Mafia Whores

Two weeks ago while playing Mafia Wars I went through my Mafia list. There I discovered three names that shouldn’t be there. Back when I first started playing Mafia Wars I decided to cheat. And so I created three phantom accounts on Facebook which I used to augment my Mafia family. For these accounts I used the names Roy Batty, Zhora Tyrell and Pris Tyrell (--the names of the "replicants", genetically engineered organic robots, played respectively by Rutger Hauer, Joanna Cassidy and Daryl Hannah in the 1982 cult film “Blade Runner”-- top billed by Harrison Ford as the burnt out Blade Runner Rick Deckard. Tyrell, the surname I used for the two female accounts, is the name of the powerful Tyrell Corporation, the "mega–manufacturer" of replicants.)

Before long, a sufficient number of people I know started playing, too; and so I didn’t need the fake accounts anymore. So, I deleted them. Strangely enough, these imaginary people who no longer have Facebook accounts are still listed as members of my Mafia family; stranger still, they have a need for energy packs. It’s disturbing that figments of my imagination now have lives of their own, continuing to live on Facebook and have needs. My thoughts have thoughts.

Is it possible they've opened their own accounts after I’ve deleted them? Do they PM each other? Do they have feelings? In the film "Blade Runner", replicants are exclusively used for dangerous, menial or pleasure work on Earth's off-world colonies. The use of replicants on Earth is banned and replicants who defy the ban and return to Earth are hunted down and "retired" by police special operatives known as "Blade Runners". Could it be possible that the fictitious people I created have, like their namesakes in the film, defied protocol? Have they formed their own Mafia families? Have they formed alliances with the people I play with and could they be, at this very minute, plotting to take me down? It scares me to think that I may have possibly hurt their feelings when I unceremoniously deleted their Facebook accounts-- as real people usually do when you “unfriend” them.
 
Suddenly, It’s no longer fun to play anymore. I now constantly look behind my back when I play. The only thing holding me back to altogether stop playing Mafia Wars now is the mortal fear that I could further piss them off. They might feel that I’ve abandoned them.

Monday morning after Armageddon

I grew up living in a series of middle class apartments mostly around Quezon City. We didn't have appliances by modern standards-- other than a stove and a clothes iron. I was nine or ten before we even had television-- a B&W Electone TV with a rotary channel selector; there were no remotes then and you have to wait for fifteen minutes before you could see ghostly apparitions of a television show on the screen. The rabbit antennae only pulled in two channels, and we grew accustomed to the picture rolling the entire evening; we later learned that if we kept a hand on the antennae the rolling would be less frequent. I don't remember listening to a radio as a boy, though if I turned the television on early in the morning, it played a rhythmic sound which I later learned to be music. I was already in my teens when we had our first radio-- an Akai integrated hi-fi system with a turn table, a Teac reel-to-reel tape deck and an amplified FM/AM analog radio enclosed in a huge coffin-like cabinet that occupied half of the living room.

We didn't have toys either. But I discovered early on that you could whittle a semblance of a toy out of a block of wood. I developed scavenger skills and would pick up, as I walk home from school, bits and pieces of metal parts and vestigial remnants of what used to be a toy, tinker with them and turn them into something else. When I wasn't making something inappropriate out of nothing, I would stare at the wall until something comes up. It was at this time that I acquired my lock picking skills and the awakenings of a criminal bent.

The worse times were school breaks-- it was three months of nothingness. It was akin to being Laika in Sputnik as it orbited the Earth in deep space. Ten days into the "Summer " vacation (-- we actually only have the wet and dry seasons here, but we delude ourselves by calling the dry months as summer), I was eagerly looking forward to school opening not because I enjoyed school but because it was an escape from soul-crushing boredom. Worst was Holy Week. Back then it runs for the full seven days-- today people observe it, grudgingly if at all, between 12 noon and 3'oclock on Good Friday. I remember spending my time during Holy week just sitting around the house and twiddling my thumbs. Playing outdoors or looking happy is discouraged-- if you so much as smile, you'd be called a "Hudyo". Going out on the street is like being on an episode of Twilight Zone. Everybody talk in whispers. Radio and television broadcasts would stop-- telecasts would come back from the dead on Black Saturday with the annual rerun of "Demetrius and the Gladiators" with Victor Mature-- who moves and talks with a distinctive look of constipation on his face, to bore to death those who were still alive at that point.

Those times seemed to have passed. We've won the war against boredom.

