The year of 'Where were you when?'

It’s customary at year-end to list all the major events of the last 12 months. Writing the recap usually entails checking news sites and journals to jog the memory. Well, 2009 was so eventful, we don’t even have to review the calendar — we just pulled the items off the tops of our heads.

Every news organization is going to recap the year that was, so you don’t need us to explain the significance of these events. Which, let me reiterate, are by no means the only things that happened this year, just the ones that immediately come to mind.

I can tell you what the media summations of 2009 won’t have: You. True, we weren’t physically present at most of the events, but we saw them transpire live on TV and the Internet along with a billion other people. We felt like we were there, though we were in another corner of the global village.

So let’s review 2009, the end of the Noughties, within a context we know very well (or think we know very well): Ourselves. Where were you and what were you doing when these events took place?

• When Barack Obama was sworn in as President of the United States, most of the planet watched the historic moment on television. Every detail of the inauguration was discussed and analyzed, from the invocation by the pastor nobody liked for the occasion, to the new President gently correcting the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court on the wording of the oath. From the coverage on the blogosphere it was clear that the most important detail in the swearing-in of the first black American president was... Michelle Obama’s outfit.

So the world came to know the work of the fabulous designer Isabel Toledo, though the reviews were mixed. I missed the whole shebang because I had a deadline to meet, but saw all the highlights on the net in the days that followed. I concluded that the advantage of watching an event live on TV is that you’re done in a couple of hours, but if you catch up on the web you’re trapped for several days. Too much information.

• When Manny Pacquiao won his sixth world boxing title against Oscar de la Hoya I was eating siomai and siopao at my favorite Chinese restaurant in Greenbelt. There was very little road traffic as everyone was at home or at a theater watching Pac-Man destroy his larger opponent. It was not that I didn’t care whether Pacquiao won — the man carries the flag of this nation all by himself on the world stage — but I preferred to watch the bout after I knew the outcome.

It’s like novels. I often peek at the endings so I can get the plot out of the way and focus on the prose.

• When Filipino filmmakers took Cannes and Venice, two truly occasions that did not receive the sort of attention they deserved, I got the news via text. The news of Brillante Mendoza bagging the Cannes best director prize arrived via SMS from my friend who loathed Serbis. The Friday previous to that, this column was about how Mendoza’s Kinatay was the most reviled movie at the festival.

When Pepe Diokno won the filmmaker of the future and best first feature prizes in Venice, I was at a Coffee Bean. Noel and I had come in for lattes after a late screening when the message came in from Jim Libiran. My first thought was “D-oh! I haven’t seen Engkwentro!”

• When Michael Jackson died, I learned about it from Ricky. The first text I saw on waking was, “Wake up, Michael Jackson is dead.” I asked, “You mean metaphorically?” Ricky replied, “Literally.”

I’d been thinking of Jackson for weeks and borrowing his albums from friends; that same day this column was about Jackson. For the next few days I got a flood of texts and e-mails congratulating me on my psychic powers and requesting I write about certain people in the hope they would meet a fate similar to Michael Jackson’s.

When Farrah Fawcett died on the same day as Jackson, I got the news from friends in mourning. Farrah had been a seminal influence on their lives. As boys they tied their hands together and ran down the school hallways, reenacting the “Angels In Chains” episode from Charlie’s Angels.

• When Cory Aquino died I didn’t hear about it till lunchtime. We were in Wild Ginger to meet Noel, who had just come home from Malaysia. Ricky and Mike started talking about Tita Cory and I thought I was fine — we all knew she was terminally ill. And then the maintenance men at Rockwell started tying yellow ribbons on the pillars in the mall and I suddenly felt like weeping.

• When Roger Federer won his 14th grand slam, at Roland Garros against Robin Soderling, tying Pete Sampras’ record, I refused to watch the final because it would be too nerve-wracking. Besides, I was worried about being the jinx. Dorski texted me recaps after each set, and when it was clear that The Fed would win, I went to Ige’s house and watched the final three games.

When Roger Federer won his 15th grand slam, at Wimbledon, against Andy Roddick, I had been biting my cuticles for the entire fifth set and yelling, “Roger, how did this even get to a fifth set!?!” Massive relief followed.

• When David Foster Wallace died, I read the sad news on my RSS feeds. He committed suicide days after The Fed, whose tennis he had described as “a religious experience,” won his 15th major title.

I rounded up all my DFW books and realized that whoever borrowed Wallace’s collection of essays, A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, never returned it. Whoever you are, you should know that I have put a curse on that book that will only be lifted if you return it to me pronto.

• When Ondoy struck... this one we were all present for. There’s a huge dose of perspective: Next time you complain about your life, think about Ondoy and consider how lucky you are.

• When Manny Pacquiao won his record-setting seventh world title, I was once again taking advantage of the traffic-free roads and having lunch with my sister at the mall. I started to worry when the fight seemed to be taking longer than usual, but it turns out Cotto had been fleeing Pac-Man for several rounds.

Immediately the news turned to Pacquiao’s personal life and I’m thinking, People, this man is to boxing today as Roger Federer is to tennis and Tiger Woods is to golf, his achievement is astounding, and all you can talk about is whatshername. It’s not as if he’s pretended to be wholesome Mr. Perfect, we’ve heard all the stories, cut the shock and outrage.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned Tiger Woods.

• When the news of the Maguindanao massacre broke I thought, “Is this 2009 or 1009? How does this happen in this day and age? Who has the impunity and arrogance?” Since then lots of people have been making pompous, facile pronouncements about Maguindanao as if they understand it. We need to hear from someone who is from there, who knows what it’s like.

Lav Diaz, we need to hear from you.

• When the revelations of Tiger Woods’ extramarital sex life hit the news, triggered by that strange car accident at his home, I took my usual line: We don’t require our sports heroes to be role models.

But wait! Tiger has been marketed as wholesome Mr. Perfect, untouched by the slightest whiff of scandal. If not for his squeaky-clean image, we would refrain from calling him Tiger’s Wood. Personally I think the situation has been mismanaged. The big public confession would’ve been best, followed by a reminder of why the public loves him in the first place. Don’t quit, fool, go back to playing golf immediately. On your own turf, you are invincible.

• When James Cameron returned to the big screen (emphasis on big screen). Avatar is trippy and beautiful; it feels like a new year.