The Wily Filipino

Welcome To Konyo Kids Kountry.

Kahapon, bilang Part 8 of my quest na hanapin ang Jolography, pumunta kami sa heart of Konyo Kids Kountry, ang EDSA Shangri-La Plaza. Ngayon lang ako nakatungtong nang Shangri-La, at medyo nagulat ako sa mga tindahan doon: Furla, Burberry, Kenneth Cole, Bally. Paano kayang nananatiling bukas ito sa Pilipinas? Mas nakakatawa pa ay ang layout noong mall: hiwang-hiwa nang EDSA at nang LRT station ang Starmall at ang Shangri-La. Para talagang class divide, pero ang mga taga-Starmall ay nakakatawid papuntang Shang -- kung baga'y nakakatikim ang tao nang ilusyon nang demokrasya...

Pati mga namimili sa Shang, super-konyotik talaga. 'Ika nga noong isang babaeng naglalagay nang Equal sa kanyang peppermint latte sa Starbucks, "Shit, pare, my ringtone is so gay." Ang sarap ipakain ang cellphone.

Eniwei, sa madaling salita, wala pa rin akong nahanap na Jolography. Pero kaming mga taga-Los Banos ay nagkita by accident: una sina Terry at Titus galing sa ComArts Soc sa LB, tapos si Binky na dating BS leader ko sa CAP at ngayo'y minor celeb na.

Tapos punta kaming Eastwood (ngayon ko lang din nabisita) at kumain sa resto na napakabulok ang service (Pho Hoa) at pumunta kami -- ako, si Happy at Clarissa, Monica, at mga pinsan namin sa Manalo side na si Chinggay (at Arnold), at si Omar at Kim -- sa isang bar na OJ's ang pangalan. Medyo naweirdohan kami at ang crowd ay half our age -- puro mga batang kakasampa pa lang nang labing-anim, naglalaklakan na nang San Mig Lite.

Lalo na kaming napasabak sa kakonyohan noong kami'y lumipat sa 90 Proof, isang bar sa Emerald Ave. sa Ortigas na '80s music daw ang palaging tinutugtog (hindi naman) at nagpapalabas ay mga '80s na sine (Desperately Seeking Susan ang nasa TV noong pumasok kami). Medyo hindi kami magkarinigan (ang lakas nang Michael Jackson -- Mr. DJ, ang "Rock With You" ay 1979 'ata), kaya uminom at nanood na lang kami nang mga konyito't-konyita -- people who I despised yet whose lives I probably (secretly) envied. (Maari bang maging konyo kung taga-probinsiya, o ito ba'y sakop nang Maynila lamang? Ang pagka-promdi ba ay sufficient, though not necessary, na elemento nang kajologan?) Mga naka-porma, pa-Ingles-Ingles, may sindi sa dalawang daliri, mga mukha nilang makikinis na naiilawan nang kanilang mga cell phone. Noong nakakuha kami nang upuan sa labas, na-realize ko na lahat noong mga naka-doublepark na kotse sa labas ay mayroong mga drayber, nagaabang habang nag-gugudtaym ang mga anak nang amo nila. (Mabuti nga naman na hindi magmaneho nang lasing.)

Pagtama naman nang ala-una, napuno ang kalye nang mga naka-bihis-opisina, dahil nag-lunchbreak ang mga nasa call-center. Iyong Starbucks at MiniMart naman sa harapan ang dinumog nang tao.

Sa susunod: mga pagmumuni-muni tungkol sa call center.

Reunion.

Kahapon -- este, kaninang umaga pala -- ang mini-reunion nang Class op '86 nang Mataas na Paaralan nang Rural dito sa Los Banos. Sa bahay kami ni Waldo sa Pansol sa may tabi nang bagong Halfway. Parang umulan nang toms, yosi at videoke.

