I know this is supposed to be an “Arts & Culture” column. O ye purists, you may wish to understand why I’ve been conducting forays of late into that intriguing sphere of human activity called politics.
It may be argued, of course, that national elections as we know it partake of the elements of a circus — rife with entertainment value, humor in its myriad forms and levels, all opportunity for satire and trash talk, as well as unbridled passions born of the inevitable clash between emotions and the intellect.
If those aren’t the hallmarks of culture the way we Filipinos have been developing our quaint brand of such, then nothing is, unless you limit it to the many ways we can set up videoke machines on an otherwise pristine beach, and go full throttle on myriad versions of My Way.
As yet another item of rationalization, the elections a week from today are bound to be historic. Why, for the first time we’re trying our hand at computerized voting. This will introduce us to long ballot forms with oblong (I mean ovoid) shapes we have to fill up with ink just so and just right, across particular names of choice, thence partake of the privilege of inserting these forms into a machine that may or may not read our votes.
The exercise allows us four chances. We might recall with some dread how a Vendo machine once turned down the 20-peso paper bill we inserted, for some reason or other, and we failed to be rewarded with a warm cup of Nescafe until we tried coins for the purpose. The PCOS machine will not accept coins, only that special ballot which has had its special UV feature invalidated, so that it will have to be vetted not by the machine, but a special portable UV reader. UV means ultra-violet.
Ultra-violent is what some of us may become when after four tries, our vote is rendered void, cuz unacceptable, cuz maybe a bead of sweat had dropped on that sanctimonious sheet and spoiled its acceptability. Or we had gardened before trooping to the precinct, and the earth that wedged itself ‘neath a fingernail suddenly dislodged itself and joined the ink inside the “bilog na hugis itlog” and thus voided the spoiled ovoid.
The point I’m getting at is that all these possibilities of mishaps are hallmarks of the culture we’re perfecting — as distinctly unto our own. They’re all corollary to the narrative that our grandchildren will recount with fiendish glee at some point in history class: how in our day our legislators had earmarked so many millions of pesos for computerized voting, only for intelligent sectors of our society of myriad My Ways to urge a fallback into a full manual count — which of course is rejected by the poll body that may have caused the concerns in the first place. And how many of us had also wondered howcum Malacañang Palace also looked dimly upon what seemed to be a reasonable request, and wagged its finger like a meretricious metronome, even before the poll body deliberated on the matter.
Now, all of these concerns, contretemps and impasses also characterize our evolving culture. We’ve made an art of it, in fact. So there. Today’s topic for this column gains undeniable cachet.
But while we’re at it, we might as well point out that another cultural imprint may be an ingrained collective paranoia that says, even in the most pleasant of days, say, when one is flying a yellow kite against a perfect blue sky, that that sky could fall anytime. We have had a long tradition of boom-and-bust cycles, such that we can’t ever believe we’ll win anything easy.
No pain, no gain. Or, on the extreme end, as we like to say, naging bato pa. Like Clevelanders who’ve had a long history of a sports jinx, and can’t quite believe that LeBron James will finally lead the Cavaliers to a first sports title for their city by mid-June, we here, we many, we happy many, can’t quite believe that President-elect Noynoy Aquino will find the path easy towards actually taking his oath at Luneta on June 30.
For this space this week, I had thought of writing a sort of manifesto of support — to be signed by fellow writers, artists and cultural workers — for Noynoy the presidential candidate. Several developments stayed my hand.
For one, I would have had to first present a draft of the manifesto to everyone I would seek the signatures of. Bathala knows the prospects are legion — and that’s counting only the friends I know who happen to share my choice. No time for proselytizing in search of converts; we don’t need them, anyhow. If they couldn’t see the sage wisdom that buttresses our conviction, okay, they can go ahead and validate mock poll exercises in pretentious colleges and universities and go Gibo or Gordon.
A tougher go would be to get everyone already on the same page to agree to every comma and colon on that page, let alone all the well-turned phrases and exalted, exulting clauses. Now, committee editing has never been my cup of tea. Besides, it takes a lot of teatime, when we could all just be girding our loins for a tea party at some commons.
The clincher has been the consistency of the statistical results announced by reputable survey firms. Unlike Gordon and Gibo, I believe in the efficacy of SWS and Pulse Asia; after all, who am I to rain on Erap’s parade — of bemoustached approval and delight?
I once helped mentor a Mahar Mangahas for his speech in an international contest in London. I liked the way the boy never used Junior, unlike someone named Andal. Mahar’s dad Mahar I have also exchanged such civilized pleasantries with, about pool tables, and that’s as close to polling as one can get.
For his part, this guy Dr. Holmes who now heads Pulse Asia has such an efficacious baritone voice that it can only augment his academic and professional credibility. My good friend Mercy Abad, who sits on the board of Pulse Asia, says that Dr. Holmes is one Ph.D. holder who escaped Permanent Head Damage. I believe her.
What I can’t believe are these blackprop text blasters that still peddle the lie that Tony Boy Cojuangco and Rapa Lopa own Pulse Asia. I have it on both gentlemen’s word that they have long divested themselves of any financial relations with the firm.
These text blasters insult my intelligence, low as it already is. Why can’t they be more creative and subtle, and peddle something like: “Alam ni Erap ang ginawa ni Villar sa PSE at SEC, kasi kumita rin siya sa ganun. Kapwa sila mandarambong, kaya’t bagay silang magbangayan.” Well, I had to transform that text into readable prose, from its original Jejemon.
Oh, forgive me for posing a query that supplies its own answer. They can’t be creative and subtle because they belong to the same camp that’s been trying its darndest to make capital of a fake headshrink report, twice over! Peke na nga, paulit-ulit pa. Kakulitan can only backfire, as it has, viz. (videlicet) take a look at those survey ratings, viz. read ‘em and weep.
Paramount in the healing process required by such a divisive and dysfunctional cultural make-up is the need to sense, and know, and acknowledge, when it’s Game Over.
And that is why, in lieu of crafting any superfluous manifesto of support for the obvious “dominant brand” — to be officially unveiled next week — best to simply render an antedated post-mortem that would take the literary trope known as the oxymoron to new heights (By the by, the latest issue of Ateneo’s literary journal is something else!).
Item No. 1: The demographics went destiny’s child’s way, esp. since the C & D clout wasn’t properly maximized by the NP; Nanay Curing & Nanay Dionesia never had a chance to work together, unlike Revillame, Pacquiao and Dolphy.
Item No. 2: ... Oh, must we go on? This’ll just lapse into ad nauseam biz, and there’s no biz like that biz.
Game Over! ‘Nuff said.
Which takes us back to that vestige of a primordial fear. Will a “piNOY-MARangal” win be allowed to become official? Let’s ponder on this.
Maybe we make too much of telegraphed punches from Olympus, er, Aviles, and just can’t believe our luck that we backed The Chosen One. Maybe we shouldn’t read too much into the cancellation of the John Mayer concert — as having to do with a political advisory from a foreign government. Or of that verified story of how a US Embassy officer recently gave a briefing to International School officials — in brief, to take five come Maytime.
Maybe the frontrunner’s lead has become as great as a landscape, that finance guys are beginning to breathe a sigh of relief, especially when they hear of how the Head Honcho herself has acknowledged after an internal poll briefing that, indeed, there’ll be a new president, there will have to be a new president.
Oh, well. Take those WMDs back to the armory, guys. What about us just flying a kite to acknowledge the season?