BASIC EQUATIONS: TAJIKISTAN ON THE EDGE
RENATO REDENTOR CONSTANTINO
November 4, 2009
GMANews.tv

For Muatar and Parviz

Dushanbe, Tajikistan -- Jiri Barta opens the day with Prelude, Suite No.1 in G Major from Bach's Six Suites for Unaccompanied Cello.

The Czech virtuoso plays the piece with a slow signature vigor, his bow gliding across and tapping the strings with a little more gravity, hewing close to the sound of Azerbaijan's master, Mtislav Rostropovich, but producing a different, thrumming cadence.

Creedence Clearwater Revival and The Turtles have been the favored companions throughout the trip but today Bach and Barta keep the peace.

As as the sun rises in Dushanbe, the rays reach past the thick mist and the roof of the world becomes softer as the light penetrates the dense white of the sky. There is a chill despite the strong sunligh washing over the city and casting long prisms of shadow.

An apple sits on the window sill and from a distance, wood-fired smoke is rising from behind a row of tenements. Trees surrounding the neighborhood are rustling with an early breeze and the muscular, speckled dog from the abandoned apartment across the street is chasing sparrows again.

The air this morning is like mist fading from a mirror as Rudaki Prospekt comes to life and pedestrians begin to fill Bukhara Ulitsa, where a bust of the Mahatma, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, has been installed. A place where youth used to drink away the night, Gandhi now looks intently at everything and nothing, a stern and gentle rendering of the great man.

In the confluence of the majestic Varsob river and the tributary Kofarnihon, Dushanbe is a city of quiet elegance, its color defined largely by the resplendent dress of its women reflected occasionally by grand mosaics dappling city structures.

It is a walkable city, a place for strolling. Massive oaks line the sidewalks of its wide boulevards - a promenade suited to the sauntering of its residents.

Tea is an all-day mode of drink here, which complements the measured pace of the city's denizens. At night, there is Shohona vodka, the finest of its kind the world.

This is the land of shish and salads, and its offering is simplicity. Dishes consist of enormous round loaves of flat bread, uncooked whole cucumbers and tomatoes, dill and great sprigs of basil, together with titanic amounts of grilled meats served on heavy, steel skewers.

You may get an occassional trout or chicken in Dushanbe, especially in the city's outskirts in Lazat, where fire is a friend. But as local consumer tribune Bakhadur Kabibov remarked simply, his Macedonian eyes glancing over locally brewed Simsim beer, "We consider chicken and fish as vegetables. Here you order meat - real meat - and that's what you get. That's the way it is."

Devastated by a five-year civil war after gaining independence from the Soviet Union in 1991, Tajikistan "rose from the ashes... with an elected coalition government that for the first time in Central Asia accomodated both religious and secular parties."

It was once considered by some as "a model" that offered "domestic peace and international investment opportunities." Today, the potential of the country remains huge, owed largely to the storied culture and stoic resilience of its people. But Tajikistan remains beset by economic crises.

For now, Tajikistan's future is under the sway of the usual maldevelopment suspects, the World Bank and the Asian Development Bank, with their debt-inducing programs and excess of reconstruction projects that are in various states of neglect or distress and which have served largely to line the pockets of the global consultancy industry.

Though markedly less nasty compared to the appalling US-backed regime ruling Uzbekistan, the veil of totalitarianism and political uncertainty has yet to lift from the shoulders of the storied Tajik people, descendants of the ancient Persian Empire.

Increasing drug trade from Afghanistan is undermining the nation's integrity. (Undocumented Filipinos used as drug mules are languishing in Tajikistan jails.) The government has yet to secure the country's long-term interests involving transboundary water resources while intensifying poverty and corruption is steadily sapping the will of even the hardiest Tajik.

And yet, as the eminent journalist Ahmed Rashid noted, "In many ways Tajikistan is [still] the key to peace and stability in Central Asia -- something the international community must recognize, and soon."

The fledgling nation of seven million was once the last region in Central Asia to come under Russia's province of Turkestan in the nineteenth century. Later, in the 1920s, arbitrary boundaries were drawn by Stalin, echoing the crisscrossing colonialist enterprise imposed by European powers on the Middle East.

Republics that "had little geographical or ethnic rationale" were created and the Tajik cultural centers of Bukhara and Samarkand were handed over to Uzbekistan. The Persian word for Monday -- the day visitors trooped to the marketplace village to buy produce -- Dushanbe became the capital around 1925. It was renamed Stalinabad in 1929 but, riding the crest of Kruschev's de-Stalinization drive, reverted to its original name in 1961.

Tajikistan shares a 650-mile border with Afghanistan, including "the thin wedge of Afghanistan's Wakhan Corridor" which separates the country from northern Pakistan. Only six miles wide in some parts, the passage was defined "by Russia and Great Britain in the nineteenth century to ensure that the British and Russian empires were not contiguous." Around 30 percent of Tajikistan's eastern province of Gorno-Badakshan, which has large gold and mineral deposits, "is claimed by Beijing." A rugged 265 miles constitutes the border between the Tajik nation and China's Xinjiang Province.

Staring in awe at the Varsob valley's mountains, a poem came to me in a rush:

"Basic equations. / Human frailty. / Weaknesses abound. / Fights, debates / Quarrels over minutiae, / Disagreement over great / And mundane things. / Large victories, or defeat / All are same. / Look at the rockface of Tajikistan, / Mighty mountain, / Impregnable, still, solid. / Watching. / The granite stoic is wiser / Because it is patient. / Conversing with wind and sun / the failure of people / And the triumphs of women and men / Are smaller than the tiny pebble. / Humans may linger. Or may not. / But the earth will live on." #

NOTES:
1. Maya Eralieva, "The saga of ADB's impacts on the lives of Tajikistan," NGO Forum on the ADB website, 22 June 2009.
2. Ahmed Rashid, Jihad: The Rise of Militant Islam in Central Asia (Yale Nota Bene Book, 2003)
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid.
6. "Basic equations." By the author, written in Varsob Valley, Tajikistan, 14 October 2009.

Photos by redster.

BALIK TANAW SA LABANANG MACHIDA VS. RUA
RENATO REDENTOR CONSTANTINO
November 2, 2009
GMANews.tv

Napaaga. Ako mismo nagulat. Pero gaya ng inaasahan, pag-aaralan ng mga mandirigmang matatalino at nakikinig sa kanilang mga trainer si Lyoto "Dragon" Machida, ang bagong kampyon sa light heavyeight ng UFC.

Noong isang linggo, nagharap si Machida at si Mauricio "Shogun" Rua sa unang title defense ni Dragon. Parehong Brazilian, magkaibang istilo, at parehong kinatatakutan.

Unanimous ang decision - panalo si Machida. Pero hanggang ngayon, pinagtatalunan pa rin ang desisyon ng hurado.

Marami ang naniniwala na si Rua ang nagwagi. Marami rin ang nagsasabi na matino ang pagtitimbang ng mga huwes noong gabing iyon. Pero lahat nagsasabi na kinaharap ni Machida ang pinakamatinding pagsubok ng kanyang career.

Nasaktan sya (nag-mistulang galapong ang kanyang mga hita) at pumutok ang labi niya. Sa unang pagkakataon sa UFC, natalo siya ng dalawang round. (Bago niya hinarap si Rua, ni isang round hindi pa siya natatalo; di pa din siya tinatamaan ng matindi ng sinumang kinalaban niya.)

Si Machida ang bagong darling ng marami sa mga tagahanga ng UFC, ang pinakasikat na koponan ngayon ng mixed martial arts o MMA. Kilala si Machida sa dala niyang talas ng isip, disiplina sa pakikidigma at sa kanyang istilong Shotokan Karate na pinamana sa kanyang ng kanyang tatay. Matindi din ang reputasyon ng asintadong mga hataw ni Machida at ang natatangi niyang kakayahan na makaiwas sa mga suntok o sipa ng mga kalaban.

Marami ang umaasa na madali niyang tatalunin si Shogun. Napakarami nga ang nagpahayag- kasama na mga manunulat at mga propesyonal na mandirigma - kung anong round patutulugin ni Dragon si Shogun.

Bakit nga naman hindi ganoon ang magiging konklusyon nila? Head-hunting - ito ang kasaysayan ng halos lahat ng laban ni Shogun. Kilala mang mandirigma sa MMA si Shogun, pabor lagi kay Dragon ang mga manlalabang 'brawler'. Mahirap makalimutan ang pagdispatsa ni Machida sa dating kampyong si Rashad Evans at sa sikat ding si Thiago Silva.

Ngunit unang round pa lang, maliwanag na seryosong pinaghandaan ni Rua si Machida. At si Machida ang nagulat. Siyensya laban sa siyensya. Estetika laban sa estetika.

Ang gara ng kanilang paghaharap.

Sa isang banda, ang asta ng isang karate master, na parang nagwawasiwas ng balaraw at nagpapakawala ng pana, derecho ang likod ngunit may kembot ang baywang kung saan bubulalas ang tadyak, hinihintay magbigay ng katiting na puwang ang kalaban.

Sa kabilang panig naman, ang kiling ni Rua sa classical Muay Thai: marahang umaabante sa pamamagitan ng magaan na kaliwang binti -- dumadapo-dapo ang kaliwang paa sa canvas ng Octagon at tila sinusukat ng tuhod ang katawan ng kalaban. Naka-angat ang nakakuyom na kanang kamao sa tabi ng tila pasuray-suray na ulo habang bukas-sara ang palad ng kaliwa na pumipitik-pitik.

Dalawang hakbang lagi si Shogun. Unang banat, pero hinihintay niya ang inaasahang counter ni Machida, at tuwing pinakakawalan ni Dragon ang kanyang kaliwang suntok o sipa, aatras ng bahagya si Shogun sabay tadyak sa tadyang. Sapol.

Tulad ng dati, tumatama si Machida. Malakas. Matindi. Aabot sa panga o pisngi ni Rua. Pero matibay si Shogun. Iniinda - inuunat pa nga ang braso na parang eroplano para ipakitang walang epekto ang tama sa kanya. Sabay porma uli. Naghihintay. Nanlalanse. Inaakit si Machida na lumusong at mag-commit ng panibagong opensiba o counter. Hindi makita noong gabing iyon ang Shogun na nakilala sa bara-barang banat, na laging nanggigigil na patulugin ang kalaban.

Binasa ni Rua ng husto si Machida at hustong husto rin ang game plan na hinanda ng Team Shogun. Akala ko nga magiging iba ang hatol ng desisyon at malilipat ang titulo kay Rua.

Hindi maliwanag sa akin kung sinong nanalo sa nasabing labanan, bagamat bago nag-umpisa ang salpukan, naka-kiling ako kay Machida. Kung hindi kampyon si Machida at hindi light heaveweight title ang kanilang pinaglalabanan, may posibilidad na 'draw' ang naging pasya ng hurado, kung hindi man si Rua ang kinilalang nagwagi. May posibilidad..

Ngunit bilog ang mundo at hindi nagkulang ang mga opisyal na nagbigay ng hatol sa labanan kahit na sari-saring kantyaw ang inabot nila pagkatapos ng laban.

Sa wari ko, napakahina ng opinyon ng ilan na lutong makaw ang naging desisyon ng hurado ng nasabing laban. Lahat ng pasya ng mga huwes, 48-47 para kay Machida. Ang mga huwes na si Nelson "Doc" Hamilton at Marco Rosales, binigay ang unang tatlong round sa kampyon habang round 2, 3 at 4 naman ang score na pabor kay Machida para sa huwes na si Cecil Peoples.

Daan-daan nang labanang MMA ang iniskoran ng tatlo at, di tulad ng mga manonood na abala sa chanting, sigawan at beer bilang mga spectator, bawat segundo nakatutok ang mga huwes sa labanan na tinitimbang nila batay sa pinanghahawakan nilang kaalaman ng Unified Rules ng MMA ng UFC.

Wika nga ng manunulat ng ESPN.com na si Frank McNell, hindi tamang pagdudahan ang kakayahan at integridad ng mga nasabing huwes. Ang desisyon nila ay batay sa napanood nila mula sa pinakamagandang silya sa buong Staples Center sa Los Angeles, US.

Ang tanong pa nga ni Josh Gross ng kilalang pahayagang Sports Illustrated, baka naman ang malawakang reaksyon ng mga nakapanood ng labanang Machida-Rua ay dahil mababa ang expectation nila, na lalampasuhin ni Dragon si Shogun.

Sinubukan ni Gross na panoorin uli ang laban ng nakapatay ang audio - para hindi madala ng mga hiyawan ng mga nasa Staples center at ang mga opinyon ng mga commentator na si Mike Goldberg at si Joe Rogan. Ang hatol niya - posibleng nanalo si Rua, at posible ding panalo talaga si Machida, pero malinaw na hindi pwedeng sabihin na lutong makaw ang naging desisyon nina Hamilton, Rosales at Peoples.

Ayon kay Kevin Iole ng Yahoo! Sports, ang dapat pa ngang sisihin ay ang Team Rua, na nagpayo kay Shogun - sa baway round - na nananalo siya. Bunga nito, labis na nag-ingat si Rua, at tinimpi ang kanyang agresyon. Si Rua na mismo ang nagsabi na nag-ingat na siya sa huling round dahil akala niya na nananalo na siya.

Kung iginiit ng kanyang kampo na kulang pa ang kanyang nagawa sa huling dalawang round, sa tingin ko kaya niyang agawin ng walang duda ang korona ni Machida.

Tiyak na binasag ni Shogun ang "unbeatable" na imahen ni Dragon sa kanilang unang laban. Nagkaisa na sila, na may basbas ng UFC, na magkakaroon ng rematch.

Sa wakas, may drama na rin ang UFC. May maaasahang labanan na may tunay na paghahanda at na may sapat na atensyon sa stratehiya.

Grabe ang paghanga ko kay Shogun.
Dapat nang kalimutan ang unang salpukan nila. Bagong laban ang Machida-Rua II, at tiyak na aabangan ko ang kanilang muling pagharap.

Pero Pacquiao-Cotto muna. Kung tatanggalin ang watawat ng mga bansa, kanino kayo at bakit? #

NOTES:
1. Frank McNell, "Machida-Rua called as it was seen," Espn.com, 28 October 2009.
2. Josh Gross, "Like most great fights, Machida-Rua will be ongoing story," SportsIllustrated.CNN.com, 26 October 2009.
3. Kevin Iole, "'Shogun' has no one to blame but himself," YahooSports, 25 October 2009.

Photo from LA Times.

PROCEEDINGS OF SUICIDE
RENATO REDENTOR CONSTANTINO
GMANews.tv
October 23, 2009

Here we are.

The morning after.

When the plane finally touched asphalt I could call home.

Kamuning in the heart and also beneath my feet.

Content canine Emil is sleeping on my left, at peace with the slow day in the corner where he fought and defeated the ugly things that once attempted to impose their space in our house.

In front of us, the bougainvillea planted years ago in the street.

The plant is stretching out, with multiple trunks stemming from a single base, thorned stems shooting upwards, towards the sun, merging with the crown of the old chesa.

From above, the woody vine cascades with a different shade of green and shy bracts of magenta flowers, enjoying, on occasion, the company of the deep-yellow fruit of the evergreen tree spelled tiessa or called canistel elsewhere.

A breeze strums the air and momentarily parts the leaves, allowing connection briefly with the sky.

The chesa is a native of Central America. The thorny bougainvillea sprang originally from Brazil. Emil is of multiple breeds. And I am Filipino, a child of the world.

There is a simplicity here that commands the silence of the morning. An inhabitable awe, as Kingsolver once wrote, that absorbs the aches of troubled times.

I was not here when the great flood brought by typhoon Ketsana came to pass. When a month's amount of rainfall fell in a matter of hours and transformed Manila into a lake -- a land that became a body of water surrounded by water.

I was with colleagues in Bangkok, monitoring, of all things, the appalling, plodding pace of the global climate negotiations.

From Thailand's ancient capital we followed the hurricane's path till it hit Vietnam even as we searched frantically for electronic signs of safety - a texted word, a missed call - anything about family and friends in the submerged Philippine metropolis.

And we waited and waited.

Our faces remained stolid, because we knew the week ahead would be long and difficult. But for a time we did not breath the same way.

In the privacy of quiet corners some wept, when news began to filter in about entire neighborhoods washed away, and also when the first glimmers arrived indicating that kin and colleagues were alive, though not entirely out of harm's way.

Strange days we live in.

It's not as if the Philippines is new to cyclone-induced disasters. What makes things different now is the rate at which consequences of human idiocy -- large-scale mining, deforestation, the construction of dwellings along riverbanks, to name some -- is fusing with climate folly with deadly frequency and force.

What makes things unsettling -- especially to those who for years have tracked the impacts of warming temperatures -- is the promise that in the absence of leadership extreme weather events, including extreme precipitation, will soon become the norm.

Yet you would not be wrong in thinking negotiating members of the UN in Bangkok were discussing instead the alignment of Mars with Saturn and its effect on paint peeling from its halls.

"We talked about whether we are trying to build townhouses or a tower and about two elephants and how one would react if her elephant died," said one government delegate to another in the corridors of the UN's Ratchadamnoen office. "We also discussed mixing all the ingredients together so they are cooked before Copenhagen," where the penultimate international concurrence -- or collapse -- is expected.

An indignant Filipina in Thailand representing a sector already reeling from climate inaction -- rural women -- was scientifically more precise than Stephen Hawking in her response.