Isipin mo na lang: mahigit kumulang nang trenta'y singkong tao (na ang average age ay trenta'y singko rin siguro) na ilang taon nang hindi nagkikita at nakawala sa mga asawa't anak (kung meron). Grabe ang alaskahan. May mga namayat (isa na ako roon, kasama si Ester -- Eloise, isa ka na roon). May mga hindi nagpalit, este, nagbago (si Alvaro, Ghandi, Joan C., Camilla). May mga nagsipag-laparan (my lips are sealed at baka may magalit -- sa totoo lang, maraming magagalit). May parang tumangkad (si Alice). May mga love team na dati, ibinuhay ulit. (Hulaan ninyo kung sino ang tinawagan sa cell noong magumpisang kumanta si Leah P. nang "It Might Be You?") May mga taong hindi magka-love team dati, ipinagtambal. May mga nalasing, wala pang alas-nuebe. May nakatulog (ako iyon). Mayroong videoke king and queen. Naglabasan nang mga litrato nang mga anak. Meron daw lumambitin sa bintana at tinitulungan yung sumusuka sa banyo. At may mga revelation din: nalaman na rin nang mga ka-batch kung kung sino ang crush ni Bessie. At kung bakit kulot ang buhok ni Alex noong second year. Puro kantahan din: kayang-kaya pala ni Trino na kumanta nang "Botsikik." Ako naman, nakakanta nang "Honesty" ni Billy Joel at naka-93. 'Ata.

Roll call daw (medyo mahirap dahil hungover pa rin ako, at alas-tres na ako nakauwi), by seating arrangement sa harap nang videoke (mabuti naayos dahil biglang nasira noong kumanta si Boits nang "Careless Whisper"): Pulge, Ghandi (tatakbo raw nang mayor nang Calamba), Papa Smurf, Arman, Ralaboy, Trino, Boits, Roman, Al (tatakbo rin daw nang mayor nang Calamba), Cynthia, Charina, Sandy C., Jay, Rico, Dean, Alex U., Tewalds, Heidi, Ruby, Sanya, Camille, Manuel, Joan C., Leah P., Mavelle, Jason, Irene, Bessie, Alice, Mayet, Osang, Eric, Noel G., Arturo, at siguradong meron akong nakalimutan.

Saka na group picture...

In the Philippines, #1.

Some evil book imp must have swept through Manila and bought every single copy of Paolo Manalo's Jolography because I can't find a damn copy. Grabe. Launched February 2004; "Out of stock, sir" a few months later. Syet.

National sa Glorietta: wala. Powerbooks sa Alabang: wala. National sa Festival Mall: wala. Et cetera, et cetera. Wala akong makita kundi dangkal-dangkal na kopya nang The Purpose-Driven Life at tsaka Harry Potter.

The Best Music of 2004.

As usual my list is composed of the best music I heard this year, and is not limited to those released in 2004; I'm usually a few years behind the curve, so to speak, though my list is coming out a week or so early. (My old lists can be found at the bottom of this page.)

Laura Cantrell's Not the Tremblin' Kind (2000)

   This year I revisited / discovered to a lot of alt-folk and country music (not the classic albums -- that's next year's project): the sublime Daniel Lanois-produced albums Wrecking Ball and Teatro, for starters. A good amount of Gram Parsons, and, as usual, a lot of Gillian Welch. But one of my favorite discoveries this year was Laura Cantrell's Not the Tremblin' Kind -- a near-perfect mix of joyful melancholy. Though her lovely voice doesn't have the same... wise quality as Emmylou and Willie above, there's still something wonderfully appealing about this gem. Laura, where have you been all my life?

Wild Billy Childish and The Blackhands' Play Capt. Calypso's Hoodoo Party / Live in the Netherlands (1994)

   Billy Childish, one could argue, has a discography and work ethic that borders on the scarily obsessive, with a dedication to replicating an almost primitivist ethos to lo-fi garage/rockabilly again and again. This twofer CD from 1988 is something of an anomaly, because it doesn't revolve around 1966, but it's something out of time. This is Childish's shambolic Caribbean garage take on calypso -- and "Anarchy in the U.K.," and "I Love Paris," and "Rum and Coca-Cola" -- and it's an absolutely joyous affair. When rock and roll came to Trinidad, indeed.

Guided By Voices' Half Smiles of the Decomposed (2004)

   It isn't just because it's Guided By Voices' swan song: "Half Smiles of the Decomposed" is one of their most solid albums since Universal Truths and Cycles and, at least according to these ears, is up there already as one of the top ten GBV-related titles. It's also retrospective (in the same way "Mule Variations" was, mixing up echoes of their lo-fi glories) and innovative (the excellent "Sleepover Jack" was actually mistaken for an Interpol track by a colleague, not that that's necessarily a good thing). But it's a flat-out solid indie rock album -- chock-full of pop hooks (see "Girls of Wild Strawberries"), great Gillard guitar work (see "Sons of Apollo") -- from (at least for three hours last November) the greatest rock and roll band in the world.