People standing in line at a movie house box office, at a bank or at the LTO could pull out a smartphone or a tablet to play "Plants vs Zombies", check their e-mails, read an eBook, listen to music while they read the closed captions on the flat screen LED 3D HD Monitor on the wall. We now have 24/7 internet or cable TV-- yeah, even if it's Holy Week, and we could bypass commercials by surfing through the channels or having a quick arcade game on our Nintendo DS. Having an iPhone in our pocket, a Sony PSP in the living room, a Kindle in the bathroom, an iPad in the bedroom, means we never need to suffer boredom ever again.

I dread to think what would happen if a global electromagnetic pulse is unwittingly or wittingly set off that would disable all electrical and electronic equipment and devices. People will find themselves, maybe for the first time for some, without their gadgets. It could be Cathartic.

People around the world could experience their first Holy Week.

Goodbye, Mr. Jobs

I too watched the iPhone 4S presentation streamed on the internet. Apple CEO Tim Cook's solitary appearance at the Cupertino event said it all. It wasn't the absence of the iPhone5, and the silence that seemed to hung over the event, that disappointed; it was the absence of Mr. Steve Jobs that made it somehow feel like a posthumous event.
The next day we were officially informed of what we already knew-- Mr. Jobs has left the building; his Mac monitor is dark; his keyboard silent. His St. Croix black mock turtleneck, his faded Levi's 501s, his Lunor Classic Round glasses and his New Balance 991s stowed away in some dark place. But, for those of us who religiously anticipate and watch each keynote address it was no surprise. We saw Mr. Jobs progressively withering away. At the iCloud keynote last June, we saw him, gaunt as an Arab freedom fighter, moving about the stage like a spindly mantis stalking a fly; shaky, wobbly, rickety; his turtleneck bunched up against his shriveled body as if it hanged on a clothesline on a windy day.

And then it happened. He disappeared. Like Obi-Wan Kenobi disappearing under Darth Vader's light saber blade to become a spirit in the Force, Mr. Jobs transformed to pure thought, an idea; disembodied from the material world; digitized; and will continue to be in future iterations of the iPod, iPhone, iPad, iBook, iMac and the next cool gadget we never thought before we'd ever need or want.

              And as the flames climbed high into the night
              To light the sacrificial rite
              I saw Satan laughing with delight
              The day the music died

Sinistrality to Dextrality

I started out in life as a lefty. Which was okay until I encountered difficulties in grade school where right-handed habits were emphasized and even required. Learning to write was a struggle but having to write on an asymmetrically designed chair for right-handed people made it doubly hard. A chair with one arm on its right for use as a writing surface probably looked like any other furniture to right-handed people. To a lefty, it's a medieval torture device. For a lefty to effectively use the chair's writing surface he must position his body at an angle of 90 degrees to the chair's arm. Which is only possible if he sits at the edge of the seat and face right-- away from the blackboard, so he could position his writing arm-- his left arm, perpendicularly to the writing surface of the chair. It's excruciatingly uncomfortable.

And so I became right handed.

Well, not exactly. I continued to use my left hand to write when I'm writing on a table or a desk. I also continued to use my left hand for doing things that I'm already proficient at-- like shooting down "santol" and "Kaimito" with my trusty "tirador", "fishing" tadpoles from the sewer canal (-- with a mashed up bougainvillea flower for bait and a bent safety pin for a hook), shooting "katigbe" with my rubber band powered shooter, playing "teks" or "jokaleleng" or "siyato". But, then something happened. I became equally adept at using both hands. I wasn't conscious of it at first until a cousin-- who was, by the way, also left-handed, called my attention to it (We re-build our tree house every school break and he noticed that I no longer needed help to hammer down nails on the right side of the tree trunk). Apparently, I was unconsciously using one hand or the other for different tasks (I was confused even as a kid). But, after having been made aware of it I consciously shifted from one to the other. Before long I wasn't just a cross-dominant or mixed-handed-- a motor skill manifestation where one favors one hand for some tasks and the other hand for others (--writing with the left hand but shooting a basketball with the right). I wasn't left-handed or right-handed anymore. I was both.

For a time, this ambidexterity made me a curiosity in grade school. Because I have a natural talent for drawing I was usually asked to draw up a welcome sign on a big blackboard every time a guest-- a Bishop, the Cardinal or the Arch Bishop, would come visiting. Schoolmates would usually gather behind me to watch as I draw with either hand-- usually shifting from left to right and vice-versa at the corners of the board, and sometimes simultaneously using both hands to draw an arch or a crude Fleur-de-lis. For the finale, I would show off my synchronized writing: using both hands to write my name-- my first name with my left hand and my surname with my right hand, at the same time.

Later in life, I would use this motor skill to do simple sleight of hand tricks to impress the girls, to cheat at cards for money and to pick pockets (usually to "borrow" car keys and IDs-- a story I'm reserving for later).

