication: Prince.
I think I’ll stop here. Betcha by golly… whoa.
Although The Marocharim Experiencement doesn’t sound bad.
Today is the 2008 Blog Action Day, where bloggers from all over the world write about a pressing issue once a year. This year, the bloggers of the Philippines (through the initiative of Bloggers’ Kapihan) will write about something that strikes home: poverty. Rather than turn this into a sob story or a sweeping generalization, I’d like to keep my little contribution to this initiative more introspective and personal: what can writers and bloggers like myself - and yourself - do about poverty? What is our share in the issue of poverty?
That, my friends, has very little to do with writers experiencing poverty firsthand, and bloggers becoming “poor” because only expensive coffee shops have stable wi-fi.
The responsibility of a writer is more than just to transcribe words and arrange them together into coherent sentences. As writers, it is our responsibility to take what are seemingly ordinary, mundane, and taken-for-granted and turn them into narratives. We do more than just write: we articulate. Society itself is ordinary, mundane, and taken-for-granted. The same goes for its problems; in the Philippine context, those descriptions apply most especially to poverty.
I’ll be the first to say that it is very difficult to write about poverty. Poverty appeals to the most basic of things that make us human beings: our hunger, our repulsion to smells, our abhorrence of eyesores, the list goes on. What makes it even more difficult is that writing about poverty demands some measure of drama; it’s always very tempting to write about the struggles of a pedicab driver, the emotions of a beggar, or a child whose lifelong dream is a meal at Jollibee. You can’t write about squatters’ areas without describing in detail the rotten stench of the estero, the cheapness of salvaged GI sheets, or the simple meals of munggo at dilis shared like feasts. So much so that the subject becomes grating, boring, and perhaps even tired and drawn-out.
I’ve always believed that writers are activists, in the sense that one does not only write and advocate, but acts on words and advocacies. We cannot simply “write:” the fact that we write demands that we turn our words into practice. You have to act on - and act for - what you believe in. Even if that act itself is writing. The writer must always situate himself or herself in society; in a greater, more important context that himself or herself alone.
If it behooves us to change the world, let it be through our writing. Writing is not just for the sake of emotional satisfaction, but for the sake of social change. As bloggers, we’re not expected to always be political, or have an expert grasp of socio-economic issues. We may represent a minority in the forum of public opinion, but we must have opinions, views, and advocacies.
That, at the very most and the very least, is what we can do as writers, as advocates, as citizens, and as people who are entitled to opinions.
As writers, we need to situate ourselves in the poverty before us, and draw our inspirations and views from there. No matter how grating and boring it is to read and write about the poor amongst us, we are obliged to. At the very least, we should be bloggers for those who cannot blog: not because they don’t have computers or Internet access, but because an oppressive system finds it profitable to shut them up. We should fight for justice, equity, and their well-being.
In closing: Plato, in The Republic, speaks of a quality called ἀρετή, which roughly translates to “excellence.” We must live up not only to the full potential of blogging, but also to live up to our full potential not only bloggers, but as writers. We must advocate for the causes of economic equity and social justice not just on occasion, but whenever we can.
Yesterday I had this depressed episode where I kind of questioned why I write, and why I advocate, if it’s not lining my pockets full of cash, much less taking me to nights out on a regular basis. Somehow, that all changed; if I can just influence and change the thought of one person - just one - to fight for a cause, even if it’s just through the spontaneous, cathartic-sometimes-stressing act of writing, then there is some hope to look out for: that there is, and always was, room for the writer in the struggle for social change.
The nightclubs at the other end of that stretch of EDSA are for those leggy, busty model-types who have long, shiny hair and ample curves. They are for those who prefer their women sensuous and luxurious; the kind of woman you cannot call a “whore.” For this end of EDSA, where the road reeks of diesel fumes and Tanduay, there is less of the presumptuous and more of the carnal.
I watched them from the bus I was riding. There were no pretenses in these beerhouses lining the Pasay stretch of EDSA. You don’t need to look for the “guest relations officers.” Your GROs are right there, waiting outside the karaoke bars. There’s no disguising the invitation for vice and flesh. One stands there, in her backless red dress that barely covers her thighs and breasts. Still another waits for you in nothing more than a black tube top and extremely tight denim shorts. Just a few strides away there’s a lady in a black halter top and a black miniskirt, smoking a Philip Morris menthol cigarette through a thick layer of lipstick.
The heavy traffic gave me a bit of time to observe this live whoring taking place right before my eyes. You would think that prostitutes would make a beeline for young twenty-something types who drive a Mercedes, but this is the other side of EDSA. Two ladies entered an eatery, sauntering by, thinking that by revealing their ample assets they would get at least one taxi driver to fork over the day’s earnings for sweet release.
I am not a moralist. I’ve never been to bed with a woman, much less a prostitute, but I can’t help but stare at them. I stare long and hard – among other things – of the eroticism and tragedy of whoring. You know where they come from: the provinces, the depressed areas, and blessed with enough beauty and curves they hope to pull their families out of poverty. Dignity, much less virginity, becomes less and less valuable. Could you pay your brother’s tuition or your sick father’s medicines with your own two hands? Yes you could, but not as fast as what you have between your legs.
I don’t know what’s up the other side of EDSA (although I have a good idea of what is “up”), if the model-types have the same stories as these wretches of whores, wherever they came from.
Perhaps I’ll never know, since the traffic cleared up too fast for me to stop staring and wondering.
Because my job requires me to use bullet points… I’ll get to full-on entries tomorrow.
Well, that’s it… I only have five minutes to do this.
Surprisingly, this is not petiks Sunday. I had to write some stuff, and I was fresh off an impromptu session at Eat My English (Metrowalk, Ortigas) with some of my friends. I’ve been Alt-Tabbing between Word, Yahoo! Messenger, GMail, and yes, Plurk.