Jolie Holland's Escondida (2004)

   Jolie Holland's Escondida is, again, one of those timeless albums -- or so one thinks. It digs into Harry Smith's anthology for atmosphere and swerves into folk-singer-in-a-coffeeshop delivery. And then something like "I got a couple of food stamps and a caffeine buzz" stops you in your tracks. The result: a stunner of an arch indie-folk album.

N.E.R.D's In Search Of... (2002)

   I completely slept on this one -- an even more egregious omission considering the fact that one of my people, Chad Hugo, is in it. N.E.R.D's In Search Of... is unlike any hiphop / R&B / rock hybrid you've ever heard; like the Childish album above, In Search Of... is simultaneously inflected with fat keyboard sound from '70s soul and '90s raunch (as heard in the excellent "Tape You").

The Streets' A Grand Don't Come for Free (2004)

   The Streets' A Grand Don't Come For Free isn't really hiphop, though it uses hiphop beats. Mike Skinner's shaggy-dog stories -- about popping pills, returning a video, getting drunk, fighting with his girlfriend, losing money, meeting women, breaking up -- seems to come from a more English tradition: that of the kitchen-sink, working-class, angry-young-man drama, like John Osborne's "Look Back In Anger." Consider it an anti-bling song cycle, if you like.

Kanye West's The College Dropout (2004)

   Kanye West's album The College Dropout breaks no new ground; it isn't distinguished by his lyrical delivery or ingenious samples (indeed, the sped-up chipmunky samples are getting kind of old). But there is no denying the brimming, talented vitality at work here. We hear about "assured debuts" all the time, but this one bolted out of the gate like a rocket. Listen to the transcendent "We Don't Care" and you'll hear what I mean. Probably my favorite album of 2004.

And some runners-up:

Ghost, Hypnotic Underworld
Not from Japan, but from another planet: Ghost melds prog, metal, psych and folk into one tight maelstrom.

Hot Club Of Cowtown, The Continental Stomp
It's described as Django Reinhardt meets Bob Wills; whichever way, it's joyous contemporary Western swing.

Diana Krall, The Girl in the Other Room
Her strongest work since her Nat King Cole tribute, this album sees Krall (helped by her hubby Elvis Costello) blossom successfully into a singer-songwriter-pianist.

Merzbow, Merzbird
Merzbow released maybe over a dozen titles this year. Can I tell them apart? Heck no! But this one, yes: a return to Merzbeat-style beat-noise.

Joanna Newsom, The Milk-Eyed Mender
Cockles and caravels, karate kicks and bean sprouts.

John Zorn, Filmworks XII, XIII and XIV
Caught up on the Filmworks series glut this year: this is gorgeous, vital music, and if it seems a little polite for Zorn -- XIV is practically dinner music -- they're nonetheless testaments to Zorn's astonishing musical genius.

And four that just barely made it:

The Arcade Fire, Funeral
Coil, Black Antlers
Eagles of Death Metal, Peace Love Death Metal
Les Savy Fav, Inches

Earworms 2004:

Belle And Sebastian, "I'm A Cuckoo (Avalanches Remix)"
N*E*R*D, "Tape You"
Bic Runga, "The Be All and End All"
Kanye West, "Through the Wire"
J-Kwon, "Tipsy"
Kanye West, "We Don't Care"
Emmylou Harris, "Wrecking Ball"
A Certain Ratio, "Do The Du"
Gillian Welch, "Black Star"
Shirley Horn, "Where Do You Start?"
Wilco, "Spiders (Kidsmoke)"
Aimee Mann, "Observatory"
Rilo Kiley, "With Arms Outstretched"

And finally, Disappointment of the Year:

Tom Waits, Real Gone

   Don't get me wrong; I love Tom Waits. But his albums since Bone Machine (including the wonderful Mule Variations) have been stamped with the same Waits template: rattly instrumental here, the two-hanky weeper there, the barfly song here, the hobo song there. It's almost like the formal equivalent of your run-of-the-mill hiphop album: slow jam, gangsta track, club song, mix and match as you please. This time around the gravel in his voice grates; the overdriven sound rankles; the clank and wheeze wears you out. At least it's a fantastic Marc Ribot album.

Movies!

- Quentin Tarantino's Kill Bill
Finally got to see both parts in one sitting, and it was well worth the wait. It isn't Reservoir Dogs, but it's certainly his most entertaining film so far, with no apologies for his film-geekery. But now I'd like to see his next flick be a little more original.