As I grew older and maybe because I was constantly being subjected to right-favoring devices and tools, I used my right hand more and more and my left hand less and less eventually becoming a full time right-hander.

It's a right-handed world after all.

Prince and the Five Centavo Duck

My first pet was a dog. Well, it wasn't really mine. It was my aunt's (-- the youngest of my maternal aunts who, at that time, still lived with my grandmother); given to her as a gift by a suitor (they eventually married).

The dog-- still a puppy then, was called Prince. I'm not sure who gave it its name. Everybody just called him Prince. As Prince grew he warmed up to me. Well, at least, whenever I was at my grandmother's house. Prince was always glad to see me. I guess that would mean that, technically, Prince was my dog.

Prince was a tricolor of gray and tawny brown on white, with pricked ears and a tightly curled bushy tail. A cowlick on his wrinkled forehead and almond eyes gave him a perpetual stern Clint Eastwood squint. As long as he was tall, Prince had a square stance; he had a distinctive horse-like gait that was graceful and elegant. Prince skimmed the ground in a double-suspension gallop when running flat out at top speed. Prince did not bark like a regular dog; but I was sure he was not a mute (if indeed such a condition existed in dogs) for he could mimic the beginnings of a rooster’s crow and even manage a long drawn-out eerie howl (or is it a yodel?); he could growl, too; but mostly his vocalizations were a curious mix of yelps and grunts; seemingly desperate attempts at human speech which marked his failings as a dog. He had the aloof disposition of a cat; cleaned himself like a cat and like a cat was not dependent on the opinion of the people that fed him.

Prince was, I should say, his own dog and merely tolerated the displeasure of being kept as a pet. Still, Prince humored me by running to my side— and no other, when I whistle for him; pretending he was my pet.

For the record, my first true pet was a duck. During one of my vacations in Frisco, Dada, my beloved grandmother brought home a bibi-- a duckling, in a small brown bag, bought for five centavos at the market. It was given to me. Thus, it was mine. And that made it, I guess, my pet. But, nobody looked at it as a pet. It was more of a novelty, a cheap toy that is not expected to last for more than a week much less to grow into a duck. But, it did. Well, it almost didn’t. It had a few close calls: stepped on a number of times and a fall from the dining table gave it a broken wing, a twisted leg and a slashed webbing on its left foot. Life marks all who pass through it, even if you’re a duck. And maybe because its bones did not heal right, it walked in a double waddle with its head zigzagging sideways.

It wasn't long before it had gotten too big to be inside the house. It was making a mess and I had to bring it out. I let it loose where the kitchen sink drains out. Immediately, it dipped its beak into the water and did what appeared as a gargle. It was a happy duck. From a distance, Prince stood and stared.

I whistled. I saw Prince's ears pricked up but he wasn't looking at me. He had his eyes on the duck. I glanced down at the duck and it too was looking straight at Prince. For a moment they held each other's stare. Then the duck flapped its wings and made a show of its double waddle walk. Exaggerating each movement. Prince looked for a moment then turned and ran away. It was the first time Prince ignored my whistle.
Soon the duck was lording it over a patch of the yard it had marked as its territory. It would chase away intruders who had crossed the invisible border of its domain— an area around the main staircase of the house; and if by chance it were given the slip, it would pinch one of the intruder’s slipper or shoe, using its beak, and secrete it away. Prince tolerated these and kept distance from the duck's domain.
The mongrel without a bark and the odd duck without a name, two that were not whole, were free spirits that ambled along a path marked out by fate and at the crossroads where halves become one, they ultimately converged; it was inevitable. The duck disappeared after that, vanished.

Prince soon argued with a cousin. And for that indiscretion was hunted, cornered then whacked on the head with a steel pipe by dog-eating hooligans on orders of an uncle.

I never had a pet dog again after that. Or, a duck for that matter.

The Batman Within

For me, the most enduring image of Batman hails from the 1943 fifteen-chapter serials of Columbia Pictures-- the first Batman live action film ever. These serials were intermittently shown on Philippine television as fillers in the mid-60s. It was a bit confusing and I had a hard time connecting a “resolution” episode to a “cliffhanger” episode because they were not shown sequentially. With its low production value, over-the-top action and dialogue they came across as laughable campy

entertainment. It is as if they were begging not to be taken seriously. Batman’s physique was un-athletic and thick about the middle while his voice was a tad too high. Worse still, the Batman costume was baggy and topped by a pair of limp devil’s horns. But, in spite of its shortcomings, the serial spawned a sequel in 1949.