"The only thing more insane than the weather," said Elvie Baladad, "are the officials negotiating our future inside the UN building."

And of course she's right.

Perhaps it really is as a delegate was said to have remarked in Bangkok. That in the long, directionless quibble on negotiating text and commitments, the UN-assembled parley on global warming may be writing the longest suicide note in recorded history.

The target to remain within safe boundaries prescribed by science is well-known -- an agreed world treaty strong enough to bring carbon dioxide levels down to 350 parts per million (ppm) in the atmosphere.

Scientists have told us that we are already above the safe zone -- at 390ppm -- "and that unless we are able to rapidly return to 350 ppm this century, we risk reaching tipping points and irreversible impacts such as the melting of the Greenland ice sheet and major methane releases from increased permafrost melt."

The elements that such an agreement needs is no secret -- an aggregate reduction in emissions at least 40 percent among industrialized countries by the year 2020, along with the transfer of resources registering no less than $100 billion a year to finance the rapidly growing adaptation needs of peoples most vulnerable to climatic impacts. Not as loans but as reparations, because the impoverished did not create this crisis.

But no.

The likes of the US, Canada and Japan -- their officials would rather puff up their chests and talk of urgent climate action (but only if China and India act likewise). Never mind if the yearly consumption of citizens from those two most populous countries are less by several magnitudes compared to what an average American or Japanese consumes.

And the profligate elites of developing countries -- including the ugly thugs and morons ruling the Philippines today -- they echo the false chivalry, bravely demanding emissions reductions from rich nations based on the doctrine of "common but differentiated responsibilities." But they will not apply the same at home.

Where now are all the great powers?

Where now, all ye of self-proclaimed towering nobilities?

Wisdom is a failed crop, and valor is now more scarce than green rice fields during El Niño. #


NOTES:
1. "Army deploys troops as Ketsana closes in," Bangkok Post, 30 September 2009.
2. Earth Negotiations Bulletin, AWGs #4, Vol. 12, No. 431, 01 October 2009.
3. See http://350.org
4. Ibid.

USAPANG SALPUKAN
RENATO REDENTOR CONSTANTINO
GMANews.tv
September 24, 2009
Para kay Harley, Tambol at Toktok

May mga bagay na hindi pwedeng ipagkaila.

Halimbawa:

Henyo si Bitoy.

Mas masarap pa rin ang fish ball kaysa squid ball.

Kung naghahanap ng malamig, Sarsi pa rin kahit may Coke, pero mas masarap pa rin ang gulaman kahit may Sarsi.

Kung naghahanap ng tinapang isda, tamban ang piliin.

Kung naghahanap ng matamis na pang-palaman, Lily's Coco Jam. Kung maalat na palaman ang hanap, Reno Liver Spread.

Kung puso sa basketbol ang hanap, si JV Yango ng Tanduay ang dapat una sa pila. Kung puso naman na may kasamang balya, si Onchie dela Cruz ang mangunguna.

Kung magtatapat ang salpukang UFC (Ultimate Fighting Championship) at boksing, pasensya na mga brad, hanggang hindi umuunlad ang kalidad ng mga manlalaban sa koponan ni Dana White, boksing pa rin.

Eto naman kasi ang problema.

Maliban sa iilang mandirigma ng mixed martial arts o MMA na kumpleto ang arsenal at tunay na may dalang bago sa bakbakan – hindi lang angas, tapang ng apog o lakas ng dagok – nakakatamad panoorin ang karamihan ng mga laban. Para bang puros mixed martial lang pero walang arts. At kulang sa science.

Di naman sa minamaliit ko ang mga manlalaban sa MMA.

Nasa Pride FC pa lang lumalaban ang kasalukuyang UFC light heavyweight champion na si Lyoto Machida, sinusundan ko na ang kanyang husay.

Ganun din ang kasalukuyang UFC middleweight champion na si Anderson "Spider" Silva.

Nagkataon lang na pareho silang tubong Brazil pero wala itong kinalaman kung bakit sila lang sa ngayon ang dapat na may hatak para sa akin. (Si Hoyce Gracie at ang mas bagong si Thiago Alves, parehong Brazilian din, ngunit ni minsan hindi ko inabangan o hinanap ang mga laban nila.)

Eh bakit kamo, pano yung ibang kilalang fighter ng UFC?

Ganun din.

Si Rampage Jackson, Wanderlei Silva, ang patawang si Rashad Evans, oo pati si Chuck Liddell – para bang ang gusto lang sapakan. Tira-pikit – hampas, dagok, hagis, upak.

Hayaan mo na kung malamutak ang nguso nila o mapisak ang kanilang ilong o pumutok sa sampung lugar ang kanilang noo. Sige lang basta maka-sapak. Unahan. Baka maka-tsamba. Hataw lang ng hataw. Pag tinamaan nila kalaban, tulog. Pag tinamaan sila ng kalaban, tulog din.

May chess game ang lahat ng laban.

Hindi lang determinasyon o ngitngit o tatag ng loob. Kailangan ng tamang stratehiya. Disiplina ng isip. Pag wala ang mga ito, ayun na nga. Umbagan lang. Nakokornihan ako.

Nauunawaan ko naman na hitik sa stratehiya ang mga gumagamit talaga ng ground game at grappling, pero ito wala akong gana na panoorin ang mga nagyayakapan nang lampas sa ilang minuto. Panahon pa nina Ken Shamrock at Tito Ortiz sa UFC, di ako mahila-hila ng nakikita ko.

Sinusubaybayan ko naman panaka-naka ang MMA – paminsan-minsan may bagong competitor na masarap panoorin dahil sa bitbit nilang natatanging abilidad, pero malimit na nililipat ko ang channel.

Ito naman ang dahilan kung bakit mas nakakaganang panoorin ang mga MMA na laban kung ang mga katulad ni Lyoto Machida ang nasa match-up. Kasi hindi dos por dos na pang rambol ang dalang teknik ng mga katulad niya (iilan lang), kundi patalim, tiempo, balanse at pag-asinta.

Ganun din si Anderson Silva.

Tiyak isang araw, mabubuwal din ang dalawang ito, kung hindi sila maunang mag-retiro. Pero sa ngayon, nasa kanila ang talento, siyensa at disiplina.

Nung nagkasabay ang salpukan ng UFC 103 sa Balls channel at top-rank boksing sa Dos nung isang Linggo, nagpasya ako na silipin ang labanang MMA.

Baka sakaling may maiba, kahit na ang pinagpipilian ko medyo malayo – si Rich "Ace" Franklin laban kay Vitor Belfort para sa main event ng UFC.

Sa kabilang koponan naman, ang "Number One vs. Numero Uno" na sapakan ni Floyd Mayweather, Jr. at Juan Manuel Marquez.

Wala rin.

May inabutan nga akong ilang banggaan sa UFC pero ganoon din.

Hermes Franca laban kay Tyson Griffin; panalo si Griffin. Joss Koscheck versus Frank Trigg; panalo Koscheck. Junior Dos Santos laban kay Mirko Cro Cop; panalo Dos Santos.

Lahat iisa ang drama. Hataw, dakma, tadyak, sakmal, pero wala halos head movement, kokonti ang lateral movement, tapos parang maghihintay ng suntok na parang isang kilometro ang hugot ngunit parang kasing bagal din ng paghigop ng sabaw ang banat.

Sa main event – ganoon din ang kwento.

Wagi si Belfort; tulog ang mabagal na Franklin sa round one. Ang resulta, medyo katulad ng MMA na laban ni Spider Silva sa dating kampyon na si Forrest Griffin (talagang hindi pantay ang kalidad) maliban sa isang bagay: papanoorin mo talaga ang poise, talento, at pag-hihintay para sa tamang tiempo ni Silva.

Parang noong pinutok ni Machida ang lobo ni Evans – dama mo na ang pinapanood mo, cerebral style at aplikasyon ng Shotokan Karate (di lang Brazilian jiu jitsu).

Isang araw, pag naging mas popular ang UFC, tiyak na tataas ang bilang ng mga dekalidad na mandirigma nito. Pero sa ngayon, parang kulang pa. Nakakaaliw lang pero nakakabagot din.

Mabuti na lang inabutan ko pa ang laban sa boksing ng batikang featherweight champion mula sa Indonesia na si Chris John laban sa Mexicanong si Rocky Juarez.

Kamuntik nang mabuwal si John nang magpabaya siya't natamaan ng kaliwa ng Mexicano sa loob ng huling minuto ng Round 12.

Pero dahil iba ang husay ng kanyang boxing, wagi pa rin siya sa lahat ng score card ng mga hurado. Apatnapu't tatlo na ang panalo niya at wala pa ring natatalang talo ang Indones na boksingero.

Kung napanood mo din ang tinaguriang main event, naging saksi ka sa boxing clinic ng saksakan ng yabang ngunit ubod ng husay na si Mayweather. Bilis, depensa, balanse, talas, taktika, footwork, lakas. Nandoon lahat.

Nasa elite level man ang talento ni Marquez, mas malaki si Mayweather at pinakita ng gabing iyon na may ilang milya ang agwat ng kanilang kakayahan.

Minsan lang natumba si Marquez sa ikalawang round ngunit talagang hindi niya maabot ang kalidad ng dating kampyong si Mayweather, na nagbalik mula retirement bunga marahil ng pangangantyaw na di niya hinarap ang mahabang pila ng mga nakaabang na elite fighters tulad ni Miguel Cotto, Paul Williams at si Shane Mosley.

Matagal na ngang dapat nilabanan ni Mayweather si Mosely.

Patas ang kanilang timbang at matagal nang nasa tuktok ng weight class niya si Sugar Shane (na nagpatumba kay Antonio Margarito).

Pero mukhang patuloy na iiwasan siya ni Mayweather. Kaya ayun, wala pa ring respeto ang maraming beteranong boxing fan kay Mayweather.

Sa ngayon, tatlong bagay pa ang maliwanag na lamang ng UFC sa boksing:

1. Si Arianny Celeste.

2. Top quality sportscasting. (pero si Joe Rogan na lang, wag na isama si Mike Goldberg.)

3. Wala pa silang Ronnie Nathanielz na mang-pepeste sa lokal na audience.

Hanggang ngayon – sa dami-dami-dami-dami-dami ng mas mahusay at mas batang lokal na commentator, bakit si Nathanielz pa rin ang pinipili?

Ano ba naman.

Nagsusumikap nang mag-salita ng Filipino si Nathanielz ngayon pero wala, comedy.

Sa tagal-tagal nya sa bansang ito (nag-pugay na siya sa lahat ng kanyang Your Excellencies mula kay Marcos, Cory, Ramos, Estrada at Arroyo) mas mahusay pa yata mag-Bisaya o mag-Tagalog si Don King kumpara sa kanya.

Si Diane Castillejos ang sportscaster na katambal ni Nathanielz nung labanang Mayweather-Marquez. Sana mag-pursigi sya a mag-patuloy dahil malinaw na malalim ang interes niya sa sports at may kakayahan siya.

Dapat din mas dumami talaga ang mga babaeng mamamahayag sa sports.

Pero pakiramdam ko lang, mauuwi ako sa pang-hihinayang kung walang kahandaan si Castillejos na paunlarin ang kanyang obra.

Boksing po kasi ang laban nung gabing nag-tambal sila ni Nathanielz. Boksing. Siyensya. Aesthetics. Walang lugar sa boksing commentary ang "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my god, oh my gosh!” #

A SKETCH OF INDIA
RENATO REDENTOR CONSTANTINO
GMAnews.tv
September 1, 2009
For Avilash

Animesh the Navigator triggered the thirst.

The first stop was in Old Delhi, the walled capital of the Mughal dynasty whose foundations were laid down in 1639 under the rule of Shah Jahan, son of the emperor Jahangir and father to the emperor Aurangzeb and the great Taj Mahal.

If India had pores, a stream of sweat would flow through this old walled city, home to the Chandni Chowk - once a moonlit bazaar and corridor to nobles in search of late night merrymaking.

In its days of glory, Old Delhi was the destination of calligraphers, artists, dancers and artisans. Today, grandeur remains as architecture -- across the road from the Red Fort, the Jama Masjid, India's largest mosque, which can hold up to twenty thousand worshippers -- and as ghosts crisscrossing countless lanes and alleys.

Arriving at deep dusk, Saroj the Scribe is the first to step out of the rickshaw as the call to prayer is issued by the minarets. Animesh and I follow. Faithful legions, many in pristine white, conclude their ablutions and slowly clamber up the steps of the northeast gate of the immense house of worship. From the street, offal and the soot of asphalt and engines pave the footfall of hundreds of pedestrians, vendors, beggars and businessmen hawking their status and wares.

Everything is spilling color, flavor and sound, like a romance of chaos. Yet all that is offered is a sliver.

This is India. Exceptionally real yet intangible. Elusive and intoxicating.

The night we plunged into the universe of passages, we were heat-seeking missiles. The aim was the dhaba called Karim's, a simple eatery of great fame which holds one of the secrets of the old city. It is a key to Mughlai cuisine with a culinary lineage that went back centuries.

The restaurant is a complex composed of four or five dining rooms and an open air kitchen and a square where an occasional motorcycle would weave and honk its way through as uniformed servers carry "gastronomic delights that once tickled the palates of a generation of Mughal emperors."

A step inside Karim's is a stroll inside the house of noise; we are everywhere and we are home.

To our left is an unfurled Indian flag under which a seated man clothed in regal Islamic tunic directs ladles and great silver pots filled with stew. There is an open oven, where various kinds of bread are baked. Crouched men stick and retrieve unleavened chapatis and bright naan from the hot tandoor.

To our right, a decadent fragrance of spices and roasting meat billows out of a long charcoal-filled clay trough. Sparks fly as the griller pokes and caresses angry embers. Behind him, a gang of cooks prepare shaped and skewered meat.

Haji Karimuddin, the son of Haji Noorimudin who was chef to Bahadur Shah Zafar at the summit of the British Raj, opened Karim's in 1913. Today it is run by Karimuddin's son Haji Zahuruddin. Their bloodline extends back hundreds of years to the chefs who conjured feasts in the courts of Mughal emperors till the dynasty was toppled by the British in 1857.

Here in Karim's, grilled mutton burra is unlike any in the world. Here, seekh kabab is unrivaled -- all the variations in the Middle East cannot compare. Here, the simple weds perfectly with the profligate: a salad of raw onions and lemon with freshkly baked bread sprinkled with cumin seeds goes well with alo gosht -- a great preparatory potato stew -- and khadai gosht -- an incredibly fragrant, promiscuously spiced mutton stew. Here, only a kheer can conclude the searing experience: a small dessert of cold milk mixed with rice and pistacchio nuts scooped with a tiny wooden spoon.

Two hours after the feast for three, the teeth of our six eyelids withdraw. Movement is slurred. Things slow down. Hunger is sated and the evening is at an end.

We step outside -- to the pavement where working people exhausted from a full day's work have begun to fill cots strewn along the sidewalks.

Old street lamps flood the road with yellow light and shadows. The time for sleep is near but the incredible din of human chatter has yet to subside.

This is India, where a single night might feel like an endowment of everything -- a year packed in a day or a single inspired moment. It fills the pockets of the mind, like a clutch of shiny stones that can be taken out any day -- a reserve of mystery and joy for pondering and for lean times. #

Photos by Redster.

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DELHI DAYS
RENATO REDENTOR CONSTANTINO
GMAnews.tv
August 20, 2009

New Delhi - There was a downpour when the plane touched down in Delhi the night before India's big day.

A week ago a friend from Bangalore had asked for a bit of the rain that he said Manila seemed to have too much of. And indeed the rains came with the plane.

Night showers seeded puddles across the tarmac and the wheels of cargo vehicles hissed at the wet concrete. For the next three days, intermittent rainfall persisted, and then the heat returned to seize the day.

No one expected precipitation and the functionaries and politicians who had gathered at the historic Red Fort in Delhi to mark India's Independence Day were left drenched as the annual ceremonies rolled out under the watch of 15,000 security personnel.

The ceremony grounds were secure from the land and the air but the clouds had their way.

As temperatures plunged briefly in the great city, the Independence Day speech delivered by Prime Minister Manmohan Singh flew high due to its weightlessness, alongside kites tied to strings coated with metallic powder (the better to cut loose rival kites).

People welcomed the cool spell with sighs of relief, having waited so long for the monsoon to arrive. But many received it with hidden disquiet. Because lower temperatures were not expected to last.

Two weeks previously, the mercury had climbed to 41 degrees Celsius. [i]

Rain deficits registered 85 percent in areas such as east Rajasthan as total foodgrain sowing went down by 11 percent. In states such as Uttar Pradesh, the decrease in paddy propagation plunged to 28 percent.[ii]

The dryness has made the seat of India's rule in Delhi anxious.

If rain does not pick up in the next 45 days, there may likely be a repeat of the 2002-03 period, when productivity sank to 18 percent across India. With the current drought, India is already looking at "a fall of 17 percent."[iii]

Frenzied digging of borewells has erupted throughout the drought-hit regions in a mad search for groundwater.

State governments are scrambling to save what little is left of the kharif crop – foodgrain planted during the monsoon period – while praying for a bit more moisture to stay in the soil for the winter season's planting.

There is, as the Times of India put it, a "drought of hope," particularly in hard hit Andhra Pradesh, a state heavily dependent on rain and where 21 farmer suicides were recorded just in the last 40 days.[iv]

In the new India, there are, of course, the Mittals and the Tatas – global corporate empires run by the tycoons of India – and officials like D. Subbarao, the Reserve Bank of India's governor, whose words deserve elevation to the global pantheon of absurdities.