- Georges Franju's Eyes without a Face
Seen this amazing movie a couple of times before, and the newly-minted Criterion edition blows the murky video version (from Kino?) out of the water. (The scene when the nurse looks up to see the plane in the cloudy night sky is finally clearer, and I still don't know what it means.) As for extras, there's the surreally beautiful The Blood of Beasts, but I can't imagine seeing it more than once: it's a documentary about abattoirs in post-World War II Paris. The gorgeous shots of the city rival Atget's (but the shots of decapitated lambs, well...).

- Ji-woon Kim's A Tale of Two Sisters
I really really wanted to like this, but its fractured narrative -- yes, I know, it makes total sense in the context of the film -- makes it difficult to like. Great acting (especially by the older sister), and a lush production design (the house, like the boarding school in Suspiria -- another disjointed horror film -- is practically another character). I couldn't tell, though, whether the Ringu / Ju-on references were tips of the hat or ripoffs...

- Stephen Hillenburg's Spongebob Squarepants the Movie
I actually rather enjoyed this -- no major departure from the 11-minute shorts, thank goodness. Still, I wonder what the kiddies of America get out of it, as the humor always seems to have an adult subtext. (Whether or not you find David Hasselhoff's breasts inherently funny is up to you.)

- Peter Davis's Hearts and Minds
Excellent -- so good I want my own copy. Amazing footage and interviews, particularly of Westmoreland and Ellsberg. It isn't a perfect documentary -- Davis makes some juxtapositions that could strike one as being somewhat intellectually dishonest unless the audience is given more historical context (which he doesn't). But the fact that this was made contemporaneously gives it a richer, more relevant dimension, i.e., without the benefit of hindsight (and its similarities with the current war makes it all the more fascinating -- and tragic).

- Ed Adlum's Invasion of the Blood Farmers
The possibilities are endless given the plot: hick farmers in upstate New York are actually part of an ancient cult of blood-worshipping druids. Some hilarious parts, and the gore is actually rather effective, even if it's made on the super-cheap, but it's still no comparison to Adlum's masterpiece of my boyhood, Shriek of the Mutilated.

- Joel Reed's Bloodsucking Freaks
Call me sick, but I thought this movie was excellent: a loving homage, I think, to Herschell Gordon Lewis. Nasty and hilarious.

- Shunya Ito's Female Convict Scorpion: Jailhouse 41
Wow. Possibly the greatest women-in-prison movie ever made. While it's still pretty firmly in the exploitation genre, there are some elements -- a touch of Jodorowsky-like surrealism here, Masaki Kobayashi there -- that make it well worth seeing. No wonder Tarantino loved this shit.

- Takashi Ishii's Freeze Me
Unpleasant and pointless.

- Wong Kar-Wai's 2046
This was just about my most anticipated movie of the year, so I can't help but be a little disappointed with the results. It's essentially a sequel -- though in a more formal sense, it's really a remake -- of In the Mood for Love, and so all the familiar elements are here: the cramped hallways, an apartment building, the lush textures, the melancholy soundtrack, doors opening and closing, Nat King Cole, loving shots of cigarettes being smoked. But there are differences: it's a lot more claustrophobic, for starters (Wong literally uses only a third of the frame for a good amount of the film: people are half-obscured by backs, or curtains, or walls.). There's sex. There's Zhang Ziyi in an endless array of high-collared qipao dresses. And Maggie Cheung. And Gong Li. And Faye Wong. And -- there are androids. And futuristic bullet trains. And a set straight out of 2001: A Space Odyssey. And a city straight out of "Blade Runner." And costumes straight out of Liquid Sky.

And, it should be said, a narrative that is, at least initially, almost as disjointed as Ashes of Time. If anything, the film is about different permutations of loss and memory, but it's a mood -- and in a way, it's the mechanism around which the film operates: an evocation, not an elucidation -- that's difficult to sustain for over two hours.

- Robert Zemeckis's The Polar Express
I'm always a sucker for movies that deal, even if only tangentially, with questions of belief and faith; therefore, anything from Tarkovsky's The Sacrifice to Shyamalan's Signs is worth a look. I haven't read the children's book on which the film is based, but I can tell you that the belief part occurs only in the first and last ten minutes of the film, and in between is an hour-long rollercoaster ride designed, really, to show off the wonders of technology. There's a jawdropping sequence involving a ticket; otherwise, this is the most soulless Christmas film I've ever seen.