As a boy, I caught a re-run of the 1965 “Alyas Batman at Robin” with Bob Soler as Batman and Lou Salvador, Jr. as Robin. The movie, or so the production company claimed, was “inspired” by the DC Comic hero and the story “based” on a Horror Komiks-- a local comic, serial of the same title. One thing I give the movie credit for is that it pre-dates the campy Batman and Robin television series (hammily portrayed, respectively, by Adam West and Burt Ward. Film historians say that the television series, and perhaps Adam West’s acting as well, was inspired by the 40s serials.). While we could not discount the possibility that “Alyas Batman at Robin” could have been “inspired” as well by the 40s serials, the Philippine version could very well be the first ever feature length film of Batman and Robin (--Notably, the Batman and Robin 40s versions were actually serials-- over extended movies that were cut up into 15-minute episodes, and not feature length movies.).

The appeal of Batman to me as a boy growing up is his utility belt from which he could pull out a gizmo that is appropriate for whatever tight fix he might find himself in. More tools are secreted in his boots and cape. Batman is the most accessorized among costumed superheroes; he has loads of cool weapons, all sorts of vehicles, gadgets, tools and perhaps the first superhero to use computers. While it has often been noted that Batman’s uniqueness among costumed superheroes is that he possesses no super-powers, I think more than that is how he compensated for being just an ordinary and regular guy by becoming the ultimate techie and gadget/tool user. Kind of like a walking Swiss Army knife with a cape. That, to me, is what really made him a superhero. A bit of the Batman still lives inside each of the eternal children of my generation. You could still see them doddering about. They are the few who doesn’t carry a sissy bag like almost everybody else. They cut a silhouette of an ordinary man with nothing on him but his clothes yet, magically, they would whip out a pack of cigarettes, a cell phone, an iPod, a PDA, a balisong, a box cutter, a pepper spray, a ball pen, a lighter, or even a comb or other contraband out from their socks, their waistband or some hidden compartment unto which they have secreted away other stuff you wouldn't have imagined they could carry around discretely. Alyas Batman at Robin movie ad photo courtesy of Mr. Simon Santos video48.blogspot.com

Tweets for my Twit...

Airports always make me a bit wary of people around me (-- it's just the paranoia in me) but the ready smile of a young woman, who looked Filipino, sitting beside me totally disarmed me (-- after a light pat on my back pocket assured me that my wallet is still there). It’s amazing how a complete stranger in a foreign country instantly elevates you to the status of a friend solely on the perception that you possess-- even remotely, an assemblage of racial traits close to his or her own. The woman closed the lid of her cheap ten-inch Intel Atom powered low-resolution netbook on her lap and told me her name was HotChik. It turned out, I discovered later without asking, that HotChik was her Twitter name. When I told her that I too am on Twitter. Her eyes got wide; she leaned in, feigning interest apparently assessing me if I have the potential to be an avid follower or if I’m interesting enough to be followed. When it became obvious to her that I have no intention of sharing my Twitter name, her eyes became clouded with disinterest. She seemed distracted or annoyed. She turned her attention to her netbook; opened the lid and deftly ran her fingertips on the banged-up keyboard; after a while her eyes focused on me again. Her face lit up like a contestant in a TV game show. She said she’s on Facebook, too. Then lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she said in Facebook she uses her real name. I could see her lips move but I don't hear any sound, my mind has drifted three sentences ago.

Right there is a snap shot of the changing landscape of our virtual world. The mask-ball party in the Internet is winding up. Where people led double lives, real and virtual, now they are shedding their masks to lead single lives again. Anonymity have allowed people to reveal their true selves even if their true selves aren’t their best selves. Still anonymity provided solace and people were emboldened to nevertheless share their lives assured that the rest of humanity would remain clueless as to who they really are (anonymity has strong links with porn sites, which for most people was their first interaction with the Internet). But now-- because of Facebook and Twitter, people yearned not to be liberated from their boring daily lives but curiously to be more deeply embedded in them.

Facebook made cyberspace honest and more like the real world: dull but civilized. All that stuff that the Internet enabled us to leave behind, all the trappings of our ordinary bourgeois existence, we take it with us on Facebook. The face, the name and the life posted on Facebook is real. It’s who we are (or, at least, most of us are). Facebook has simply made anonymity pointless.

On the other hand, the Tweeter micro-blogging community actually encourages-- mainly due to its format, identity deception and trolling and thus harbors in its bosoms two distinct types of internet denizens: narcissists who have revealed themselves as their true selves; and, the last vestiges of the bal masqué pretenders. Those who have revealed themselves hold the view that their everyday lives and opinions are interesting enough for other people to follow even as most of what they twit are blatant lies; and, those who are still anonymous are latent stalkers, posers (-- including those who take on the virtual persona of real people they hate or are presently obsessed with) and cyber-saboteurs/anarchists.