Responding to the success of India's measures to address the economic crisis, Subbarao recently said "Financial stability is like pornography. You can't define it but when you see it, you know it."[v]

But then there is the rest of the vast country, many represented by people like 55-year-old farmer Peddolla Nadipi Bhumana from the village of Donchanda, who hanged himself the other week, in the face of massive crop failure which had compounded with finality his inability to pay mounting debts.

Bhumana is now part of the roster of ruined farmers who took their own lives – 21 in the last 40 days; in the period 1997-2007, 182,936 recorded suicides, most of them cash crop tillers – as a result of India's increasing integration into the global economy.[vi]

On the evening of India's independence anniversary, thousands milled around a memorial surpassing the majesty of the Arc du Triomphe of Paris – India Gate – which was built to honor Indians martyred in the wars India fought, including its fight against the British.

The last struggle was the most just, in all senses of the word. Because had India paid a dear price for the rise to economic prominence of its erstwhile conqueror, the United Kingdom.

Today, it is the occasion for the pillage of India's coffers and ideals at the hands of its own officials, but this detail stands largely atop an interesting reality of the past.

As the writer Mike Davis noted recently, “If the history of British rule in India were to be considered into a single fact, it is this: there was no increase in India's per capita income from 1757 to 1947.”

In contrast, “in Britain, the per capita incomes rose 14 percent between 1700 to 1760, 34 percent between 1760 to 1820, and 100 percent between 1820 t 1870."[vii]

At the base of India Gate is a monumental flame kept alit for perpetuity.

Gautam Kumar Bandyopadhay, who still lights candles in India Gate when the occasion permits, said the eternal fire is a reminder.

"It reminds the times," said Gautam, "so that Indians do not to go back to bondage.

"To me," said the Chhattisgarh resident, "it's one among many spiritual sources in the struggle against any sort of exploitation in today's colonial frame of development, led by robber corporations, banks and Indian tyrants."

______________________________________
[i] Abhishek Sahran, "Dusty Delhi unwinds on special Saturday," Times of India, 16 August 2009.
[ii] Rajeev Deshpanda and Nithin Sethi, "Govt scrambles to save kharif, prays for rabi," Times of India, 15 August 2009.
[iii] "Zia Haq, "Drought sting as sharp as 2002-03?" Hindustan Times, August 16, 2009.
[iv] Zia Haq, "Drought of hope: 21 farmer suicides in 40 days," Times of India, 16 August 2009.
[v] Times of India, 15 August 2009.
[vi] Renato Redentor Constantino, "The National Imperative," BusinessMirror, 09 March 2009.
[vii] Mike Davis, Late Victorian Holocaust: El Niño Famines and the Making of the Third World (Verso, London: 2001). Davis cites the 1998 study by Angus Maddison, "Chinese Economic Performances in the Long Run."

India photos by Redster.

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THREE DECADES LATER
RENATO REDENTOR CONSTANTINO
GMAnews.tv
July 30, 2009

Three times ten is not so long.

Thirty years ago it seemed as if the discotheque flu spread by Donna Summers and the Bee Gees would sway in the roost forever, especially after Gloria Gaynor issued her cross-generational therapy for cross-generational anomie titled “I will survive.”

This was in 1979, the year “twenty-five of the first thirty weeks ... saw a disco dance number perched atop the Billboard charts. It seemed as if rock and roll was dead.” (1)

Then The Knack triggered a head-bobbing pandemic called “My Sharona” and forced the coroner to announce the demise of Tony Manero and Saturday Night Fever.

Three decades.

It's not such a long time.

The Clash finally smashed its way out of the UK in December 1979 with its third album named “London Calling,” with songs about restlessness, unemployment, the Spanish Civil War, race and nuclear power.

Around three months prior to its release, photographer Pennie Smith would capture with the final shot in her last roll of film the image that would immortalize the album: an angry Paul Simonon blowing a gasket and smashing his bass guitar, “framed by pink and green lettering” that echoed the cover of Elvis Presley's first LP. (2)

A portable universe was created in 1979, the year Sony introduced its handy cassette player – the Walkman – to an unwittingly ready public. The device reconfigured the daily life of the first lucky few wise enough to grasp the concept of existential mobility.

The Walkman’s original version was a bring-your-own-altar “audio player without a recording mechanism.” It came with headphones “associated with the hard of hearing” and was as “big as a paperback book.” (3) It challenged an entire industry’s thinking, which wondered incredulously “how many people would actually want to listen to music outside the comfort of their home.” (4)

Mobile music was indeed an anomaly but it was grand.

Beybe-beybe Rico J. Puno, bell-bottomed trousers and inch-thick pomade were still constitutional in 1979, the same year Tito, Vic, and Joey broke away from Bobby Ledesma's Discorama to set-up the protracted noontime party of the masses called Eat Bulaga, which would eventually dislodge Student Canteen. (5)

Schooled in Matutina-speak and petty delusion, the great Gloria Macapagal Arroyo was then stealing mostly just precious time away from unfortunate students she handled as an Assistant Professor at the Ateneo de Manila thirty years ago. (6)

In 1979, the Marcos dictatorship still held full sway over a pliant public through the holy trinity of America the All-Father, national burglary and violence.

It was an interesting period.

The grim Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini was chosen man of the year by Time magazine in 1979. (7)

The publication described the Iranian cleric as a leader who “gave the 20th century world a frightening lesson in the shattering power of irrationality of the ease with which terrorism can be adopted as government policy.” (8) Which is kind of an interesting thing to say.

A nasty bemoustached chap installed himself as Chairman of the Revolutionary Command Council of the Iraqi Ba’ath Party in 1979, becoming president of Iraq in the same year. He would enjoy the unrestrained support of the US for decades – particularly during the vile dictator’s war against Iran. His name was Saddam Hussein. (9)

In 1979, the dour chief of the USSR Leonid Brezhnev decided to send the Soviet army into Afghanistan, in an act of ultimate folly. (10)

Three decades later, the Pope of Hope, Barack Obama, sustains the lunacy by expanding America's war in Afghanistan with a familiar imperial twist – by announcing a limit on the number of US troops to be deployed to the war-ravaged country. Because “that's how escalation works,” the writer Norman Solomon reminds us. “Ceilings become floors. Gradually.” (11)

Indeed.

As the novelist Tariq Ali noted with characteristic clarity, "This is now Obama’s war. He campaigned to send more troops into Afghanistan and to extend the war, if necessary, into Pakistan. These pledges are now being fulfilled. On the day he publicly expressed his sadness at the death of a young Iranian woman caught up in the repression in Tehran, US drones killed 60 people in Pakistan. The dead included women and children.... Their names mean nothing to the world; their images will not be seen on TV networks. Their deaths are in a 'good cause'." (12)

Thirty years ago the US space station Skylab I plunged back to Earth, “scattering debris across the southern Indian Ocean and sparsely populated Western Australia.” (13)

The space laboratory was launched in 1973. Three teams of astronauts lived in Skylab for periods reaching 84 days. It's “final orbital path ... passed over the north Pacific.” (14)

Police in India's 22 states "were put on full alert and the civil aviation department was planning to ban flights across the sub-continent during the crucial hours of re-entry." (15)

Skylab tumbled back to Earth in 1979 in Esperance, Australia where authorities fined America's State Department $400 for littering, which the US never paid.(16)

Filipinos might consider Skylab lucky: at least it finally landed whereas the fortune of their country – it’s still plummeting. #

1. The Knack's website.
2. "The best album of all time," Tom Sinclair, Entertainment Weekly.com
3. Daniel Rook, "The Ascent of Walkman," South China Morning Post, 5 July 2009.
4. Ibid.
5. Nickee V. de Leon, "Isang Libo't Isang Tuwa: The Phenomenon that is Eat Bulaga," The Asian Journal Blog, 16 July 2008.
6. Website of Gloria Macapagal Arroyo.
7. Time.com Person of the Year
8. Ibid.
9. Renato Redentor Constantino, The Poverty of Memory: Essays on History and Empire (CFNS, 2006)
10. "Russians warn of Afghan parallels," BBC News, 14 February 2009.
11. Norman Solomon, "Escalation scam," Guernica, 10 July 2009. See
12.Tariq Ali, "Diary", London Review of Books, 23 July 2009.
13. "1979: Skylab tumbles back to Earth," BBC News, 11 July 2005.
14. Ibid.
15. Ibid.
16. Hannah Siemer, "Skylab remembered," Esperance Express, 16 July 2007.

A FEW THINGS WORTH MENTIONING
Another take on Hayden Kho and related sexcapades
RENATO REDENTOR CONSTANTINO
H.I.P.P. Magazine
July-August 2009 Double Issue
For Letty, Dudi and Karina

I know a little a bit about this country. We're like the title of that ZZ Top song, "I'm bad, I'm nationwide."

By the time this mag's issue comes out in print, the whole Hayden Kho scandal will have been replaced by a new lurid episode in our nation's affairs. Who knows if we'll be none the wiser by then?

It seems to be our lot nowadays. We are the sum of our moments and lately our moments have not been so good.

It seems voyeurism has been one of our more enduring afflictions, long before Youtube became the germ-carrier of choice. And who's to say it's not amusing or fascinating?

There's a difference of course between the urge to peek and the complicity of actively watching, but it floats notoriously left and right depending on who's doing the viewing and who's being viewed.

Common knowledge sources tell us that in clinical psychology, "voyeurism is the sexual interest in or practice of spying on people engaged in intimate behaviors, such as undressing." But it also says that "[i]n popular imagination the term is used in a more general sense to refer to someone who habitually observes others without their knowledge, and there is no necessary implication of any sexual interest."

Ever tried visiting the Facebook page of a high school classmate, with more than just common internet surfing interest?

What about the young woman at the other end of the bar the other night, the one who was quietly sniffling and weeping and telling her companion stories about her emotionally retarded boyfriend? She looked distraught and you found yourself thinking "Yep, her beau's a dick".

Remember the couple making out in the dark blue car near the Intercon?

You might call adulthood a proximate station between wisdom and impulse, enjoyment and restraint. Between enlightened acts and preventable, colossal mistakes. Maybe this is why most teeners are in a hurry to reach the age of sanction.

Some of us strive to extend all forms of shelter to our kids, driven by the awareness of terrible things that our world today is capable of exacting, or memories of our past transgressions. At the same time, a different compulsion appears to push the other way just as strongly for those determined to instill in their children the value of independence so that they may go out in the world and learn, and maybe even contribute to its betterment.

And so we arm them with the rudiments of discernment, hoping that in all the moments they will inevitably confront -- when age tests them again and again and tempts them with interesting and dicey situations, they will exercise good judgement.

But short of hand-holding our children till they pass the age of thirty, for which we will rightly earn their eternal enmity, that's about all that we can really provide to our kids.

Past a certain number of years, though a certain level of responsibility is expected, so long as no harm is inflicted on others adults will still act as if they're entitled to err or bend or break some rules that children are forbidden to encroach.

Is there anything really to excise from the example of the unfortunate Dr. Kho and his predilection for viewing his sad glory with the women he tricked into intimacy?

It seems there's little else to add in a case as widely discussed as Kho's sexcapades. Yet there's still a few things to say.

An obvious thing -- to think of Hayden Kho and the humiliations he visited on his partners is to ponder over questions that relate both to sons and daughters and what we teach them.

It deals with how much importance we give to nurturing self-esteem, knowing that we live in a milieu that accords a premium to insecurity - the better to move products that are supposed to sell sure fire secrets to manliness, acceptance and beauty. For is this not what the present demands of young people today -- that they may only reproduce notions of self and individuality ironically through conformity and the act of purchase? In Kho's case, it was the digital medium and it still did him little good.

For all the wealth and career success of Hayden Kho -- for all the attention provided him by attractive women whose affections he courted -- his need for self-affirmation remained unsated, the films he made of himself appearing more as measures taken to overcome deepseated deficits.

The elements of refuge and contentment that young people need today are not located outside our families. In our brood, biological and otherwise -- this is where the sense of worth needed by young people is cultivated. The self-respect of those who have discovered or are just discovering the intricate arithmetic of relationships -- the additions and subtractions of self-discovery, and the multiplication and division of joy and intimate love's many sadnesses.

When they need us most, will we be there?

The question need not allude to the moment of crisis. It should point to the period when conversations with our children are established, so that they may find beyond the parent they have the friend they need, if not as confidant then at least someone they know they can laugh with and cry with. For what else are the adult lives that we their parents lead other than lives that deserve mirth, tears and ovation? Don't tell them lessons. Tell them stories. Your stories.

We may not be able to relate to everything taking place today, with all the bewildering adventures and accessible wildnesses currently available to young people, where technology is only one among many conduits of self-exploration.

"The favorite pastime of the boys was handkerchief snatching," attests a 1938 high school yearbook of a Philippine coed academy. "Pleasant... but expensive for the girls."

How ancient such flirtation must seem to young people today, many of whom are already engaged or may soon be engaged in riskier, or even dangerous adventures. If we expect them to lead fulfilling --and safe -- lives, perhaps we need to be more than what we think we are right now.

Notions of sexuality change with time, including fantasies, and as they grow up young folks will steadily realize that the more years they add the more black-and-white things appear gray. As we try to keep up -- with our worries but also with our ambitions of happiness for our kids -- we need to remind them, and ourselves, that we are with them not merely to supply regulations and edicts (God knows they need rules) but also to provide color to the places of gray that they encounter, to give them the companionship they could do with to surmount the dark, meditative days that will inevitably come, and the silly cheering squad for the ambitions (or lack of one) they wish to pursue. #

P.S.

Not to trivialize things, but a final point needs to be made: let's not forget the inconsequence of song selection -- choosing "Careless Whisper" should have acted almost like a guarantee that only renditions of bad taste would follow. #

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KAMUNING REPUBLIC BEER

SONGS FOR PALPAKISTAN
RENATO REDENTOR CONSTANTINO
GMAnews.tv
July 8, 2009
For BenRazon, Kikay, Mutya

I mean, viva ZZ Top.

Get up in the morning and it's a Monday and stick Tres Hombres in the player so Billy Gibbons can get the day right from the get-go.

"Rumour spreadin' around in that Texas town / 'bout that shack outside La Grange / and you know what I'm talkin' about."

If the Chicken Ranch song's still playing twenty rimshots later things should be ok. Because that's just how it is. Or that's how it should be.

Whatever.

I don't know.

It's like that.

Start a day with Bon Scott and end it with Brian Johnson and it's still AC-DC. Same octane, same boost. Same burn you'll need when you get up on the wrong side of the bed, which is what daily life here in wonderland feels like more and more.

Turn on the television or radio or step out the door and say hello to Palpakistan, the 24/7 Philippine reality TV show where we get screwed 24/7 in a daily parade of obscenities.

Department of Burglary. Bureau of Larceny. Minister Brutal, Minister Fecal Matter, Minister Mendicant, First Gentleman Smegma.

And we take it. We take it.

We get by on good cheer or a few beers and a tough fruitcake demeanor, as if we revel in our smallnesses.

We douse our frustrations with gratuitous tolerance.

We say bless us and we say curse us and we just suck it up, spring an occasional whoop, drain a pint and then before we know it another week's gone by. Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday's gone grieving in a weekend alley and the public coffers are a little emptier and the vile alien's still in the presidential palace.

"Ok lang kung tuyo na ang ubas / may pulutan pa tayong pasas," Dong Abay sings in his taunting album, Flipino. "Ok lang kung tuyo na ang gatas / may palamang keso bukas. / Ok lang kung tuyo na ang baka / may kakainin na tayong tapa."

He may smirk or scowl or strum the air but Senyor Abay, he's figured things out. "Nakakadena si Amor / Nakahawla ang dama de noche / Walang trabaho / Bagong layang Ador Reklamador / kundi ang mag-bilang ng poste."

"Ang lagay matira'ng matibay," Senyor Abay sings. "Ay buhay".

They say life is about options. Who'd disagree? Ours is the bliss of a thousand paper cuts.

There's a Rio Alma verse about choice that's pretty hard to forget once you've come across it:

"Kung isa kang dukha
O wala nang ibang magawa
Ngunit ayaw mo namang malunod sa luha
At lalong ayaw mong pumasok sa ibang kusina,
Iisa lang ang posible mong isipin
Dahil sawa na sa iyo ang kawanggawa
Dahil sawa ka na sa welga, rali't batuta
Dahil hindi ka uubrang pulgas o tuta
Dahil ni hindi ka uubrang pain sa daga
Dahil maliit ka, pangit at mahina
Kailangan mo ng himala."

What if you wake up one day and you had a chance to re-jig the entire set-up? Doubt will set you free. But first you have to wake up.

If you have a magic wand and you won't take your anger to the streets try this recipe. Get Chrissie Hynde, Bonnie Raitt and Patti Scialfa to stand as world deputies and install Lolita Carbon as high chief. Forget about world peace. Go for groovy and pagan love and stick all the cabrons in the slammer and play Laura Branigan until their ears bleed.

And why not?

Might as well.

We live with music virtually all our lives anyway, even in our blue sleep, and centuries from now someone's surely bound to reveal the molecular truth that, yes, there's indeed a soundtrack to every little thing we do. #

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NORTH TO SOUTH, SORT OF.
RENATO REDENTOR CONSTANTINO
GMANews.tv
June 9, 2009

Our nation's enduring hex is forgetfulness. If only we'd remember the word.

