The Paostian Deal

This post is one day late.

Last Sunday, I watched the premier of the TV show Pinoy Big Brother (PBB) Teen Edition. I was determined to enjoy the show for Monday eve's sake, until one of the contestants said:

In fairness, she made me laugh.

Perhaps it was her youth that made her say that. Maybe even naivety. Girl, you're on TV, in a show where you're made to do crazy things with a bunch of pretentious other people. That is reality to you?

Hey wait, she's right, that is reality! Everyone's. We live, doing shitty things just to please other people who, on the other hand, play politico and pretend to enjoy your company. Then we believe that we're fine and think about how to please them again tomorrow. So PBB. So TV.

Television recreates reality. That's the general motto. And the countless number of reality-TV shows takes it one step higher. I watch the tube mainly for entertainment. (Read: I get amused by the most trivia-ish of all things, and even laugh at the most teribble of news sometimes.) The "getting information" part comes only second. This is because TV gives me--heck, all of us--the chance to escape the manic life that is reality. It's something light I get to do after a consuming day. I get to laugh in front of the tube and momentarily forget that even if our company is now rat-poor. That's enough for me.

And now I hear this girl looking for life's realities in a TV show. Well, PBB is all about "real lives and real people", but still it's TV. No matter how much you dismiss it, you can't escape the fact that stories and lines written by man shape that world. It doesn't matter where it's based, it's still not real--TV only looks real. Expecting much more from it is pretty dumb.

May ilang milyong beses nang naitanong sa akin 'yan pagkatapos ko'ng magkuwento ng kung anuman. At may ilang milyong beses na rin akong naiirita.

Hindi naman ako taga-showbiz. Hindi naman ako politico. At mas lalong hindi ako ang kapitbahay niyong nangangaliwa sa asawa.

Kungsabagay, sino nga naman ba sa atin ang tinigilan ang pagsisinungaling pagtungtong ng 20 anyos? Mangarap pa ako.

'Yun lang, kung iisipin mo, sa panahon ngayon lalo na rito sa third world, may punto pa ba kung magsisinungaling? Hindi ba mas nakakapagod lang 'yon?

O siguro nga naiinis lang ako kapag ang reaksyon ng kausap ko ay, "Talaga?" "Totoo?" "'Di nga?". Hindot. Bakit, nagsinungaling ka ba sa akin dati at kinakabahan ka ngayon na baka niloloko rin kita?

Nauso pa noon ang slogan na, "Magpakatotoo ka!" Pero ngayon, parang default na ng karamihan na "magduda" sa mga sinasabi ng mga kausap nila. Meron naman, baligtad: kapag may tanong, itatanong niya sa naunang nagtanong (punyetang mga tanong 'yan) kung ang gusto niyang sagot ay ang totoo. Na isa pang nakakairita minsan. Por ejemplo:

Siyempre never ko pa actually ginawa 'yan. Nang harapan.

Kung gagawa ka lang ng kuwento, manloloko, huwag ka na lang magsalita.

Kung kaibigan mo ang kausap mo, malamang totoo lahat ng sinasabi niyan. Mahiya ka naman; hindi lahat ng tao ay kayang mag-open ng sarili. Huwag kang OA. Iba ang gulat sa balita sa duda sa tsismis.

Kung ikaw ang tinatanong, kung kaya mo naman ay huwag ka na magpa-sweet at sabihing, "'Yung totoo?" Isipin mo na lang maigi kung ano ang isasagot mo at paano ka sasagot, lalo na kung wala kang tiwala sa kausap mo. Ayos lang iyon, sigurado namang pareho kayong nagpaplastikan. Huwag nga lang matagal ang pag-iisip, para hindi halata na wala kang tiwala sa kanya.

Amen.

We burned our deceased grandfather yesterday. It was the first ever cremation ceremony I attended, and it was the fourth time in my life that I experienced the true meaning of the word speechless.

Lolo was in his late 70's. He's already been weakened by his heart and lung conditions, and unfortunately it became harder for him to cope. That's the best I could understand of what caused his fairly untimely demise. Untimely, perhaps only to me it is. The last time I saw the old guy was summer last year, but the last time I met lolo was ancient history. I didn't know that he'd be ashes the next time I'd see him.