What the hell am I doing on a rainy Sunday working, I have no idea. But to sum this non-petiks day up:
So to make the best out of petiks, I decided to make two - yes, I’m not bored enough to make a lyrics translation, two - avatars of how I would look like dare I appear in The Simpsons or on South Park (hats off to Elaine for the Simpsons thing):
Let’s start with my Simpson-esque visage:
In the interest of making a joke, my Simpsons doppelganger looks like Diether from that old Mike Myers sketch, “Sprockets.”
Not funny? I know. But I rue the day that I’ll find a woman who’ll marry my Springfield clone looking so… metro. (I would say gay, but I don’t want to end up defending myself all over again much to the ire of haters and frenemies who think I’m gay.)
Which says more for my evil South Park visage:
This picture has been my IM avatar for quite a while now… I guess it captures my Dasein. I would have liked added a few weapons here and there, but a child-murdering stray Manny Pacquiao-hating Sodomite antichrist-spawn like myself (snigger… time for Google to do its work) does well with a South Park character worse than, say, Mr. Hat, Damien, or even Saddam.
This day is so not good. I expected Nadia Montenegro and Cristy Fermin to bitchslap the living heck out of each other.
At last night’s Plurk Fiesta, where I once again exposed my androgynous visage to the public, the Jester-in-Exile, Prudence, and Marcelle had loads of fun reading the lyrics translations. Some Plurkers are also having their headsmack moments. Which brought the four people who had one of the most se(ns/x)ual experience in EDSA Shangri-La to have a crazy idea…
What if we made video logs and hosted the lyrics translations in a dedicated blogsite? What if we could combine the powers of a producer (Prudence), a Rick Astley/Mike Abundo/Tony Falcon impersonator (Marcelle), a frustrated singer (Jester), and one really bored writer (myself) and, well, do whatever comes up?
Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you the product of California Pizza Chicken mushroom-stuff: The Singing Fools and Vader.
Or as Marcelle puts it: “Bringing Pinoy music to the world.”
Do check that blogsite out for the OPM-to-English translations. You’ll still see Tagalog translations of foreign pop hits here.
With nothing better to do, I just started to Plurk… great. Now I’m doomed.
Anyway, here’s this week’s obligatory lyrics translation:
Like a bird she flies through the skies
I looked up when I saw her
Flying with the wind
Surrounded by mystery and sheer magic
Will you see me in your flight
With all the things that you’ll do tonight
If everyone wants a piece of you
Will I ever get to know you too
Here’s a song of love and pleading
And I hope that you’re listening
Complicated puzzle of love
I hope this song will be enough
Waiting for me in heaven
From the clouds, I know you’re staring
Behind those stars, I hope there’s a chance
Oh give me, Darna, just a glance!
Oh, Ding’s one lucky guy
He’s always there, by your side
If I were in his place
I’ll love you for all my days
Will you see me in your flight
With all the things that you’ll do tonight
If everyone wants a piece of you
Will I ever get to know you too
Here’s a song of love and pleading
And I hope that you’re listening
Complicated puzzle of love
I hope this song will be enough
Waiting for me in heaven
From the clouds, I know you’re staring
Behind those stars, I hope there’s a chance
Oh give me, Darna, just a glance!
Will I jump from the world’s edge
For you to rescue me from death
If this is the only way
To be in your embrace
Will you come from a fight
With all the things that you’ll do tonight
If everyone wants a piece of you
Will I get my turn too?
Here’s a song of love and pleading
And I hope that you’re listening
Complicated puzzle of love
I hope this song will be enough
Waiting for me in heaven
From the clouds, I know you’re staring
Behind those stars, I hope there’s a chance
Oh give me, Darna, just a glance!
Waiting for me in heaven
From the clouds, I know you’re staring
Behind those stars, I hope there’s a chance
Oh give me, Darna, just a glance!
Over at Smoketalk, I just responded to Rom’s challenge to translate “My Way.” Depending on whether she was talking about Frank Sinatra or Limp Bizkit… we’ll see.
The current global financial crisis is sending waves of panic even to those who, in theory, should be the least affected from it. While this all started with the fall of Northern Rock and the food price crisis late last year, there wasn’t a big cause for concern among us at the time. With the collapse of Lehman Brothers and the US government’s bailout of AIG this month, the faltering global economy cannot be denied any longer. This week, the NYSE plunged over 700 points, and sent shockwaves all throughout the world, following Congress rejecting the Paulson plan.
If this is not a sign of crisis, I don’t know what is. But let’s situate this whole thing, since we’re not Americans: if the crisis goes unabated and unresolved, we just might be the generation most affected from the 2008 global financial crisis: we just might be the first generation to experience massive lay-offs and unemployment since the Great Depression.
I’m not a very good prophet of doom; if all is gloomy with the global economy, then why are call centers and BPOs still popping out everywhere? Why are job postings still being circulated all over e-mails and Internet forums? These are all too good to last – in fact they should, lest we all lose our jobs – especially since anyone who works for the outsourcing industry is, for all intents and purposes, a “worker of the world.”
Sure, “slavery” for a BPO worker is a good metaphor, but there are a few caveats that should be raised about your average Makati/Ortigas/Eastwood wage slave:
Outsourcing is a very unstable economic and business paradigm that’s difficult to sustain. Employees, as well as entire companies, come and go. Its foundations are shifting, transient, and inchoate. The basic principle of process outsourcing and employee off-shoring is very coherent, and is consistent with capitalism: cheap and optimized labor, minimum costs, and maximum profit. It’s exploitative and even oppressive, but the fact remains that this business model works. The question remains: for how long will this model work so cleanly and efficiently? When will this iteration of the capitalist machine break down?
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October 17, 2008 