It's like we have a national reboot button and every three weeks someone steps on the big clicker and everyone stops mid-step in a bazillion tiny pieces of a second. Then the music lurches forward again and we do a little skip and we sneak furtive looks left then right and our mind squints, as if it's staring at the sun.

Blink, blink.

Same, same.

That's been our lot for a while.

Insipid, shabby future.

Godawful present.

A few curious blips of past glory that's somehow able to reach back to only two decades of mostly clichés, if at all. Oh boy. As a blogger once wrote in Mickey Z's place, "We're so screwed galactic parentheses aren't big enough."

Buti na lang may chicharon.

We're never without choices and so the other day the family made one.

Push back a bit, just a bit. Make a day trip to elsewhere. Make it a Sunday and make it count.

Binoculars and 7B pencils in the tote bag, check! Crayons and a puppy for Luna. Check! Rio secures his new book, David Borgenicht's "The Worse-Case Scenario Survival Handbook: How to Wrestle an Alligator, Perform a Tracheotomy and Escape from Killer Bees". Kala brings with her the best mag in town called H.I.P.P. (Happy, Intelligent, Progressive Parenting).

It'll be a whole day so get the playlist right. Roy Orbison, Stevie Nicks, the Zombies. Radioactive Sago Project. Check!

First stop, Malolos, Bulacan. Around forty kilometers from Manila and everything's still beautiful and depressing despite the years.

Barasoain Church. Seat of power with three legs. The perfume of slow and angry days. Regal mansions of old wood; royal families built on sand. Rice fields. Betrayal, redemption and betrayal. Slumber.

A hundred and ten years ago the first republic in Asia was inaugurated in Malolos, in the House of Barasoain on January 23, 1899. Yet we celebrate June 12, 1898 instead as our country's main marker, the day Aguinaldo issued his so-called proclamation of Philippine Independence -- "under the protection of the Powerful and Humanitarian Nation, the United States of America."

Only protectorates celebrate their vassalage. Talk about lasting heritage.

Masses of penitent, smiling texters stream out of the church as holy mass ends. We troop to nearby Casa Real, where the printing press which published revolutionary papers during the days of the Philippine Republic is housed. Then we go searching for the street Kamestisuhan in search of the Bautista home, which we found after a few tries. And then more grand old houses kept erect by the ballast of dust, stone and mildew.

The kids are singing with Bob Dylan now. "They're selling postcards of the hanging / They're painting the passports brown / The beauty parlor is filled with sailors / The circus is in town."

Too many questions.

When in doubt, head for Citang's. Best dinuguan and puto in the entire country. I remember going there from Quezon City on a bicycle a few years ago with Francis, Beau, Teban and other characters from Batibot.

But this time we arrived at 1 p.m. - an hour too late. All the hot fare was finished; that's how great Citang's is.

We had to settle for rice cakes and pastillas de leche and we ended up at Bahay na Tisa with laing, pinakbet, sinigang na hipon and asadong dila.

The day's just past halfway done. Lots of time.

Run to the car. Roll down the playlist. Search for AC-DC and North Luzon Expressway. Proceed to Mall of Asia and look for Science Discovery Center. Discover that the place has space for many things. Except science.

OK, let's be fair; it's not zero. There are things at the center that make a scientific attempt.

Armpit chemistry. Astroboy. A global warming video warning viewers against the climate changing perils of butane but not coal-fired power plants. A theater called "planetarium" showing madly spinning planets as a five-minute screensaver and a main feature about "flish" -- really flying fish -- and other incredibly strange inhabitants of the Earth five, ten, twenty million years from today.

No attempt to explain anything about why the future creatures came to be. Tortoises as tall as buildings. Care Bears with snouts; a bird with six wings; a squid on high heels. No explanation.

The center has its moments. There's the Grossology section, which attracts many kids. Of course. Barf, burp and fart. Ok. Bodily emissions, spurts and squirts -- human anatomy -- these are important things that can get young ones thinking. Earthquake simulators - they're pretty important too.

But why was there nothing on Sumerian or Chinese astronomy? All it would have taken is a panel and some photos and a few diagrams; no need for electrodes or blinking lights. The place had Daleks and feet fungus. But nothing on Filipino inventions or inventors. Nothing on Philippine geological history. Nothing on abundant natural resources that our people have yet to really harness, such as power from the wind, geothermal sources and moving water, or scientific wisdom from centuries of indigenous stewardship in the country.

We walk out of the cold place, none the wiser but a thousand two hundred pesos poorer.

We head straight for the breeze and Manila Bay. We order a plate of jellyfish, nuts and sesame seeds.

The sun is setting. Luna is pointing to stars emerging with the approaching night. The sky is coagulating, turning from bright orange to ultramarine blue. Rio's demanding to know why flish are more important than planets.

Dalawang Pale Pilsen nga, waiter.

From somewhere Lourd de Veyra's Sago entourage is spreading jazz-funk-chacha gospel.

"Nakaupo sa kalye, sa kalye, sa kalye / Ang utak gumagala para bang may bulate ... / Maraming sinasabi ang ate, ang ate / Ipasok mo sa maliit mong kukote ... / Hello, hello, hello, hello / Sino ba ito, sino ba ito, sino ba ako." #




How does one translate a Sago song? One doesn't, but here's a feeble try for the last para in this piece -- "Sitting on the street, on the street, on the street / The mind's wandering like a worm ... / Sister's saying many things, many things / Drill it in your tiny skull ... / Hello, hello, hello, hello / Who is this, who is this, who am I". (See? Completely silly in another language.) Malolos and Mall of Asia photos by redster and Rio.

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BEER?

ENTER THE DRAGON
Fighting notes by redster

Belem boy Lyoto Machida knocked out the swaggering Ultimate Fighter winner and UFC lightheavyweight champion "Sugar" Rashad Evans in round two of UFC 98. Take a bow. To those who have followed your career, it was not a question of if but when you'd spill sugar on the octagon canvas and wipe it off the floor. As usual, it was about martial arts - Defend, attack, bait, attack, trap, win. And it was, as ESPN writer Brian Knapp wrote, "power, patience and precision."

Welcome back to real martial arts. Finally they gave Lyoto Machida a chance and he showed everyone what the title "the best" means. Ha. Now people know what Machida means when he says "My body is a sword; my mind is a blade."

No more plodding sleeper matches and hug-a-bugs from the likes of Tito Ortiz, Ace Franklin and Ken Shamrock.

No more wild, roll the dice, look-ma-I've-no-brains-flailing, punching and hoping power connects with something at some point and never-mind-if-my-mug-looks-like-someone-stuck-it-into-a-blender-so-long-as-I-kinda-hit-something.

As example UFC had Wanderlei "the Axe Murderer" Silva (who usually looks like he's been axed like Trotsky but repeatedly all over his face) or the improved version in Chuck Liddell, who also packs megaton power but who's also been proven to be skilled in eating lots of megaton power and going to sleep afterwards. Same is true with Rampage Jackson (for two fights Silva force fed his face with knees - till the third fight when Silva ate Jackson's fist). Too few with strategy - and the ones who did have some, like Hoyce Gracie, were also a bore.

Ironic that so many UFC fans called (or, once called) Machida as an incredibly boring fighter. Ah, but they know not the difference between biceps and brains; between intelligence and muscle. What they saw on UFC 98 was classic Machida, coming to the octagon with a strategy in his mind, mentally prepared and with a focus like none other.

There's a lot of aggression in UFC but if that's largely the only thing on display, it can be almost childish (and usually it's been like that). That's why I sometimes watch it if there's no boxing, just to pass the time. But then I came across Lyoto Machida in his fights in Japan with K-1 and Inoki's events. Ah, I said to myself. Looks like someone finally worth following. And I was wight right.

He disposed of touch Rich Franklin by TKO and toyed around with the touted BJ Penn. And when he entered UFC, he showed everyone the difference between mental toughness -- cerebrality and discipline -- versus boring pitbull aggression.

It was a pleasure to watch Machida's win against Kazuhiro Nakamura and I really waited for his UFC 79 match-up with Pride star Rameau Thierry Sokodjou, who had a huge following (due, again, to Soko's power). I remember having laughing fits while reading the twittering of so-called fight enthusiasts regarding the next victims of Soko even before his fight with Machida had started. They kinda clammed up after Machida disposed of Soko - dropping the burly dreddlocked Cameroonian fighter with the usual accurate karate hits (yes, same if not greater power, but also with brains) and then submitting the "African Assassin" easily with an arm triangle choke.

And then it was Tito Ortiz, who kept whining about Machida "running" away from him throughout the fight - which was typical silliness from the Huntington Beach Bad Boy. Being elusive is not 'running away', especially if the fighter actually drops his opponent, like Machida did when he shot a fast knee to the ribs of boring Ortiz. A good martial arts fighter is the one who wins with the least effort and who inflicts the most damage to his opponent and avoiding harm to himself. The mind is the fighter's blade.

Next on line for Machida was another bad boy, the Brazilian Thiago Silva, who faced Machida also as an undefeated fighter. Machida knocked out the swaggering, ultra-confident annoying Silva in the second round - one punch, like a bus falling almost vertically on Thiago Silva's chin.

Machida's never lost a round in UFC and even with his fight with Evans he did not sustain any damage. Yes, certainly he'll lose a round at some point, because his style and his dad's teachings will now go under the microscope of the best trainers and fighters in the sport. Which is great as this only means Machida has already revolutionized MMA and made it more intelligent and watchable. Machida's only foe now is himself - if he can keep improving and if he can maintain his ability to absorb the qualities of the other great arts - he is also a sumo expert - and keep his mind sharp.

Fight tenets should always be similar to what Karate teaches its students: Least damage. Accuracy. Power. Stamina. Patience. Cerebrality. Mental toughness.

You'd think people 'in the know' would actually know. But nope. Here's a single example of the blinkers people have - people who don't understand what Machida's been bringing to the sport - spirituality, discipline and art. The drivel's from Josh Gross of Sports Illustrated, who, in his piece last May 20, displayed to so many the kind of thinking that's kept UFC predictable till Machida:

Gross predicted Rashad Evans would win via "split decision" over Machida in what he said would be "the best 'boring' fight ever".

The title of Gross's piece was "Five reasons Evans will stay champ" and hilariously it was the same five factors that Machida used to send Evans to wipe off his hip-hop, razmataz dreamland (whoever's been following Machida would have gone straight to the fridge with a smile to get a beer on behalf of one dimensional analysts like Gross)

Here's what Gross wrote, for instance:

Evans will win because of superiod Speed: "Almost any way you wish to measure it, Evans is the faster fighter."

Burp!

Gross: "[P]ay special attention to the number of punches Evans gets off in comparison to Machida."

Burp! Yes, did Gross pay special attention too?

Evans will win because of superiod Footwork: "Evans and his camp will capitalize on their movement (and speed), and where I think he can surprise Machida."

Aha. Eh?

Evans will win because of superior Strategy: "[T]here isn't a better camp at identifying exploitable weaknesses during a fight than Greg Jackson, Mike Winkeljohn"

Ever heard of the Shotokan Karate Master Yoshizo Machida? And Lyoto's family? Belem, Brazil? Wha?

Evans will win because of his "Striking to wrestle". According to Gross, "Evans is perfectly equipped to put Machida on his back .... Machida isn't overly aggressive. He doesn't fire combinations."

Burp!

Did Machida swagger when he received the champion's belt (even as Rashad Evans was still being revived)? Nope. All he said was a shout -- "Karate's back!" in an ultimate tribute to his teacher - his dad - and their karate school in Belem.

Is it so hard to understand what Machida brings to the game?

Here's the normally perceptive Kevin Iole from Yahoo Sports: "It’s true that defense wins championship and there may be no better defensive fighter in mixed martial arts than Lyoto Machida." But Machida is neither a defensive fighter (think Floyd "Run after the Money Mayweather Jr.) or offensive fighter (Tank Abbott).

Here's a writer from LA Times, Lance Pugmire, missing the point entirely for example: "Lyoto Machida's fights may lack continual action, but as he proved ... a sudden flurry is his trademark." Uhm, well, no. That's not even a trademark. It's patience, then precision with power. Coming into the fight, many were still saying the bout would be about who will make the first mistake - when the point was really who would be able to force the other to make the mistakes. Pugmire actually wrote "Machida decked Evans with a left kick-left hand combination" and yet he had to end with "He couldn't finish the job then." It's really the analysts like Pugmire who still can't finish the job by just stating the obvious - even in terms of combinations Machida was bringing new elements. Left kick-left hand combination. Previously people assumed all combinations were confined to the hands or a few punches or a kick just before shooting to take down an opponent. Perhaps more people have the answer now?

Here's Gross trying to give his final word -- "If Lyoto really is as good as he was tonight, I don't have any qualms about being a fool that picked against him". Gross is still hedging and he certainly should not have any qualms about calling himself a fool.

Of course, as the blogger "Anaughtybear" wrote though, "For every great fighter, there is someone out there with his number." No one is unbeatable, only truly great fights are unbeatable. Till the next even better fight comes along... But I'm celebrating this one - I waited long enough to see enough common power pillars toppled from the UFC pantheon by a fighter who brings mental discipline to the sport.

With Machida, maybe now the UFC will become truly interesting - maybe it can go back to the art of martial arts. Defend. Attack. Defend. Bait. Trap. Win. It is its own sweet science and thuggery's merely one, tiny, oftentimes distracting, branch of MMA taxonomy.

I'm still all for boxing till the art and science part of MMA becomes mainstream. No other sport has produced "Greatests" such as the all time greatest boxer, Sugar Ray Robinson (the only fighter who really deserves the tag "Sugar"), followed by the likes of Muhammad Ali (greatest beyond boxing) and Ron Lyle, Tommy Hearns, Roberto Duran, Ray Leonard and so on.

For now I'd like to see the mettle of Lyoto in truly preventing anyone from usurping his title, because now everyone's going to go for his belt. The standards are raised.

I extend full congratulations right now to the Machida family. May your reign be long and fruitful. Be proud but, as they teach in karate, also continue to be humble. #

MONUMENTAL STORIES
RENATO REDENTOR CONSTANTINO
GMAnews.tv, May 13, 2009

It's likely no one ever asked Ebe Dancel if he meant it this way when he wrote the first lines of Sugarfree's haunting classic, Kwarto. But I suspect he'd agree if I tell him the moment his songs are first played in public, they're actually no longer his.

If there was ever a soundtrack to the chapter on memory and monuments in a book I've been writing, Kwarto would be one of the big songs, if not the opening tune. The song begins as an unintended homage to Lou Reed but proceeds to open its own vistas.

Remembrance is like this sometimes. On a slow day in a cafeteria an odd refrain from outside wafts in or someone a few tables away hums something familiar; a sense of place sits beside you, or a person from the past, a piece of conversation, and things melt and merge and for a few moments the song is yours.

Last year I chased the ghost of a storied officer, Col. John Miller Stotsenburg, who arrived with the armed forces of the US a century and a decade ago to annex the Philippines. Stotsenburg fell in what was known once as a town in Bulacan called Qingua -- the site of furious volleys from Filipino revolutionaries attempting to halt the advancing imperial US juggernaut. Called Plaridel today, the town contains other exquisite delicacies aside from fried native duck.

Every 23rd of April, the proud local government of Plaridel celebrates the Battle of Qingua as a non-working holiday to mark the vigilance of local heroes led by Juan Evangelista and Pablo Maniquiz, who were part of the forces that killed Stotsenburg and blocked the march of the US army.

Ironically, for decades a marker stood in the very place where Stotsenberg fell -- to mark the death of the US officer. Then in 1999 the local government decided to restore dignity to their town and country. It commissioned the distinguished sculptor from Jolo, Toym Imao, to erect a huge mural -- a grand tableau that gave face to Maniquiz, Evangelista and other unsung Philippine fighters which today frames the original Stotsenburg memorial, which was left intact onsite to carry on the conversation between past and present.

National memory is a strange thing. Sometimes it's a lurch across time and space that takes you to places where the pen and the sword can't reach. Sometimes it's like a dream, full of rushing colors. Other times it's like the sleep of the dead; there is nothing except the second before waking.

In 1991, the magnificent vote of twelve brave Filipino Senators served the long overdue eviction notice to all US military bases on Philippine soil. Huge tracts of land, sea and air throughout the Filipino archipelago which Americans ruled for almost a century came once more under Philippine authority.

Camp O'Donnell was reclaimed and so was Subic; Clark became ours again and yet what did we do with it? In 2003, Philippine officials christened a massive park in Clark using the original name of the US airbase. The space was named Stotsenburg Park, after the US officer gunned down in 1899 in Qingua. Not Diokno; not Tañada, Recto or Sakay,who all fought against American rule and for Philippine sovereignty. The felled occupier was worthier.

The same Imao was commissioned to build the Clark park monument, and there he built a thing of grace: Stotsenburg bigger than life, riding a handsome horse and looking afar with two other US sentries on horseback flanking him. But bless Imao for his subversive wit: across the road, opposite the statue of the US invaders, a similar monument which was not part of the original design was erected: four Filipino revolutionaries about to light an immense cannon aimed directly at Stotsenburg.

I remember walking down a narrow dirty road in Caloocan early last year. Clotheslines crisscrossed the the street, children were playing and vendors were selling fried food under the shade of tattered tarpaulins. On a transistor radio Dancel's voice teased out Kwarto's first verse and the fat sound of Jal Taguibao's bass line pulsed out despite the tinny speakers.