- Joe D'Amato's Emmanuelle and the Last Cannibals
The best cannibal films have anthropologists in them, and this film delivers: not only does it have an anthropologist, it also feature loads of cannibal sleaze and, best of all, Emmanuelle schlock. Someone goes full frontal every 8 minutes or so -- not even the nun is spared -- and this of course includes the stunning Laura Gemser, "famous reporter," who can't act her way out of a paper bag, but is featured in at least half the couplings (which involve almost everyone that has a speaking part). Everything about the film is suitably atrocious, and there's not much plot to speak of -- you sit back and wait for people to be converted into raw meat -- but at least it's great trash.

- Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ
Speaking of raw meat: previously on my blog I alluded to a past life in evangelical Christianity, and so I was probably a lot more receptive to this film -- or at least the possibility of some sort of spiritual experience watching it. My parents in the Philippines would report that their friends, and friends of friends, would, after seeing the film, repent and promise never to drink or cheat on their wives, etc., etc., so I was looking forward to giving something up. (I guess the fact that I was drinking a beer while I was watching it didn't help, though I did wonder whether it was appropriate.) The film is, in any case, a bloody exercise in torment; we see Jesus writhing in Gethsemane at the very start of the film, and only catch the quickest glimmers of the charismatic, gentle, wise, rebel leader -- the Christ I loved and worshipped. Not this Son of God being reduced to a side of raw beef, with every Station of the Cross signalled in tender slo-mo, and a soundtrack sounding suspiciously ripped off from Peter Gabriel.

There is very little for the actors to do except scream and weep; the most complex character is the Roman consul, who turns out to be a much nicer guy than those Jews, who mostly glower. Gibson misses the boat by not filming the coolest scene in the book -- the moment when Satan tempts Jesus in the garden is positively psychedelic -- but he adds a great, memorable one of his own: the Head Glowering Jew tosses the bag of coins to Judas... except that, unexpectedly, he throws it at the camera instead. Almost as good as those binocular shots at the end of Salo.

The Last Two Weeks Or So.

Sorry for the infrequent posts; this is the reason why:

I can't even guess the number -- about 120 bluebooks and over 150 papers (not including those e-mailed to me). Which is why I haven't thanked Barb for the poetry workshop, or written about Izzy's first-ever big-screen movie (or her second-ever concert), over the weekend.

The last week or so: coffee, Swans, coffee, Ulrich Schnauss, coffee, Merzbow, coffee, the Chameleons UK, coffee, the Cure, coffee, Rilo Kiley, coffee, Echo and the Bunnymen, coffee, NON, coffee, the Delgados, coffee...

My Formative Music Years.

My formative music years were probably a little different, on account of having grown up in the Philippines; radio was different, for one, and releases were very selective. You couldn't buy any R.E.M. album earlier than Fables of the Reconstruction, for instance; there were, in effect, huge gaps in bands' discographies. There was very little old-school hiphop as well; for instance, the first time I heard Grandmaster Flash was in the '90s.

But as a child I grew up listening to my parents' music, most of which I consider excellent today; my mom claims I used to dance to "Taxman," and to this day Revolver is still one of my favorite albums ever. Simon and Garfunkel, Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole also rounded out that period (thankfully Richard Clayderman and Ray Conniff didn't affect my consciousness that much).

My very first record purchase was the "My Sharona" vinyl single, so that dates me. (Actually, it might have been on cassette, mixed with Patrick Hernandez's "Born to Be Alive.") I still remember quite vividly the day my mom gave me and my brother money to buy an actual cassette tape for the very first time. (My purchase was Synchronicity; my brother bought Huey Lewis and The News's Sports. Ha!)

So, my formative years: U2's The Unforgettable Fire, the Police's Reggatta de Blanc, Talking Heads' Remain in Light (I was the only Heads fan in my entire high school) -- and, obviously a little late, Pink Floyd's Meddle -- were all high school purchases, and they've happily passed the test of time. (Synchronicity is overplayed -- I can't be the only one who changes the station when "Every Breath You Take" comes on the radio -- but I happened to listen to it with a pair of great in-ear headphones earlier this year and it sounded like a totally different album.)*

By college I went through an unfortunate lapse into lite-jazz; it still sounds terrible now, and I can't imagine ever returning to that crap. But I also went hog-wild buying albums, some of which are still stellar (Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me, Substance, In My Tribe) and some not (Seven and the Ragged Tiger, Make It Big -- though I will always have affection for many '80s hits).

The nineties (and grad school) finally set me on the path I'm on now, where my music purchases were mostly associated with record labels / distributors: Impulse, Tzadik, World Serpent, and especially early to mid-90s Matador.

*Having written this, I now realize why Bono, Sting and Michael Stipe (and Robert Smith to a certain extent) are all in a special circle of hell -- because in my mid-teens they were all part of bands that meant the world to me. And now they just suck.

