For a long time, Roxas enjoyed a bit too much of a charmed life, basking in the afterglow of his grandfather’s memory as one of our most dynamic, though short-lived, presidents, and his late father Gerry’s sterling record as Senate President – not to mention mom’s guiding hand. Mama is, of course, Mrs. Judy Araneta-Roxas, the ever-charming but formidable daughter of one of our nation’s greatest tycoons, the irrepressible J. Amado Araneta. In truth, the late Amading was among this writer’s favorite gurus when it came to business, finance, and back-alley fighting in those two fields of combat.
Amading’s first commandment to me when I was a fledgling reporter, new and wet behind the ears in the business beat – as he fried eggs and bacon for me in a frying pan in the single-story annex he preferred to the Araneta "White House" (he had plenty huevos, that hombre) was: "Max, never hire any of your relatives. They believe they have the license to steal from you, or cheat you. I know because it happened to me – I lost many millions."
This is the double-barreled heritage of Mar Roxas.
Unexpectedly inheriting the political "duty" of upholding the Roxas name when his older brother, Dinggoy – already on his way up in Congress – died, Mar went seamlessly from Congressman to Cabinet member in both the Cabinets of former President Erap Estrada and GMA.
He was viewed as both too boyish (to repeat that appellation) in his pursuits and predilections, and too much of a non-confrontational play-it-safer. Now, the Roxas phlegm is beginning to emerge. Will the initial rocket boost provided by his blasting his way to the top in the senatorial race, with the help of his own charm, a bit of Mom’s money, and lots of what is now being romantically dubbed "The Korina Factor" be enough to propel "young" Roxas, eventually, to the presidency?
It’s early days yet. But yesterday, in our Forum, we were treated to a glimpse of the New Roxas (which seems to be bursting out of the chrysalis). Truly General Douglas MacArthur was right when he declared that "there is no substitute for victory".
Among the subjects brought up was the question of new laws, including some proposed new tax measures. Roxas commented that "our laws are sufficient, but the problem is that they’re not being enforced".
Another cute phrase Mar trotted out was used to explain why foreign and domestic investors seemed reluctant to invest. He pointed to "the unpredictability in the environment" to which he added, "this is the ‘nice word’ for corruption."
Mar, sorry to say, there can be no nice word for corruption. It’s evil, and it’s not being addressed. And it’s bringing our entire nation down. Worst of all, this not a specific Dragon to be attacked and slain by a Dragon-slayer. It is a plague that eats you up from within.
This will be Friday next week, at the Grand Ballroom of the Intercontinental Hotel in Ayala Avenue, Makati City. She transmitted her kind acceptance to me through our chairman of special events, STARGATE CEO and STAR Columnist Jose Manuel "Babes" Romualdez who had formally hand-carried our invitation to Malacañang.
The traditional MOPC President’s Night, the press club’s most glittering and gala affair, will, of course, be presided over and organized by MOPC President Antonio Lopez, Editor/Publisher of BIZ News Asia. Immediate Past President Dong Puno of ABS-CBN will be the master of ceremonies. Annually, in the past, including last year’s in the Manila Hotel, also guesting La Presidenta GMA, MOPC President’s Night was jampacked with Cabinet members, Senators, Congressmen, Ambassadors, journalists and editors, and leaders of the business community and government. This year, you can be sure, it will be even more lively.
Proceeds from this event will go to our MOPC Scholarship Program and MOPC Clubhouse Development.
The celebration of our STAR 18th year of publication was just too hectic and too, well, celebratory.
This time we had an "in-house" party in honor of the STAR Group’s 1,000 staffers, officers and employees in our modern annex building, so I hope the many well-wishers who called and "texted" their congratulations in, and our friends, won’t feel forgotten or neglected that they weren’t "invited".
Nobody was invited this year to our low-key affair, but next year will be a gala humdinger – unless, of course, the world collapses (look at the oil crisis) or some tsunami rolls in.
We were delighted to have had a number of walk-ins, though, especially our dear friend and "brother" of many years, Executive Secretary Bert Romulo, who’s been one of our family "cronies" through thick and thin.
To dispel any notion that The STAR is not . . . well, cultural, we even enjoyed a mini-concert by the marvelous Philippine Symphonic Orchestra, under the baton of the new Wunderkind-on-the-Block, Conductor Eugene Castillo – a true Pinoy from New York, who grew up under the influence (he said) of the Three B’s – "Beethoven, Bach – and The Beagles!"
I had to point out in my remarks later, that as a Paco boy I had also been greatly influenced by music, this time by MRHP – "Mozart, Rogers & Hammerstein – and Elvis Presley". (This dates me disastrously since by now, Elvis the King is regarded as one of the oldies, and Graceland is falling into disrepair. However, what the heck, Elvis forever!)
Castillo’s explanation of Beethoven’s sometimes impish nature, though, was both amusing to our staffers – and very enlightening, even to this writer who’s always been more of the Hofbrauhaus-type and Am Platzl beer-stein fellow than a cultural cognoscenti.
What Castillo poignantly reminded us of is the fact that Beethoven was deaf and didn’t – with his ear – hear a single note of his own magnificent music. Ah, but that genius had every single fantastic overture, sonata and symphony in his soul, and through them he poured out his heart. I’ve heard Beethoven (and Mozart, too) movingly played in Manchuria, China, Japan, Indonesia, and all over the Far East and the Pacific. His was the music that speaks the universal language of the heart.
I must express our heartfelt thanks to the Philippine Philharmonic Orchestra, those terrific artists who generously came to give us, peasants and proletarians, a sampling of Beethoven’s immortal music – climaxed by his Eighth Symphony – and a display of their own tremendous talents. I continue to be in awe of our musicians and artists: We are a race, though freighted with problems and complexes, truly blessed by God with the gift of song.
You’ll find there the house where he was born (his father and grandfather, too, were professional musicians.) In the museum there, the visitor can see displayed the primitive ways in which Beethoven tried to overcome his deafness, including an enormous ear-trumpet.
Indeed, Beethoven wasn’t originally deaf. He went to Vienna, Austria, and became popular as a pianist and music teacher, but, from the year 1796 he began to go deaf. By 1802, his hearing was gone. It was in his deepest despair at this loss of hearing, however, that he rallied his genius, overcame his despondency and misery, and began composing his most powerful and dramatic music, especially his matchless Third and Fifth symphonies (as well as his opera, the only one I ever experienced, Fidelio.)
In fact, when Hitler was blitzing Britain, and the entire continent of Europe was bound by the chains of Nazi slavery, the British Broadcasting Corp. (BBC), transmitting its defiance of the Nazis and sending a message of hope for liberation to Europe, used to signal the beginning of its news programs with a few opening bars from Beethoven (his Third?) as if to say, Beethoven belongs to all mankind.
Mankind didn’t always reciprocate Mr. B’s towering genius (although he inspired Brahms, Wagner and Mendelssohn, among many who came after him) – nor reward him. When you go to Vienna, you’ll discover several places, from Grinzing to the Landstrasse, which claim to have been "the house where Beethoven lived". This is because Beethoven, who lived from hand to mouth and survived only by the kindness of occasional and infrequent patrons, was always broke. Thus, he was either kicked out by irate landlords, or had to sneak away, assisted by his loyal but equally impecunious friends, from a lodging house in which he had worn out his welcome.
It’s the same old story. No man is a prophet in his own country. Most painters become . . . well "immortal" (and "saleable") only after death. Musical genius is unrewarded until it is too late.
In the case of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, they dumped him in a pauper’s grave – and, worst of all, forgot where they had buried him.