I spent a whole day in that street laughing with kids and asking bemused adults and senior citizens about the name of the road they had lived in most of their lives. No one really remembered why it was called "Stotsenburg St." and they all had a great time theorizing about the person or thing behind the name and when and why it was named. Not even the archivists of Caloocan's city hall whom I later visited could remember where the name came from.

Such is life. Twists and turns and twists.

To get to Stotsenburg St. from the main highway of Metro Manila, you pass through an avenue called Heroes del 96, named after the revolutionaries of 1896 who led the victorious campaign against Spain in order to build the republic - the first in Asia - which the US soon extinguished. Turn right at the end of Heroes del 96 and you reach the streets of Vibora and Del Pilar, named after Filipinos who fought against the US annexation of the Philippines. Turn left, its Stotsenburg St.

I don't know if anyone ever asked Ebe Dancel if the first lines of his song was about his country today. I think it is.

"Naglilinis ako ng aking kwarto / na punong-puno ng galit at damit. / Mga bagay na hindi ko na kailangan. Nakaraang hindi na pwedeng ipagpaliban."

We are a people obsessesed with the costumes of modernity, a forgetful people living in a land simmering with rooted ambient enmities - a place where the past will eventually catch up with the consequences of forgetting.

The future will not be pretty without remembrance. It rarely is. #

WHEN 'GOOD' BANGS WITH 'GREAT'
Pacquiao vs. Hatton Wrap-up


Below are three really good pieces - the first from SweetScience.com distinguishing between 'very good' and 'simply great' and the next two from guys who picked Hatton, or were hedging their bets too much and for too long against Pacquiao. I also very much like the way Coleman presents his case, from a memory perspective. It will not be the present that will judge whether Pacquiao does indeed deserve to be mentioned with storied names such as Duran, Hearns, Leonard or Hagler. But Coleman makes a fine case nevertheless and I tend to agree with him though I'd not be as effusive. The jingoism (largely on the Philippine side) actually subtracts tremendously from the really great opportunity to enjoy Pacquiao's progression towards a more complete fighter, judging things from the perspective of the art and science of boxing. The flag-waving? It's nice and colorful but can also be mostly a bore.

If you've been trawling the net looking for great articles, you would have come across a huge number of essays that tried to pick apart Hatton and Pacquiao as the fight neared. Many bet on Hatton but few remarked the way Walker (below; second piece) has in simply acknowledging how wrong they were but in a spirit that also raised the beauty of the sport, largely due to its unpredictability (and the insane urge of even the most schooled boxing pundits to constantly make predictions). Here's what he said, before you dive into Coleman's take:

Coach Tim Walker sez -- "I made a bet with one Eastsideboxing.com’s readers and to pay my debt, “I, Tim Walker, though thoroughly experienced in boxing really didn’t know what the hell I was talking about when I picked Ricky Hatton to beat Manny Pacquiao. I was an idiot savant and you sir are the Man!”"

All thanks to the usual great EastSideBoxing.com

red




Pacquiao vs. Hatton: When Great Confronted Good
By Frank Lotierzo, SweetScience.com

This past weekend’s Ring magazine/IBO junior welterweight title bout between Manny Pacquiao and Ricky Hatton was the case of a great fighter confronting a good fighter. It can be said via the world’s best wordsmith, but stating it any other way is simply window dressing.

In Pacquiao's case, he's not just a great fighter, he's one of the best pound for pound fighters in fistic history. Many fighters from past eras would've met the same fate as Hatton.

Usually, most boxing fans can identify a great fighter when they see one. We all pretty much know what they look like. However, one thing exhibited by all-time greats that's seldom mentioned or discussed at length is how often do we see them get nailed with their opponent’s Sunday punch during a fight. Sure, greats like Sugar Ray Leonard and Larry Holmes kissed a few right hand bombs while in their prime from life-takers like Thomas Hearns and Earnie Shavers, but those occasions were few and far between.

This brings us back to Ricky Hatton. Ricky, is/was a very good fighter. Nobody compiles a record like his without crossing paths with some other upper-tier fighters. Believe me -- he is a much better fighter than his showing against Pacquiao would indicate. His record of 45-2 looks spectacular, especially with Mayweather and Pacquiao representing the (2).

When all is said and done, Hatton's downfall was more the case of Pacquiao's freakish ability than his own ineptness. Ricky is who he is. It wouldn't have mattered a bit had Eddie Futch, Ray Arcel, or Pacquiao's trainer Freddie Roach prepared him for his last fight. The outcome would've been the same every time. And nobody understands that better than Roach, who told the boxing press that he had the better fighter and great will always beat good.

This past Saturday night Ricky Hatton got caught with Manny Pacquiao's Sunday punch, a punch he never even saw, and probably wouldn't have slipped it had Manny told him it was coming. Boxing history is replete with good fighters getting nailed cleanly when they fight great fighters. Ask Jermain Taylor, Jeff Lacy or Zab Judah. I've heard it overstated and understated since the fight occured. You can break it down to -- he wasn't looking for the right-hook or Pacquiao's punch variation all you'd like, the reality is great fighters are born and Pacquiao has shown he knows how to deliver his power. And the ability to routinely deliver it against the upper-tier fighters he's fought is one of the things that defines his greatness.

It's bewildering thinking about what Hatton was confronted with in the form of Manny Pacquiao for the nearly six minutes the fight lasted. How about an opponent with faster hands who possessed a bigger punch, who could put them together better from any spot in the ring. There's no doubting that during training camp Ricky worked hard on not coming straight in, leaving himself wide open during and after exchanges. Not only did he have to hope to make Pacquiao miss, but he needed to make him pay too -- in order to have a chance to score the upset. In the gym with big gloves and head gear on he probably looked good and showed marked improvement defensively. But doing it in the gym while sparring and on fight-night are a lifetime apart. Slipping and getting under punches sounds great and works every time against an imaginary opponent. In reality the list of fighters who can attack and push the fight and routinely make their opponent miss is quite short. And when the opponents whose offense is trying to be navigated go by the names Pacquiao and Mayweather, a lot of names will disappear from the list.

The problem is when a fighter gets hit during the heat of battle they revert back to what they feel most safe and comfortable doing. What we saw happen towards the end of the first round and into the second round was stimulated by a degree of panic and self preservation on Hatton's part. Unfortunately, Ricky didn't have the time or mindset to think his way through of what not to do while Manny was getting through with right-hooks and three punch combinations delivered with the intent of ending the fight. In fact, Pacquiao remarked after the fight that he knew after the first knockdown Hatton would be open for everything else. That's because fighters know.

After Ricky was dropped by Manny's right-hook, his thought process was consumed with, "What can I do to make this stop and stabilize the fight before it's over." Once that happened he drew on what he knows best, trying to inflict more hurt on the person who is hurting him and putting him on the canvas. The idea that by engaging Pacquiao might lead to his demise never entered his mind. Hatton’s thought was giving Manny something back to at least momentarily stop him from taking liberty with him. Once he was committed to that, there was no turning back. By that point Pacquiao had too much momentum and confidence. Even if Ricky fought like he had during his sparring sessions in preparation for the fight, there's no way Manny was going to allow him to fight smart and under control. He realized once the pressure was on he'd be able to force Hatton to engage with him.

When I hear it said that Hatton should've done this and shouldn't have done that, I ask myself, could those saying that really understand what pressure he was under and how fast everything was happening? Regardless of the training and film study a fighter puts in before the fight, greatness can't be simulated. That's what Ricky Hatton was dealing with the night of May 2nd, 2009.

The sport of boxing needs more Ricky Hattons. No, he's not a great fighter, but he stretched and got more out of his ability than a lot of other fighters who've won a title. He also never shortchanged the fans or himself. On top of that, he fought the best available opposition every time out. Believe me when I tell you, Floyd Mayweather Jr. and Manny Pacquiao both respect Ricky Hatton. He just happened to walk into a trap set by Mayweather and was beaten to the punch by Pacquiao, two fighters who will most likely determine who was fighter of the decade when they meet sometime in late November or early December of this year.

Not every fighter can be Sugar Ray Robinson, Harry Greb, Joe Louis or Muhammad Ali. If all fighters were the equal of those greats we'd have no reason to marvel at them.

When good fighters confront great or all-time great fighters in the ring, it can end suddenly and painfully for the good or really good fighter. #


Manny Pacquiao: A Fighter for all Seasons, Years, and Time
By Anthony Coleman, EastSideboxing.com
Ricky Hatton never saw it coming.

Fans never saw it coming and neither did members of the sports media. The only one who envisioned it was winner’s trainer, Freddie Roach, and even he was off by a round. The fact that Pacquiao stopped Ricky Hatton last night to capture the legitimate 140 pound title wasn’t too shocking (he was the favorite coming in and most picked him to win by the mid to late rounds), but very few saw him nearly taking him out in the first round and then finishing the job with an amazing left cross with one second remaining in the second round. Again just amazing stuff and that is why he has ascended to the realm of becoming the most popular fighter in the sport. Yet this victory is far more significant than any in his career. Now, it no longer is a question of putting him as the pound for pound number one fighter in the sport, because he has a lock on that top spot. No, it is time that we start to include Manny Pacquiao in the discussions of the greatest fighters of all time..

That might be difficult for some to digest, especially in this moment seeing that the sport does not have the same mass appeal that it had in previous decades, but all the evidence points to Pacquiao in fact being a truly once in a lifetime talent. He has defeated, in my opinion, three men who were in my top five pound for pound (Marco Antonio Barrera, Erik Morales, and Juan Manuel Marquez) a good and much bigger Lightweight in David Diaz, and took out a top 15 pound for pounder in Hatton. Add into the mix that he has reached the historic four world titles in four different weight classes plateau (at Flyweight, Jr. Featherweight, Jr. Featherweight, and Lightweight), but most impressively he has now become the only man in recent memory to defeat the legitimate world champion in four different weight classes (Barrera at Featheweight, Juan Manuel Marquez at Junior Lightweight, Gabriel Mira at Flyweight, and now Hatton at Jr. Welterweight). Hell you can make a case that in his time that he was the best fighter at the Flyweight, Jr. Featherweight, and Jr. Lightweight division. In terms of accomplishments neither Roy Jones Jr. nor Floyd Mayweather can touch that. The only active boxer to claim to even approach Pacquiao’s run of greatness is Bernard Hopkins, and Manny’s quality of opposition outpaces him too. I think it is clear to me that he is the best fighter of his generation. Yet comparing him to other past greats, in some categories he outpaces them as well.

The heads on his mantle is more prestigious than the scalps claimed by both Julio Cesar Chavez and Pernell Whitaker (though the divisions they too both won titles in multiple weight classes and were dominant in the divisions they settled into). His quality of opposition defeated is also greater than Thomas Hearns and Hagler’s and he has nearly matched the latter in sustained longevity. For comparisons sake the only fighters over the last thirty-five years who I believe were clearly better were Ray Leonard and Roberto Duran (and he is closing in on Leonard). In short Pacquiao ranks among the very best fighters in the modern era, and in the pre-multiple belts era he probably would rank even higher. Again this is from a guy that even though five years ago was a true future-Hall of Famer (and by the time of the draw with Juan Manuel Marquez he had earned his ticket to Canastota), nobody truly considered him to even be on the path of joining the super-elite fighters of all-time. The result of this can be traced to his hunger to be the best and his willingness to improve.

Again we have had too many fighters in recent memory who has claimed to be the best, had the talent, but when it was time to get down to business and face the best they often chose to take the road of least resistance in order to fatten their wallets. Yet Pacquiao is different. He loves the thrill of being the best and relishes open combat. In 2004, after his then career defining triumph over Marco Antonio Barrera, he could have easily taken the low road and asked for an easy HBO payday. Instead six months later he decided to take on Juan Manuel Marquez (who was avoided like a plague at the time), just for the glory of claiming to have him on his ledger (and to snatch his two featherweight belts). He wanted to be dominant and from that point on, except for 2007, he has continued the trend of fighting naturally bigger and elite level men. I know I sound like a broken record but I’ll say it again; this is the mark of a true all-time great. The other ingredient to his success has been his willingness to improve his technique.

He was once purely a physical freak, mixing outlandish power and speed while exhibiting mediocre to poor technique. However, by time of his rematch with Erik Morales that fighter was dying. He officially died in his one-sided beatdown of David Diaz last summer. Now he maintains balance when he punches, throws every punch in the book with power and in combinations, and his creativity is superb. Leading with right hooks instead of opening with the jab, going to the body with a hook followed by an uppercut, slipping punches with deft head movement then countering, and staying patient as he continues to batter his opponent Pacquiao is now a true ring technician, something I never though I’d say. All of this can be traced with his relationship with Freddie Roach.

It is fair to say that these two men have now joined the likes of Dundee-Ali and Thomas Hearns-Emmanuel Steward (and it must be said that Steward was calling Pacquiao a top ten pound-for-pounder as early as his fight with Emmanuel Lucero in 2003) among the pre-eminent boxer and trainer tag-teams. Freddie’s contribution to Pacquiao’s success should not be understated. We often give too little credit to a coach when a fighter wins or becomes successful, often claiming that they didn’t need them to be great when many times it is far from the truth. While it is ultimately the boxer’s job to go out and win the fight it is also their duty to be a student and for the trainer to be a teacher. It would be foolish for any of us reading this article to assume that Pacquiao’s complete turnaround in technical proficiency is a mere solo act and not the result of listening to Roach. As I said in my year end awards that in time Roach might join his mentor Eddie Futch at the seat at the table for the all-time great trainers, and while I’m not comfortable enough to make that case just yet, he is definitely in the room now. Without him we probably would not be calling Manny a true living legend.

As a boxing fan it has been a pleasure to see the maturation of the “Pac-Man,” and his reign is not over yet. Indeed it might not be over for sometime. At 30 years of age it looks as if Pacquiao is peaking and showing the ability to maintain his speed, strength and power he is a match to much bigger men. How far the elevator goes is beyond my vision. Could he fight the winner of Mayweather-Marquez? A rematch with Marquez would get boxing fans pumped, but a showdown with Mayweather would be the boxing event of the decade. Will he take on Miguel Cotto if he were to get past Joshua Clottey? How about a confrontation with the Shane Mosley? Either way from this point on it is no longer a question of if he ranks in the all-time best fighters in history, but what number will he be at when he retires. Right now we should all be happy that we are seeing an athlete who is performing at a historically high level. #


Pac Man wins and I’m Eatin’ Crow!
Ricky HattonBy Coach Tim Walker –

On Saturday, May 2, 2009 boxing fans were treated to an amazing show of speed, power, timing and ring generalship when Manny Pacquiao (49-3-2 with 37 KOs) took on Ricky Hatton (45-2-0 with 32 KOs). After considering every variable of this fight, going thru three or four scenarios per round, evaluating both fighter’s resumes and talking with other people I consider informed on the finer points of boxing I came to a prediction. I openly stated how I thought the fight would play out. Let me remind you:

I felt the fight would live up to all the hype. The feeling out period would be short if at all. I didn’t feel that Hatton could be taken out easily but wasn’t sure that he was ready for the aggressive southpaw style of Pacquiao. I felt that the Pac Man, on the other hand, was a wider puncher and would be more susceptible to getting caught trying to land his own punches. Thus my prediction was Hatton by mid round knock out! Man was I wrong!

I figured there would be a bunch of speed, power, great positioning and ring generalship in this fight. I was right about that. What I didn’t figure is that it would be possessed by only one fighter, Manny Pacquiao. My view of the fight began to change when I watched the weigh in. My instincts about the fight began to shift a bit. Still, having already openly predicted I couldn’t go back and change my pick. What I noticed was that Hatton looked virtually skeletal and frail while Manny looked thick and ripped. I started getting the feeling that maybe getting to 140 pounds was too costly. Cutting weight is one of those little nuances that general boxing viewers won’t understand. One or two pounds too much and you can lose the fight before the first bell dings.

If you have ever read my work then you know I make every effort to be even-handed and I don’t make excuses for fighters. It doesn’t matter if you just started boxing, are a seasoned vet or should have stopped fighting 2 or 3 fights ago. You lace ‘em up, you go in the ring, you take your lumps and deliver as much pain as you can. Having said that, here is my take on things as they stand now.

Manny Pacquiao

A lot of us moved Manny into the number 1 spot I think prematurely. His resume is outstanding and he looked excellent against Oscar Dela Hoya but I also considered the fact that Oscar agreed to go down to 147 pounds for that fight. A weight that Oscar had not attained since facing Arturo Gatti in 2001. I felt the weight loss was too much and possibly affected Oscar’s performance. But the Hatton bout was at 140 pounds. A weight that was very normal for Hatton. Hatton even stated that he had no problem making the weight. It was amazing how dominate, quick and powerful Pacquiao was against Hatton. When comparing how Pacquiao and Mayweather faired against Dela Hoya and Hatton it is worth noting that Pacquiao’s performances were better.

Floyd Mayweather Jr.