I arrived late at the ceremonies. On my own choice. The crematorium at the Manila Memorial Park was fairly small. It's just a little bigger than the chapel in our subdivision. I was sitting at the back--the introvert in me kicked in--when its size made me realize something: I didn't know any of the people around me. Two rows to the front I think sat my two sisters. My elder brother kept on walking about like my mother, the deceased's first born. Familiar heads filled the rest of the place. Familiar, but not quite.

They were supposed to be kins from my mother's side--people I used to meet and mingle with in family parties way back in kindergarten. The MSG level in my brain subsided by an inch, and so I readily recognized them: my uncles, aunts, cousins, grand-aunts, grand-uncles (cousins of my lola). But it was only physical recognition. I thought I felt sadness and self-disappointment, but the longer I looked at them the more I realized that I didn't know them--at all.

Then came the family pictorials. I was sitting on the other end of the back row when the grandchildren were called to the front. I was like, "Yes? Oh, right." Then I stood in front with the rest of lolo's grandchildren, a little clueless of what I was doing. Two, three shots, and done. Afterwards, my colegiala-beyond-repair sister, my nun-candidate sister, and my soon-to-be-wed kuya continued taking pictures with the others. Me, well I just stood by the chapel's door, blank-faced and all. There was this man--an uncle, I assumed--I caught looking at me. He tried to approach me, but I think he sensed that I was in my own world at that time and decided to turn back. I thought of making a move and saying "Hi!" to anyone other than my grieving grandmother, but it felt off. I felt off.

Right. It was because I distanced myself from my relatives looong ago that I feel alienated now; though, I can almost care less. Two worlds, fine. But lolo's death seemed to be the binding factor among us that time. I looked at him on my own way, everyone else knows an entirely different lolo in him; and yet we were on the same boat: We all lost him. Some were sad--prolly, still are--some still upset, some strong enough to keep it together, some happy because everyone came together again despite the reason, some maybe just as lost as I was...

Feelings. The long rainbow of them. It's a good thing they exist; after all, feelings are the only common thing we have with one another.

Well it's the least I can do to veer my head away from fury: pretend to know how to, uh, sing.

I've been holding up for over 24 hours now. I'm wound up--way past it, actually--and right now I want to verbally murder two people.

And that's what I shall do now, but not to both morons. One I can give one last chance to clear my view before she pushes me to complete madness; the other, way too much for me.

For the sake of "decent anonimity", let's call the culprit... err... FTP. (It's what I first saw when I looked around my desk, so let's call the sanavabich, FTP.)

FTP is a 6-foot college dropout. We've been pretending to be friends for over a year now. It's fun actually, minus the part when we realize it's just a show.

Yesterday, FTP came to me with some sort of a problem--surprise, surprise. The sucker that I am, I lent an ear... despite the fact that I'm not comfy discussing crap like that especially when he says he'll be leaving. We're hypothetical friends, remember? And I have separation issues. Anyway, going back, we began whispering to each other... But we were still in the office and it's really hard to discuss shit like that when your neurotic company president is right behind you. So FTP said we'll talk about it later. Repeat: "We'll talk later."

It's almost rare, this chance that he shares me shit that bothers him. And I really wanted to at least listen. We waited for lunch. Oh wait, hold it--I waited for lunch, so we can talk. And where was FTP? Went out with another... bit-... sigh... character. That ticked me.

I SMS-ed him. Casually, like the come-what-may imbecile that he is, he said he's out to lunch and implied he didn't know I was waiting for him. I began fuming. You know the rest.

I would babble about how sad and angry I am because of it, but that's what I already usually do and I'm getting sick of it. So let me get on with the killing.

FTP, the grammatically-challenged gold digger, apparently also has very low EQ. And we're not talking about the perpetual battle of the sexes-type of EQ comparisons. He was simply born that way: an apathetic English-moron. Even my own indifference can't compete with that. And what's with the Joey de Leon attitude? I get that you're quite popular and all, but gimme a break: The world can and would live without you.

That would also mean a world less one pathetic singing. I mean, come on, singing is absolutely Not For You. Stop competing with your buddies who have more valuable talents than getting benched in a ball game.

I hope he comes into his senses soon. And by that I mean about the money he owes me. All thousands of it. It's not a big sum, but a debt is a debt. 'Nuff said.

Now, whenever he's around I feel like the world is a rusty car exhaust. One word: nicotine. Cigar smell is everywhere! I swear, one of these days all smokers will just fall dead and when that happens I want to be right next to him so I could look down on him, in the eye, and say, "Finally."

Oh wait, that's too harsh...

Nah.