My LJ Entry.

(I was going to parody an LJ entry, but couldn't find the energy.)

Haven't posted in a while: redeye to Philly to see Happy and Clarissa, then a long drive down to Virginia in a Ford Expedition which we did not want to rent, but was a free upgrade (we told the Enterprise people that it felt morally wrong), then the iPod battery ran out halfway, forcing us to do a quick recharge at some random rest stop. Stayed with Clarissa's aunt Diana and the two kids in Centreville, Spongebob with the kids ("You can't fool me! I listen to public radio!"), then to yet another one of Clarissa's aunts for Thanksgiving and a fantastic time. Huge spread, huge house, and I was too sober to join in on the Magic Sing videoke. Amazed the next day at the tons of people who came out for outlet shopping.

Then, back to work: wrap-up lectures for the final week, a pitcher apiece with Darren at the Edinburgh, the great Kiwi (and Irene from 8th Wonder) in my lit class, a big meat dinner at L&L with Kiwi and students (Joedobo was his usual scintillating self).

And, finally, 80s karaoke: Romeo and I drove down to Gilroy to see our high school classmate (my ESP partner) Eloise and her partner in crime Sean, rattling around alone in a massive house in front of a golf course in a gated community. I don't think I'd ever actually been in one in the U.S. (though they're everywhere in the Philippines). Saw old classmates Dave and Myra and their respective families. The Magic Sing reappeared (I guess you can count on Filipino gatherings to have one) and this time I couldn't resist. As evidence, there's a photograph of me on Ofoto clutching (I think) the mic in one hand and yet another Heineken (number 5 of 7, if I remember correctly) in the other. Met the coolest couple, Lan and Juan, who I swear are the biggest new wavers ever; very quickly our conversation turned to the Chameleons UK and Cure B-sides. Later we successfully wrested the mic from the, um, "old" group who was busy singing "My Way" and "Bikining Itim," and did a group rendition of "We Are The World" (I did Bruce, Michael and Daryl Hall; Lan did a scarily good Cyndi). And I did "My Sharona" (though Juan may have been singing too; I can't remember) and got a 100. Yes.

Glad I wasn't too hungover to see Joannie and Luna and Ging the next day in Oakland for some dimsum mania -- too bad Izzy was feeling under the weather (we're talking bittorrents of vomit into her bib at the restaurant), but later Joannie read Stellaluna to her and she started feeling better.

Last night, at the Edinburgh again: can't remember if Karen and Darren and I placed fourth on the pub quiz; nothing like 5 pitchers between 3 people to cloud your memory. "I had a dream / I had an awesome dream" -- that I remember.

Today: just finished reading a book on Filipino Americans which, let's just say, won't look like my next book.

Tomorrow: 100 exams to grade, big potluck in class, and poetry workshop with Barb.

Weekend: The Polar Express with Izzy, and the Dan Zanes concert with Jeff, Kumi and Maia!

Next week: about 140 papers to grade. Whee!

Even More on the Blacklist.

A little while back, Rodel Rodis posted the full contents of his Philippine News column as comments to my previous entry (you can see Rodis's column at that link), and I wasn't sure how to respond -- primarily because its contents were pretty much the opposite of what our source (whom the SFSU Pinoy faculty tried to protect) told us directly.

Rodis's column made us, well, look like fools, and I think I would have appreciated it if he gave my colleagues a little benefit of the doubt; surely Rodis himself has been placed on "non-existent" government blacklists both before and after his immigration to the U.S.!

But now our previously unnamed source has stepped forward demanding a retraction from him; to make a long story short, Emil Guillermo's latest
article has excerpts from Lorraine Mallare's long letter, rebutting Rodis's points.

It's the "Secret Service list" part that's quite scary; since Vice Consul Antony Mandap has already pooh-poohed the suggestion that a list came from "a Philippine Secret Service" because "there's no such entity" (and therefore the list could not exist), we can perhaps assume that:

a) Of course there's some sort of a Philippine Secret Service, and Vice Consul Mandap may simply be playing with semantics here; or

b) that the non-existent Philippine Secret Service may have compiled the list with help from their American counterparts, which may mean

c) that this now non-existent list may have came from the U.S. Secret Service itself (who after all were protecting a visiting head of state), and was handed directly to the Philippine Consulate.

We academics like to joke that the government must have files on us somewhere, but it's frightening when my colleagues are smacked directly with it.

(I'll be flying to the Philippines in a few weeks; wish me luck.)