If you haven’t heard, Floyd Mayweather is back. If you’re a true fan then you know he never really left. Still, Mayweather hasn’t fought since his tenth round knockout of Hatton in December 2007 and he has never lost as a professional. At the time of his departure he sat atop the Pound for Pound rankings. The reality for Floyd is the bar of accepted achievement is higher than it is for most other fighters. His record is impressive but it’s the names that we don’t see on it that makes fans dismiss his claim of being the best boxer on the planet. For every Castillo there is a Sosa. For every Dela Hoya there is a Gatti. What aren’t on his resume are names of any of the other fighters in his division currently considered upper level. No Cotto, Mosely, Margarito or Williams. I will stop there because that is how high the bar is set for Mayweather. I can’t mentally gauge the uproar we would hear if Mayweather announced he was fighting Berto, Clottey or Forrest. But it isn’t only this that plagues Mayweather. His detractors find ways to dismiss his victories regardless of his performance by claiming that his opponent wasn’t that good, was too old or something similar. He is scheduled to face Juan Manual Marquez, considered Pound for Pound #2 in the world, in July and his detractors consider it a mismatch. Wow! I spoke with one fan who said even if Mayweather beat Pacquiao, Cotto and Mosely he still wouldn’t look at him as an all time great. Again, wow! That is his cross to bare I guess.

Pacquiao vs. Mayweather

This fight is inevitable. It’s got to happen. But it doesn’t only need to happen for Mayweather it must also happen for Pacquiao and for boxing fans all across the globe. Pacquiao is in a new league known as the 8-figure payday club and there are only a few matchups that will offer him that kind of money. A fight with Mayweather is one of them. The other 8 figure fights for Pacquiao and Mayweather are possibly Cotto (unless he loses to Clottey), Mosely, Margarito (once reinstated) and possibly Williams (if he fights at 147 again). I fully expect to see Pacquiao/Mayweather by the end of 2009. Having said that, based on Pacquiao’s recent performances and activity I can’t put Mayweather ahead of him in the Pound for Pound rankings. Stating this as clearly as I possibly can, “Pacquiao is legitimately the Pound for Pound #1 boxer in the world!” Maybe the king of the hill (Mayweather) didn’t get knocked off the hill but a New King (Pacquiao) definitely built his own hill on a firmer resume.

Coach Tim Walker

I made a bet with one Eastsideboxing.com’s readers and to pay my debt, “I, Tim Walker, though thoroughly experienced in boxing really didn’t know what the hell I was talking about when I picked Ricky Hatton to beat Manny Pacquiao. I was an idiot savant and you sir are the Man!” It’s all in the fun.

A piece from Shawn O'Donnell -- the smartest, most insightful one so far in a sea of boxing analyst poseurs, on the coming Pacquiao-Hatton superfight. Whether I agree with his conclusions or not is immaterial. Enjoy...


HATTON's LAST STAND
EastSideBoxing.com
April 23, 2009

On May 3rd Ricky Hatton will be searching for something very valuable : a chance at redemption. It wasn't long ago when Hatton unceremoniously unseated the great Kostya Tszyu in spectacular fashion. Since that night Hatton has had trouble living up to that moment in the sun. His performances have been anything but definitive, oscillating between wrestling matches and mediocre boxing exhibitions. All of the weaknesses he displayed in those fights came to the surface when he eventually fought Floyd Mayweather Junior. Floyd proved that being more willful than your opponent does not necessarily guarantee a victory.. Mayweather tied up, smothered and taught Hatton a boxing lesson of which no fighter could do before. Hatton had previously been able to use his will and desire to overcome any challenge, but against Mayweather, willfulness turned into a liability Beneath the veneer of defeat Hatton searched for answers, and deep down realized that he had to change. His conditioning, tenacity and heart were second to none, but one aspect of his style was preventing him from attaining the pound-for- pound best status:mindfulness.

Hatton is what is known as an energy fighter; a fighter that is hard to beat because of perpetual motion and relentlessness. Energy fighters are shooting stars that are young, powerful, quick and dynamic. However this style is a young man's game and is only sustainable for a brief period. Energy and work rate is the foremost arsenal that these fighters utilize and it often comes at the expense of boxing skills and ring savvy. Hatton, who is thirty, is being forced to confront this reality. He has survived the storms of combat, but survival came with a heavy price. He has struggled with weight and has shown signs of slipping in his last few fights. Seeing that things were not the same anymore, Hatton decided to approach fighting in a different way and hired trainer Floyd Mayweather.

Mayweather would introduce aspects of mindfulness, which is the awareness of where you are and what you are doing at all times. Although the Paulie Malanaggi fight did not show any noticeable changes in his style, Hatton did acquire a significant and dominant victory. It takes time for deeper learning to show, especially when your style has emerged out of instinctive abilities. To go against convention is difficult, but it pays dividends in the end. With time and patience things do change, but very slowly. With Mayweather at the helm, Hatton appears to be training more defensively, and approaching the game with an enlightened awareness of what he must do to win. The cockiness, and the invincibility were washed away with the “Pretty Boy” loss and what remains are the haunting vestiges of being caught in the act of willfulness. No longer can Hatton afford the bold and reckless advances that he displayed in previous fights. This fight , more than any fight before, presents a turning point for Hatton. It is a fight that can cement his status as a legend.

Manny Pacquiao, Hatton's opponent, is a fighter that is like no other. He is a physical marvel with conditioning , heart and determination that are beyond description . Pacquiao is the ultimate energy fighter, showing a super-human quality to put his foot on the gas time after time during a fight. Unlike Hatton, Pacquiao tempers his bursts of energy with precise positioning and timing, mixed with boxing (these were the type of skills that Mayweather used to defeat Hatton). Although Pacquiao's style bears little semblance to Mayweather, he has many believing that this fight will be an easy victory. Pacquiao looms large in boxing circles largely due to his impressive stoppage of Oscar De La Hoya. This conquest has somewhat of a hollow resonance because De La Hoya came to the ring that night as an apparition of his former self. De La Hoya's skills and timing departed from him long before he stepped in the ring that night. For those utilizing this fight to forecast Manny's success against bigger foes think again. Many points of interest must be considered.

Over the past few years Pacquiao has mainly fought fighters that were boxers and movers. He has not faced a crowding, pressure fighter for a long time. The physical pressure that Hatton will inflict on Pacquiao will be much different than he has encountered before. Pressure disrupts fighters and forces them to make mistakes. If you don't believe me, watch Pacquiao-Marquez 2 and Morales-Pacquiao 1. Marquez and Morales put all kinds of pressure on Pacquiao, and by doing so, kept him off balance and were able to give Pacquiao competitive fights. If Marquez and Morales were able to perform this way with pressure, imagine what the much physically stronger and aggressive Hatton will do. Both Pacquiao and Hatton have a similar weakness in that they do not fight well when they are stood up and forced backwards. For Pacquiao, we saw this in the Morales fight, and for Hatton this was evident against Mayweather. Pacquiao does not tie people up and nullify their punches through positioning and mauling like Mayweather did against Hatton.

Despite Pacquiao's best efforts to maintain his distance, he will be forced to engage in wrestling and inside fighting. This is Hatton's territory and a place where Pacquiao's will be at a substantial disadvantage. The physical exertion and the body attacks on Pacquiao will wear him down. Pacquiao is a fighter that is most effective when he is active from a distance using straight punches, in and out flurries and quick directional changes to disorient his opponents. Hatton has faced a slower, but heavier handed version of this type of fighter before. His name was Kostya Tszyu. Hatton took away Tszyu's advantages by crowding him and forcing him into an inside game, which is something Pacquiao will be inevitably forced to confront. Will he have enough strength to deal with this type of fight? Keep in mind that one of Pacquiao's defeats was a knockout from a body punch. Also, will Pacquiao's punch have enough power to keep Hatton at bay? After his encounter with Pacquiao , De La Hoya went on to state that Manny's punches did not carry that much sting at welterweight. Pacquiao's power is still an unknown factor and will only be evident at fight time.

And for those that propose that southpaw's have historically given Hatton problems think carefully. Examine Hatton's fights with Juan Urango and Luis Collazo; Hatton was given difficulties in these fights due to the physical strength of these fighters. Pacquiao does not harbor the same physical attributes of these fighters, nor does he impose his physical strength to overwhelm fighters either. What danger that he does possess is his speed and relentless attack. This is the single most important factor that Hatton will have to confront. He must have a plan to deal with the quick attacks, side to side movements and swift directional changes.

The stance of both fighters will be also be significant in this fight because if ever there was a fight that could create an opportunity for cuts, it is this one. With Pacquiao in a southpaw stance and Hatton fighting in a conventional style, they will be competing for the same avenues of punching. This will increase the possibility of entanglements and awkward collisions. What adds to the mix is that Hatton is a pursuer and Pacquiao fights darting in and out. Both fighters may mis-time their attacks, resulting in a fight altering head butt. My guess is that judging by Hatton's high cheek bones, and pronounced brow, he will be the one to suffer if this incident does indeed come to pass.

When I talked to Freddie Roach on the phone prior to the start of the British press tour, I told him that I thought that this fight would be an easy victory for Manny. Roach went on to assure me that this fight would be much more dangerous fight than most people anticipate. But he also stated that they would be victorious as usual. That conversation made me stop and think about the outcome of the fight. It is the reason why I delayed writing this article. After I began thinking about the fight in more detail, I saw significant signs that Hatton could win this fight. I state this cautiously, with a simple caveat.

If Hatton is to win this fight he must pay careful attention to his diet. If he compromises essential dietary fats, he will come in too lean and emaciated to win the fight. Hatton historically has ballooned up between fights and condensed himself down to make fight weight. In recent times he has paid more attention to what he consumes, but he is at the age where the body begins to settle and yearns for a comfortable weight. By shedding down to an unnatural weight he will make compromises that will effect his strength and performance. More importantly, if Hatton resorts to a diet that is high in protein and low in carbohydrates and fat, it will effect the lipids and fats in his skin. This type of diet results in a leaner body, but is also causes the skin to be thinner, drier and more susceptible to cuts and abrasion.

Hatton looked almost skeletal the night he stepped into the ring with Paulie Malanaggi. His body was lean ,but his face looked strained with sunken cheek bones. Although Hatton did not take much punishment during the fight, his face told a different story. Around his eyes , he was particularly bruised and marked. If he comes into the ring like that against Pacquiao it will be a significant detriment. Pacquiao will attack with a frequency and relentlessness that will mark and cut up Hatton. And as the fight progresses, he will be able to wear Hatton down. Hatton will be forced to take chances that he normally wouldn't, due to his impaired vision. Eventually this would lead to a stoppage which probably would occur in the eighth , or ninth round. Several weeks before the fight , Hatton is weighing around one hundred fifty pounds, his face looks full and buoyant, but he has ten pounds to lose still. It is this weight loss over the next while that will tell the story of the fight. If he loses the weight rapidly, with dietary sacrifices, he indeed will pay the price. This will effect the integrity of his physical strength, and skin, and will result in a stoppage. Despite this tale of caution, I think that Pacquiao has even greater concerns to address.

Pacquiao has returned to the same point he was at prior to facing Erik Morales. His move up in weight resulted in some awkward and uncomfortable moments during his inaugural fight at 130 pounds.. Morales' size, strength and aggression kept Pacquiao moving backwards in that first fight.. I see this fight presenting the same difficulties for Pacquiao. His survival will depend on how he can adjust to the physical differences of existing at the 140 pound weight limit. This may take a fight , or two to work out. The weight is not the only adjustment that Pacquiao has to contend with. Since Pacquiao's magnificent win over De La Hoya, his status as a sports icon has grown to an even greater level. With that kind of success comes the trappings of luxury and distractions. Will this be enough to take away from Pacquiao's focus and drive during training? Pacquiao is a pop culture icon, that spends significant time each day dealing with fans; while Ricky Hatton toils in relative obscurity, far from the distractions and comforts of home. This factor may be enough to tip the fight in Hatton's favor.

From the outset of the fight, it is critical that Hatton imposes his physical strength and not let up. If he lets up, Pacquiao will fill in the gaps of inactivity with quick combinations. And as the fight deepens, and if Hatton slows, Pacquiao will pick up the intensity of his offensive bursts. With this consideration in mind, Pacquiao will pull away and possibly be a decisive winner. But if all goes according to plan, Hatton will use a mixture of pressure and mindful caution. The fight will be exciting from stem to stern. It will have the ebb and flow that has characterized many great battles. I believe that Hatton in the end will win by the slimmest of margins, but it will be a fight with no winner, or loser. The fight itself will transcend that verdict. No effort, not an once of sweat , nor a drop of blood will be held in reluctance. It will be a fight where we will savor the bravery, excitement and the noble pursuit of victory. #

There's a new mag out, headed by feisty mag journo Gina "Manhattan" Abuyuan, she with the nice bags. It's called H.I.P.P., which stands for Happy, Progressive, Intelligent Parenting. Not sure I fit the bill, but I do know it's been a fine adventure so far. Kala and I were recently asked to write a piece each for the mag's first issue, so here's mine, and the next one's by Kala. Thanks for dropping by...

FATHERHOOD STORIES
RENATO REDENTOR CONSTANTINO
H.I.P.P.
March 2009, maiden issue

My kids have taken to calling me Yatat these days. It came out of a "backwards game" the children began late last year and ever since then things have become funnier and more ridiculous.

I think they find "Tatay" rolls off the tongue better when spoken from the last letter to the first, and it's the same with other words from the family vocabulary. Ever tried saying "Pass the rice" or "The dog escaped!" or "Something stinks!" in reverse? Coolness. And try it in Filipino.

It sometimes tests the patience of Kala, their rational mum, but more often the silliness is tolerated or laughed at. After all, the kids are playing with words, they're having a good time, and the silliest member of the household, the so-called Daddyman -- he actually likes joining the juvenile fray.

I like playtime with the children. Racing boats along the gutter during a heavy downpour, paper planes. Toy cars, dolls, water fights. I get to slough off the grime of adult life accumulated through the years and I also feel a lot closer to the kids -- a closeness that gives me a better understanding of what fascinates them while I retrieve a few of the small joys that accompanied me during my childhood.

I like story-telling and fibbing and making things up. Minus the motivation of malice, tall tales are fascinating; they can make the universe of children wander around or expand.

Our two kids -- they have interesting, different takes when it comes to stories.

We like telling friends that our 10 year-old boy, Rio, is a free spirit now. He's a normal chap -- likes ball games, adores Samurai Jack (like his dad), has an affinity for mayhem, loves computer games (every now and then Rio goes out Friday nights to play Warcraft/Defense of the Realm with a gang of lawyers led by his uncle). But right now one of his strongest qualities is that he's a reader and he knows this.

First time Rio discovered he could read he never looked back. He's the only boy I know who'd forego a whole day with his grandfather's Sony Playstation just to finish a really good novel. He shares books with his grandparents -- a four part historical novel about Julius Caesar, for instance, or the eleven-book Robert Jordan fantasy novel series that his mum and dad, aunts, uncle and grandfather had each finished reading only four or five years ago. The more he reads, the hungrier he gets.

There are days when we talk about the science of gnawing steak bones and the molecular composition of slime and boogers. But other days Rio tells me about books he's reading and why some seem great (Brian Ruckley's The Godless World for example) and others are not, and we talk about characters, plots, the writing. When he finished Tolkien's masterpiece years ago, he told me why the book was far better than Peter Jackon's movie, and we talked about why my favorite character was the fallible Boromir, not Aragorn, and why I admired Sam more than Frodo.

Our six year-old daughter Luna, she has a different approach.

In the first week of the new year, the postman delivered to our house two postcards from Krakow. One was in sepia, showing a grand square and an old hotel. The other was a dark photo of a park in the evening, lamps glowing in the background, illuminating a single bench.

I wrote to the kids while I was in Poland last December. I wrote about things I had seen and that I was also rather sad while I was there. Luna claimed the postcard with a park for her own and she tucked it under her pillow that night. In the morning she asked me about fog, lamps and the kind of people who sat on the park bench and why they went there.

Luna expresses herself mostly through drawing and painting and the images are captivating. She invents whole worlds. Luna did a drawing once with four houses which had one sun each, because she said each home needed their own sun. Then there's the rice field that she drew populated with happy jellyfish. She does portraits from photos we choose from magazines but she won't paint people if I don't choose the pictures for her even though she likes going through magazines.

We talk about the work of artists like Chagall, and though she does not really know the famed painter she wants to know why such a strong, deep blue was used and why he made people float across his canvass. I show her pictures of other masterpieces, and I tell her why Jackson Pollock, Olazo and Manny Garibay are geniuses and why mimics of Twombly are twerps. She is fascinated with art composed through drips, diaphanous shapes and melancholy.

It's a magical world, as Calvin and Hobbes scripture says, so just keep to simple precepts when it comes to raising kids. Love one another. Wash your hands. Brush your teeth. Be just. Be fair. Share. Stay glued when it's Whacked Out Sports and Mr. Bean on the boob tube. #

KALA's MACAU ESSAY
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Kala's piece in the great new mag H.I.P.P. (or, Happy, Intelligent, Progressive Parenting) helmed by mag journo Gina "Mojito" Abuyuan (if not the drink in hand, then you'll spot her via her shoes). Like my piece following this, the actual text in the mag bears Gina's edits which has made things obviously better. If you didn't get the maiden copy of the mag last January, better find one, or you can chew on Kala's article on the nice lurch that opened year 2009 of our eternally fuzzy-fabled lives.

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MACANESE ADVENTURES
KALAYAAN PULIDO CONSTANTINO
H.I.P.P.
March 2009, maiden issue

"One of the most profound things money can buy (outside an actual education, and lots of books, and what you give away) is the deep, existential pleasure of seeing something new, or tasting something you won't forget, or glimpsing a parallel universe that helps define your own world. Because those are the kinds of experiences that stay with you, and sometimes change you, in a way those purely abstract investments won't."

- The Case for Culinary Travel, Even Now
by Raphael Kadushin

Travel for my husband and myself is a shared passion. Eleven years of married life has generated for us a fair share of adventure, thanks to hard-earned money spent not for a big house or a brand new car (the familiar family spending accoutrements) but on leisure time experiencing new places, tasting new things and meeting people from different cultures. We've gone backpacking in Europe and Asia together (sometimes with family). Lately, more by accident rather than design, we have been going away for a few days together during the first week of a new year.

This year, it was Macau - not such an obvious choice for a couple's destination. The place is usually associated with Macau Tower (where one can experience one of the world's highest bungee-jump) and a new reputation as the Las Vegas of Asia. Our trip was a gamble, but then the odds turned out perfect. Bright lights, big city - the place has a lot of bling but if planned well, these will turn out to be just gravy. More than the multicolored lights of the casinos - there are heritage ruins, museums and quiet cobblestoned plazas. It provides all the elements of a great escape for us: interesting sites, good eats and slow time.

Macanese cuisine

Macau is an intriguing blend of Chinese and Portuguese culture, resulting from 450 years of colonial occupation by Portugal. The street signs are still in these two languages, and the combination is particularly expressed in their food. Macanese cuisine is a mix of Portuguese and Chinese ingredients that only makes sense once it’s in your mouth. It combines ingredients and spices from Portuguese trading ports from around the world, including turmeric, coconut milk and cinnamon.

Lunch at O Porto, arguably one of the best restaurants serving Macanese food was a treat arranged by a good friend. The dishes included Portuguese sausage, chili prawns, bacalao, clams, flank steak and a desert called sawdust pudding (it was quite good – like shaved marie biscuits with cream). It was all we could do to stand up after the meal, we could have taken a nap right then and there.

At Littoral (cited in the Hongkong/ Macau Michelin Guide), we ordered African Chicken and Macanese stew. Washed down with Portuguese wine, the food was delicious and new. We arrived at the place ten minutes before they opened at twelve noon and there was already a line forming.

The beauty of food in Macau is not only found in its restaurants. We arrived late our first night, and we were hungry. According to our Pinoy concierge, all the restaurants nearby were probably closed. But hotel food was not an attraction, so we went out and found ourselves in a small and bright eatery – and by pointing at a menu found ourselves eating spicy fried small fish and yang chao rice all washed down with Tsingtao beer. And there was that noodle place where what I thought was chicken (looked like it in the picture) turned out to be frog. My husband found it delicious.

The pedestrian street towards the St. Paul's Ruins - the most famous sight in Macau - was a veritable feast as sellers did their best to get you to have a free taste of their almond cakes, egg tarts and other pastries - the quintessential Macau pasalubongs. It was fun buying an egg tart or two from the shops to eat while walking. Sidewalk fare was irresistable and included a variety of dimsum, Hongkong style fishballs and crepes. These stalls usually had spanish style benches in front where one can sit down and enjoy the food.

Although it does not feel that there is a busy bar scene outside of the casinos, we tried what the locals call “bar street”, where we drank European beers while watching a great Pinoy band playing to an international audience. But never worry, in Macau, there is usually a 7-11 in every corner where a good range of typical of Asian lager is available. Walking around, you are bound to find wine shops along the way with a good selection of Portuguese wine.

Sights

Macau seems to be on track of escaping the fate of many modern cities, where the old is completely wiped out by monotonous medium and high-rise buildings. It has a well-preserved historic center, a UNESCO world heritage site knitting together twenty-five architectural legacies, plazas, churches and forts intertwined in the daily fabric of modern life. Walking is the best way to explore this area. With a map (grab a free one at the airport) and guided by the well-placed signs, stroll towards Largo de Senado or the Senate Square, for centuries the center of Macau city life. The cobblestoned square and the surrounding streets are lined with Mediterranean-style buildings, filled with shops to suit anyone’s fancy. Macau is a duty-free port, so shopping can be a good deal here.

Climb a grand sweep of steps to see the ruins of St. Paul’s up close, and join the throngs of people taking pictures. Built in 1602, the church and its nearby school burned down in 1835, leaving only the church’s stone façade. Across is the Monte Fort which houses the small but excellent Macau Museum. A visit here at the beginning of your trip will give you an overview of Macau’s history and culture. Before you leave, visit the garden at the top of the museum where you can see the remaining walls of the Fort and a great view of Macau.

We managed to again walk uphill to the highest point of Macau, the Guia Fort. Built in 1638, it was originally used to defend the border against China. If you don’t feel like walking up a steep slope, you can take a taxi or take the small cable car to the top. Inside the fortress stands the Guia chapel and lighthouse. The chapel is dedicated to Mother Mary which features frescoes with both western and chinese themes. The lighthouse - dating from 1865 - is (according to the brochures) the first lighthouse on the Chinese coast. Only three stories high, its whitewashed walls, clean lines and green door look starkly Aegean against the blue sea and sky.

The center of Macau is small enough to get lost in without losing your way. You will find unexpected surprises outside what is written in the guidebook. We entered side streets and stumbled upon beautiful buildings, faded churches and tiny plazas. Taking a break from our walk we stopped by a gelato place (I had raspberry and rhum flavors while my husband got yakult(!) and ginger) and found ourselves facing the Lou Kau Mansion. This beautiful old house is one of the world heritage sites and made me fall in love with courtyards all over again!

Outside of the historic center in the island of Taipa are five beautifully restored Portuguese mansions – homes that belonged to Macanese families in the 1900’s. Now collectively called the Taipa museum, it showcases the Macanese Eurasian heritage and lifestyle. The mansions face a bay across the huge Venetian Hotel and Casino – Macau’s past looking at it’s future. A short walk away is the quaint Taipa village, a small community of narrow lanes and multi-hued two-story colonial houses. It's filled with restaurants and shops, and yet it’s a quiet place to walk around in and explore throughout the day. On our last night we had a great dinner there at O'Santos, a Portuguese restaurant. After eating, we went out looking for a place to drink and ended up sitting along the sidewalk talking as kids chatting in Portuguese and mothers conversing in Chinese walked by.

Of course, we had to go to the casinos. If high end shopping is your thing, all the global brands are in Venetian, Lisboa and MGM Grand, intent on luring willing gamblers away from their winnings. The Venetian was a candy-colored, sparklingly clean copy of Venice. But it was the Lisboa Hotel and Casino (owned by Stanley Ho of Manila Bay floating casino fame) that was particularly spectacular, it feels like the set of an old James Bond movie - a Chinatown Jackie Chan meets Hollywood Glam Palace look. This is really grand old bling - with diamonds, emeralds and huge jade and ivory sculptures on display.

Kababayans

Encounters with countrymen were frequent - as it happens whenever one visits another country nowadays. In our hotel, in the various restaurants that we went to, we got to meet and talk with Filipinos who were always gracious and generous with their time and advice. Kababayans are always reliable advisers of a place - where and what to eat, where the internet shops are and how to get to the sights. According to some, the pace in Macau is less frenetic than Hongkong and there are more opportunities to move ahead. I am sure that our migrants experience a host of problems, and it is problematic why our government refuses to pursue national economic development anchored on developing work opportunities in-country rather than relying on remittances - but that is another story.

Couple travel

After years of traveling together, my husband and I have reached a certain agreement to ensure peace: I take charge of the route (I am better with maps), he orders the food (he is a foodie and always knows the best thing to eat). We travel at a different pace - he prefers slow and meditative, taking time to write down notes of ideas that come in; I am essentially a tourist - intent on getting to the next sight. We've found a sort of middle ground - we both wait for each other. He patiently waits for me while I shop!


Traveling has helped us get to know each other better, without the worry of work, daily chores and children. Outside the noise of daily life, we know that we continue to have fun in each other's company, laugh at each other's foibles and enjoy each other's interests. Travel renews our ties by adding to our store of silly memories.

So go to Macau (or any other place for that matter), not so much for an adventure, but to find time for yourselves. #

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BORDERS OF THE MIND
A KYRGYZ POST
Renato Redentor Constantino

So here's an idea. It's been on the mind for some time but I've never really gotten around to writing it down. Obviously I'm at a boiling point of frustration given that I haven't really posted annything recently that wasn't written and published previously.

Nice dilemma if only it didn't weigh so much, like a refrigerator resting on the ribcage. Supposed to be that posting things on the blog was to play the job of beer or benzedrine. It's still the case I think, except that right now it sounds like just an interesting thought -- a purposeless meandering that's like a kite that never finds the wind.

Let's try again then by elevating what I've missed writing about. Name the missing pieces. Draw with a thick black felt-tip pen the outline of the thing that was once in a shop display or the seat of a coach - the memory windows - and fill in the space.

I got to post my lurch in one of the Kazakh mountains, so yes that was special. But what about Bishkek? The street grills billowing smoke, the spheres of unleavened bread, the variations of horse stew in Kyrgyzstan's capital, which was filled with a people that, when massed, seemed both morose and mischievous, ancient and new.

I remember dreaming awake in Issyk-kul surrounded by stunning white-capped rugged mountains, which made me rcall New Zealand's great ranges and the slope of Whakapapa. But past five seconds it was clear that Issyk-kul was an entirely different creature. Slender, watercolored Birch forests glowing with Autumn. Flocks and flocks and flocks of crows passing over the trees, over water, noisy and barking and almost unruly.

I turned around 360 degrees and the mountains took my breath away. Some were so near they looked like pale velvet. Some were so far that sunrise looked like an ephedrine-induced halogen belch from behind a massive stack of rocks massing with heavy gravy clouds. It was quiet, the air was freezing and the wind was cruel and it felt glorious.

I wish I had written right away about the strange lake of Issyk-kul, a confused body of water that thought of itself as a round limb of the ocean.

The lake was salty from the melted crystals of glaciers, and it bobbed, swelled and ebbed with the waning of the moon and made ocean sounds at night along the coast, conversing in saline, tidal dialects.

We walked across a fallow Bishkek field, dry from the cold and unkempt and hard on our feet.

The sun was high and the shadows were long and we sensed huge dogs in a distant barn evaluating our scent and whether we were worth the sprint across the wide, rough ground.

Everything then was beige and earthen and cracked and I remember reaching down to clutch a clump of soil which was so dessicated it crumbled like a fistful of cereal. The sky was so vast and encompassing that it absorbed all thought and intimidated and captured every single stray idea.

When you say Krgyz, which is the word by which its people are called, you must suffocate all the vowels and roll the 'r' roughly and finish with a hiss. The women are tall and they look Asiatic, but their voices rumble, a low timber. They are very much warm in their own inscrutable way. #


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Kyrgyz Republic photos by Redster.

THE NATIONAL IMPERATIVE
RENATO REDENTOR CONSTANTINO
BusinessMirror
March 4, 2009

So, what do we do now?

For decades we were told not to mind the stink behind the altar, where pale clerics of the market faith congregated and preached the good word.

Year after year, behind the burnished marble slab, beneath the old wood cross beams of consumption, black coat and black tie delivered the liturgy of bling and the brass cross, and the sanctity of the system was upheld.

Year after year leaders chased away the phantoms of looming crises with ritual new liberalism and the prescribed brand of amen: our economic fundamentals are strong, our fundamentals are strong. Open the gates of the economy, open your heart. Peace be with you; everything is okay.

Year after year we believed, happy in our blinkered place in the constellation of dependencies.

Then came 2008, the year the valves that had been holding back the stench finally broke down, when venom too long contained rushed through the veins.

By 2009, the empire of belief had fallen apart and its pallid high priests were issuing regular missals that years ago would have been denounced by the bishops of Washington as satanic edicts.

Nationalization -- not as a question of 'if' but of 'when' and 'where' and how much control, how much ownership, and how long the long-term intent. Re-regulation. Conservation instead of blind extraction. The cosseting of strategic domestic industries. Massive state spending to generate jobs. A green economy.

From his prison cell in 1977 the Filipino martyr Ninoy Aquino issued a national call of comparable subversion and pragmatism, but who remembers? "I believe," wrote Aquino, "that basic and strategic industries must be nationalized because it is too dangerous to leave the determination of national needs and priorities in the hands of a few. My primary concern is national interest and the general welfare, not nationalization."

How interesting the turn of events.

In 1988 in her book Unequal Alliance, Robin Broad observed the stagnation of world trade and the glut of international markets. Transnational capital was "no longer moving to the Third World," Broad wrote; it had "already turned toward new arenas for short-term rewards at home -- consumer credit, corporate mergers, and the get-rich-quick gimmicks of financial speculation."

"As the world economy has become more integrated," Broad remarked, "effective sovereignty across the developing world has waned" while vulnerabilities have multiplied exponentially.

Yet everyone continued to be sold the idea of export-fueled growth, hinged on the magical power of the global bazaar where economic integration was the goal and the idea of "self-reliance" was considered an anachronism.

India bought and paid dearly.

Between 1997 and 2007, the journalist and Magsaysay awardee P. Sainath tells us, India recorded the "largest wave of suicides in history", which today "stands at a staggering 182,936" -- all of them ruined farmers. "In the next five years after 2001," by the "time India was well down the WTO garden path in agriculture...." wrote Sainath, "one farmer [was taking] his or her life every 30 minutes on average." The horrific figure is probably underestimated, said Sainath, because the countless women farmers who took their own lives are recorded as mere suicide deaths because, though they do the bulk of work in agriculture, they are mere "farmers' wives." According to Sainath, "Those who killed themselves were overwhelmingly cash crop farmers – growers of cotton, coffee, sugarcane, groundnut, pepper, vanilla" while the "largest number of farm suicides [took place] in the state of Maharashtra, home to the Mumbai Stock Exchange and ... to 21 of India’s 51 dollar billionaires." The same Mumbai of the movie Slumdog Millionaire.

All too many bought the theology of the holy market and all too readily traded away the rights of their citizens, the fields that once fed their children and the ecosystems that once sustained their very cultures.

In October 1979, a World Bank report counseled the Philippines "to take advantage of the fact that its wages had 'declined significantly relative to those in competing ... countries' such as Hong Kong and South Korea." And of course the Philippine government took advantage, not recognizing that beneath the basement is a cellar, and underneath that is another basement. An ad in the October 16, 1981 issue of Far Eastern Economic Review talked about such architecture: "Sri Lanka challenges you to match the advantages of its Free Trade Zone, against those being offered elsewhere.... Sri Lanka has the lowest labor rates in Asia."

In the midst of a global economic conflagration, autarky cannot be a solution. But neither can it be protracted national suicide based on the notion that we can only follow others because we have always had so little, and based on the childish hope that other countries will act in our interest.

Almost 47 years ago the revered senator Lorenzo Tañada reminded us of the wealth that we had always possessed but which we all too often ignored in our mad pursuit of alien promises.

"We have accepted without too much thought the oft-repeated characterization of the Philippines as a capital-poor country," said Tañada on March 10, 1962, "and that therefore we must vigorously attract foreign capital if we are to develop our country."

We paid him no attention and over the years we kept exporting what we already had. Our capital. The fruits of our soil. Our minerals. Our best and our brightest. Our dignity.

And the hemorrhage continues still. #

NOTES:

1. Chip Ward, "The Department of Homegrown Security," Tomdispatch.com, 26 February 2009.
2. Binyamin Appelbaum, "What is 'nationalization'? Depends who you ask," Washington Post, 25 February 2009. See also Krishna Guha and Edward Luce, "Greenspan backs bank nationalisation," Financial Times, 18 February 2009.
3. Paul Krugman, "Can this planet be saved?" New York Times, 1 August 2008.
4. Ninoy Aquino, Testament from a Prison Cell. (Philippine Journal, Inc.: 1988)
5. Robin Broad, Unequal Alliance, 1979-1986: The World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, and the Philippines. (Ateneo de Manila University Press, QC: 1988)
6. Ibid.
7. Robin Broad and John Cavanagh, Development Redefined: How the Market Met its Match (Paradigm Publishers, 2009)
7. The Essential Tañada, ed. by Renato Constantino (Karrel, Inc., QC: 1989)

SPECTERS OF COMPARISON
RENATO REDENTOR CONSTANTINO
BusinessMirror
January 27, 2009

IF, in the end, there is only the word, what would the end say? We know what the word tried to say in the beginning, in the ancient Middle East, in the lower reaches of the Euphrates where the earliest known writing was located, and in the coastal cities of Syria where “the radical simplification from hieroglyphs that denoted words and syllables to a short alphabet that represented simple sounds” was first developed. [1]

“The messenger’s mouth was heavy, he could not repeat the message,” the remarkably intact clay tablet of Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta, circa 1800 BC, tells us. [2] What all the words the courier carried we do not exactly know, but we are aware that they were patted on clay and that fire preserved the missive. There was no white phosphorus on the herald’s tongue that burned through the palate and throat; the memorandum was delivered. [3]

In the beginning, language scholar Nicholas Ostler reminds us, there were sisters and their lives spanned 4,500 years—sister languages straddling and spilling out even up to the farthest reaches of the present. One was named Akkadian, spoken in 2300 BC by the first Assyrian king Sargon I. Another was Aramaic, “the Middle East’s old lingua franca,” which “bridged the gap between the decline of” the first Sargon’s tongue and a third sibling of House Semitic called Arabic. [4] And there were more.

It was a German, A.L. Schloezer, who coined the term “Semitic” in 1781 to identify “a family of related languages, including Hebrew, Arabic, Aramaic and others.” The German drew the word from Shem, one of Noah’s sons, to capture the alloy of tongues. In doing so he “gave the unintended impression that all those who spoke Semitic languages shared a common ancestry.” [5] Which is not correct.

Schloezer’s faulty notion has since been corrected in varying degrees by scholars who questioned the notion of a single racial genealogy, contending that those who spoke Semitic languages do not necessarily share the same physical or social traits. [6]

This is only right, but it has not settled things.

Life is richer than we think and many of the things we consider to be innately unconnected, including the quirk-laden, are more organically linked than they appear to be at first glance.

What does the West owe Islamic enlightenment? Does the question compute? Did you know that algebra is derived from the Arabic term al-jabara, which refers to the reduction of an equation through the restoration and compensation of its parts? [7] And what about the mathematician al-Khwarizmi, who worked in the caliphal Center for Advanced Study in Baghdad, the ninth-century scholar whose name became the word algorithm, the form in which it appears in Robert of Ketton’s translation: “Dixit Algoritmi…” or “Al-Khwarizmi says….” [8]

In East Africa, the major Bantu language called Swahili comes from the Arabic word sawahil, or “coasts,” from where countless Amir al-bahrs—admirals—helped spread trade and Islamic scripture through Arabic, Islam’s liturgical language.

Memory is a playful thing.

Darius was the Persian overlord in 522 BC controlling everything from Anatolia and Egypt to the borders of modern Turkestan and the Indus Valley, yet why did he decree “that the administrative language of the empire should not be Persian or Lydian, but Aramaic?” The Darius decree eventually pushed the use of the Semitic language instead of Farsi, which had more in common with the tongues of Europe and northern India than with arabiya or Turkish, up to the very ports of the Aegean and the Balkans in the west and the Hindu Kush in the east. [9]

Like mirrors conversing with mirrors or elastic creeper vines, conversations from the past cling tightly to the present. Who is paying attention?

Perhaps the day has finally come to limit God’s real estate to time—the one truly universal domain—so that each time people forget the past, they are by scripture less blessed, even cursed.

What does anti-Semitism actually mean in the region of Semitic people?

The Israeli poet and novelist Yitzhak Laor tells us today about what is taking place in Gaza: “Israel is engaged in a long war of annihilation against Palestinian society. The objective is to destroy the Palestinian nation and drive it back into premodern groupings based on the tribe, the clan and the enclave.” [10]

“Israel doesn’t want a Palestinian state alongside it,” Laor explains. “It is willing to prove this with hundreds of dead and thousands of disabled, in a single ‘operation’. The message is always the same: leave or remain in subjugation, under our military dictatorship. We are a democracy. We have decided democratically that [the Palestinians] will live like dogs.” [11]

Is Laor anti-Semitic?

What about the Palestinian, Remi Kanazi, who penned the poem “To exist is to resist”? If Kanazi’s verse is right, perhaps he is anti-Semitic, too, just because he exists? [12] Those who survived the deliberate brutality of Israel’s 22-day siege—are they anti-Semites, too?

After three weeks of air strikes and tank shelling, the world has an interesting register: 1,300 dead Palestinians and 13 Israeli dead. [13]

“You can murder only people,” wrote Amos Kenan in 1984 in the Tel Aviv daily Yediot Ahronot, “you don’t murder roaches. At best, you exterminate roaches. The exterminator is a nice guy, his name is Goliath, and he is the king of Israel.” [14]

On whom does the anti-Semite shoe fit?

Hard to say but here is something certain: in Room 5, Block 5 of the Auschwitz museum in Poland, tens of thousands of shoes whose owners were exterminated by Nazi Germany fill an entire block, and each single pair of the hundreds of shoes of Palestinian children murdered by Israel’s three week war on Gaza belongs to this display. [15]

Israel—nuclear-armed and in possession of the most modern technologies of mass violence in the Middle East, weapons that it has not been shy in using over decades—cries today that it has a right to self-defense. It pleads to the world for understanding, that it is not the aggressor but the victim. That it is the one under siege, the one threatened with annihilation. [16]

“The German people owe a great debt to our Führer,” wrote Nazi private Karl Fuchs in his diary entry on August 4, 1941. “[H]ad these beasts, who are our enemies here, come to Germany, such murders would have taken place as the world has never seen before.” [17]

Here is the monster, Nazi Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels: “[W]hether we are right or wrong, we must win. This is the only way. And it is right, moral and necessary. And once we have won, who will ask us about the methods…otherwise our whole people—and we in the first place, and all that we love—would be erased.” [18]

Life is strange.

To the right is oblivion, to our left is forgetting, and in front of us everything is standing on its head. #

****

Constantino is the author of The Poverty of Memory: Essays on History and Empire. He is currently working on the book Geographies of Forgetting: Conversations between Memory and History.


NOTES:

1. Nicholas Ostler, Empires of the Word: A Language History of the World (HarperPerennial, 2005)

2. Ibid.

3. White phosphorus is a chemical 'obscurant' used to hide military operations. It has an effect similar to napalm -- it creates horrific burns on the skin and can set fields, structures and other civilian objects on fire. Israel denied it was using white phosphorus in Gaza, which has one of the moset densely populated areas in the world. By using the incendiary weapon in its war on Gaza, the international group Human Rights Watch said Israel has violated international law. See Jason Keyser, "Rights group: Israel uses incendiary bombs in Gaza," Associated Press, 11 January 2009. Human Rights Watch has more info on Israel's use of the chemical 'obscurant'. http://www.hrw.org/en/news/2009/01/10/israel-stop-unlawful-use-white-phosphorus-gaza This is not the first time Israel has used this weapon in this manner. See Meron Rappaport, "Israel admits using phosphorus bombs during war in Lebanon," Haaretz, 22 October 2006.

4. Ibid., 1.

5. David K. Shipler, Arab and Jew: Wounded Spirits in a Promised Land (Bloomsbury Publishing, Inc., London: 1987)

6. Ibid.

7. Charles Siefe, Zero: The Biography of a Dangerous Idea (Penguin Group, 2000)

8. Maria Rosa Menocal, The Ornament of the World: How Muslims, Jews, and Christians Created a Culture of Tolerance in Medieval Spain (Back Bay Books, New York: 2002).

9. Ibid. 1.

10. "LRB contributors react to events in Gaza," London Review of Books, 10 January, 2009.

11. Ibid.

12. Remi Kanazi, "To exist is to resist," MRZine.com, 5 January 2009.

13. "Gaza strikes ahead of truce vote," BBCNews.com, 17 January 2009. Based on revised figures from the Palestinian Health Ministry, BBC has adjusted in its report the number of Palestinians killed down to 1,193 killed, which includes 410 children.

14. Ibid. 5.

15. The author made a pilgrimage to the Auschwitz-Birkenau Museum in the town of Osweicim near Krakow, Poland in December 2008. The author intends to hold an exhibit in November 2009 which will include paintings from the pilgrimage. A chapter called Ground Zero Memories in the author's forthcoming book, The Geography of Forgetting, will include reflections on the Holocaust and the devastating impact of the Auschwitz museum on the author.

16. For a good background on the latest outbreak of violence, read the essay by the Israeli historian Ilan Pappe on what he calls "Israel's Genocide in Gaza", 16 June 2008.

17. Saul Friedlander, The Years of Extermination: Nazi Germany and the Jews, 1939-1945 (HarperPerennial, New York: 2008)

18. Ibid.

Photo of Neruda's Isla Negra coast from the always beautiful RedPoppy.net

AMIGOS DE CERVEZA
Friendly Files with the Beer Files

Paths change and we all get to take a few detours down the road. Sometimes the surprises are fascinating, but it not always scenic.

I am thankful for liquid grain fermented with memories of good times past. Here's a toast to people who remained faithful to the mug, the glass, the bottle and the perpetual next round. When the day was long or when the night plodded on this year, I thought of them.

What are you doing right now SP? Still holding that skewer? I remember - winter in Beijing, cold nights, hot coal, embers, smoke, stupid jokes, jokes that should get anyone thrown out of any room except that they're just so completely stupid you have to laugh at the ideas; so stupid we can't remember any, and I remember staggering back many times to your place, or to another small dingy joint, for a final round. Ripe, cold sliced tomatoes or cucumber with salt and sugar and frash garlic? The Yi Li milk in the morning that probably has us doused in tremendous amounts of melanine? Morning music that makes a sunny day cloudy and the air so still. Cobwebs and melancholy, and memories of snoring like the droning sound made by busted pipes of busted old socialist plumbing of yesteryear. Peppercorn -- a bazillion peppercorns with a piece of oil-soaked fish in the mouth, and a piece of rabbit beneath a mountain of chillis. Yanjing beer as fireman.

In my mind are old photos I've never seen. Feifei is driving big red trucks, sitting on the pastoral dreams of Kaming, floating on his dad's silly jokes. There is the terrace of your high home in Beijing, open air, where you are holding up the young tiger and you are both gazing down at the hutongs, past and future opening up and you see farther than your eyes can reach.

What about you Arthur Jones? Still carrying that Beer Chang mug? We slurred our speeches once upon a time too many times and it's still not enough, the last time being at that fine place, that old place by the park named like Looney Tunes where the locals get their happy greens with their beer suds. I remember what you said then. You said Na told you. Get everything out, chop chop chop, pound pound pound, ready the salt, ready the pepper, put those fermented fish things by your side, make sure there's a pinch 'o sugar to sprinkle; no need for any meat. When the oil's piping hot and the smoke's billowing out like it was a happy, sweating chimney, throw everything in and stir like crazy. Half a minute later take it all out and serve in a clean plate and make the world a happier place. Remember AC-DC live? And that white girl who took to the stage, grabbed the mike and sang a Whitesnake song? She sounded like a virus alarm on the PC but she was happy, and so were we with the rounds of Singha.

What are you doing right now Daniel? We've done two already and it's a great start; I hope there's more.

Last time I saw you you left me three special brews. I think the things people do with hops represent countries far better than what any of those silly farts sitting in parliament do. There's more to life than fizz. Don't you think the world would be a happier place if trade returned to its barter stage? For the Alligauers I would have paid you four sand dollars and you would have been rich beyond your means.For your mountain coffee - organic, as you prefer - I would have asked for ten bottle caps and a box of crayons.

What's your idea of precious?

Raise your fist again and open the door, enter; that's what you do. And the calling just don't get more militant than the Proletaryat, right after consuming hot Polish honey beer at the big dark square and walking on cobblestones. The story should be worth telling even after a decade: "It was winter when we manned the barricades, under the cross-eyed gaze of Karl and Vladimir Illich and a bemedalled general we couldn't identify, except that he looked Soviet and looked like a bureaucrat, which sounds redundant." We sat on nifty chairs with a red star where the buns meet and we sipped our Zywiec and there were plenty of young folks smoking and drinking and smoking and drinking, and you were trying your best to keep swallowing more pilsen and to show that you did not mind the fumes. But people do tend to notice other people when they stop breathing.

I remember the bartender lady looked kinda evil and it felt weird because she had this horrible lion toy thingy beside a dark fuschia piggy bank just in front of the taps, as if they were totems placed there to ward away do-gooders, and I think if she suddenly popped her mouth open to show she was sucking on the corpse of Tweety Bird I wouldn't have been surprised. I'm not sure you noticed.

The world's changed a lot and it's remained pretty much the same. I see you right now riding a train, and it's a long tranquil ride. I see you leaning on the far side, an elbow propped on the foldable table and I can hear the noise of the rails, a rhythmic mechanical chant, and suddenly the whoosh of another train going in the opposite direction, and you're looking out the window and the carriage rocks from side to side, as if caught in linear ripples.

Fields pass by like plates getting rapidly rinsed in a sink. There are two dozen plates; one, two, three, four, five. Light poles are flying, then streets, cars, houses, trees, then it's another station, then tenements, the coast, blue sky, more fields and more plates, another train station, buildings, highways, children boiling out of schools and rushing to meet playtime. Parks, farms, windmills, stadiums, convention centers, and then the train slows down and carriage mouths open to disengorge passengers who step down gingerly. Train conductors peek out, a whistle is blown; conversations splinter. One day soon it won't be just a book or your laptop resting on your lap. There will be a kid and there will be four eyes staring out, quietly watching the big blue sky, thinking of Kathrin and escalators.

Martin Baker Boulangerie. Towering figure who always looks up. Hard-nosed cupcake. Lava-man with the perpetual heart of a teen-ager. (Which is why she likes you.) What have you been up to? Right now I am replaying in my mind a Hong Kong stroll we made when we decided not to stop by Boris the Ukrainian's dreadful dive. We made a pit stop in a place with fluid jazz, where I ordered an Irish meat stew, which was every bit Irish except that the dish wasn't drunk and so you and I had to compensate and we walked out and hunted for another place - a cold roof top where a bald boy got married and while it rained we had rounds of wheat beer till the waiters called for last orders. I remember the hiccups, which felt like a small squirrel was stuck inside the diaphragm and it kept bouncing and bouncing and bouncing. I saw you again in a blues place where I finally met the woman who made you swoon. So never mind the Lionel Barts. You went to rock and lurch because it's past the time to hawk one's pearly, which you know, because you'll always be a flag unfurled, with your fleas and ants on all the time, and pretty soon it's time to soap and lather.

Here's to Ginting, a Westmalle among ten thousand Heinekens. The old year is drawing to a close and we are all going to be sustained by the things that connect. Nasi goreng past midnight in cold, cold Amsterdam after the long boisterous dinner at Marta's. Just like Filipinos, with early morning lugaw or arroz caldo after a good binge. We did Vondel Park one day, with Trappist beers in tow and we met this Dutchman playing with a Swiss version of a gamelan piece. He had a weird name -- Trevor Namaste -- as if he was eager for a new start, one of those who had met modernity and discovered there was nothing inside. The music of his gong though was beautiful, but the spot we had taken was better and we watched a whole swarm of people enjoy the sun on the open field and Tri took pictures and gave out kreteks. We'll do that book soon. Think good thoughts. I do. Let's have more blueberry.

Mae and Maia. Maia and Mae. Maiabird and Melindamae. Amsterdam opened its secrets to me when we criss-crossed the channels and cycled with no destination in mind and I realized things were not so secret. There was always time to watch people and to taste new things, always time to laugh at something. I'd get lost all the time and I'd get rescued all the time, because I always had time at Erste or at the living room terrace at the third floor.

Old Church and the flesh trade, Albertheijn and Waterloo Plein, herring sliding down the throat, vegetables, fruits and another slippery herring. A steak place called Che run by young Yugoslavians, grapes from the vine, Kurdish fare, Cafe Weiteringstraat. The margins coming to centerstage. We watched a legion descend on Brouwerij 't Ij to sun themselves on the street, besdie the canal and beneath the great old windmill. It was Zatte, Natte, and Columbus -- and the special Cosa Nostra Ducks, those murderous mallards who escaped from the National Geographic Asylum for animals with sick minds who tried to slap, bite, peck, stomp and drown a poor quack for being a stool pigeon. Never saw a duck try to drown another duck before; ducks biting the neck of another to plunge its head underwater. We threw small rocks, big rocks, twigs, branches, a brick but the violence would not stop. Then the victim wriggled frree and floated, gasped for air, paddled briefly then flew away, and there we were till the brewery's closing wondering what the heck we saw. Was Padma there?

Wonderdays. Soul food that keeps giving. #

CREATURE STORIES
Strange days at the Poland Negotiations

Well, it's been an interesting week so far. Move around the massive sprawl of the Poznan convention center and you'll come across uncommon things. Creatures even... More and more are feeling more and more anxious about the slow pace of the negotiations here, with delegates acting as if the world was not facing its most formidable crisis in recent memory. We're confronting a real countdown, as the young folks today remind us. And it's high time for climate justice.

Right after the building security, with its x-rays and so on, you'll come across this poor polar bear with a very smart plea - "No coins. It's change I need..." But no one seems to be sharing with the lonely animal any change - not even small change if the exchanges taking place in various plenaries are any indication.

There's a lot of anger generated by the indifference largely coming from countries such as Canada and Japan and the US (it's still Bush who's calling the shots, and who knows whether Obama's "Yes we can!" slogan will become "Yes we can screw things up further!" if US big business interests will continue to hold sway in Washington).

"The CDM is a lose-lose proposition that has become a corrupt and cheap way for the rich North to avoid making real emission reductions," said Tom Goldtooth today in a press event organized by the organized he heads, the Indigenous Environment Network (IEN). Goldtooth called on delegates not to expand the Clean Development Mechanism CDM), and to dump it instead.

Yuyun Ismawati of Balifokus echoed IEN's call, saying "CDM projects only create illusions and false hope for local governments." In our experience, Ismawati said, CDM "procedures and all activities related to the project application mostly beneifted only consultants, auditors and investors."

Much is expected of official delegates here in Poznan, though the international goal should be quite simple: agree on measures that will keep global temperature increase as far below 2 degrees Celsius as possible. We need to make representatives of our governments know and feel that we are watching them!

This will require massive cuts in emissions, beginning in the developed world. It will also require massive amounts of money for adaptation flowing towards those who need it most - because climate change is already taking place and there are impacts that are already unavoidable. The fight we confront, however, is the fight to prevent irreversible damage to the Earth's climate. The thin red line is called 2 degrees. We must not pass it.

Life as we know it - the future of all creatures (humans, animals, plants and delegates) is at stake.

That's Abigail by the way, smiling from beneath the Orangutan costume. I caught her walking by her lonesome, along the corridor reserved for humans, swinging her arms to and fro and doing a very good impression of Senyor Long Arms.

It's fun here at the convention center of Poznan, but it's also quite bleak. Humans need to be protected from the failures of... who else? More humans. #