Frankly, Mr. Shankly, Since You Ask: You Are A Flatulent Pain In The Ass

You got blood on your face, you big disgrace,
Wavin' your banner all over the place.
- Queen

Much has already been said about the "25 Random Things..." meme that's become a monolithic sensation on Facebook -- Facebook, which is itself a Goliath of a phenomenon to begin with. Just today, my eyes floated over to the box where my Facebook contacts are stowed away, and realized with a start that I had 472 "friends". There is no way I have that many friends. Acquaintances, maybe, but not friends. In fact, if we're going to be honest here, I actually do not have friends. Most likely because I have dreadlocks growing out of my nostrils and an extra, functioning ear sprouting up from the middle of my forehead. Everyone seems intent on avoiding me. Did I mention that I'm part of a traveling circus act? I did? Excellent.

As I was saying, a great majority of us have become painfully aware of the "25 things" meme, ever since Facebook Notes bearing the same title mushroomed all over our News Feeds. Before all else, however: don't you think that the word meme is a real stinker? A festering basket of unwashed socks? An odious, putrefied chunk of Icelandic rotten shark? Why can't we just call them surveys, quizzes, or online chain questionnaires?

The other day, I was thinking about the etymology of the word "meme", and came up with only one plausible explanation. Given the self-absorption so flagrantly advertised on these questionnaires, I figured that "meme" is probably a conjoining of two separate words: "me", repeated twice. You know, in the same way that the overzealous kid in your class would raise his hand in response to the teacher's question and say, "Me! Me!"

I know it's ridiculous. Just a theory.

So let's go back to the topic I first raised, and which I eventually got derailed from because I have the attention span of a bobblehead. I was talking about that Facebook survey for "25 Random Things About Me", and for which I'd been tagged and tagged and tagged again by various people. Nothing wrong with that. Once you've been tagged by a fellow victim, you're supposed to draw up your own list of 25 "random" things about yourself and tag 25 other victims to go through the same elaborate ritual.

It isn't all that bad; in fact, I was about to draw up my own list of 25 things, and then I thought, Why in god's name would I do this, when I already have a blog, and even then I have a big mouth, so at this point, people probably know more about me than they'd like to? Not to mention the fact that your ordinary Facebook account is liberally peppered with contacts whom you barely talk to, have no real desire to talk to, but who are nonetheless privy to various status updates you execute on your account. The truth is that if it weren't for Facebook, you wouldn't even be caught dead interacting with them because they go clubbing and are particularly fond of Embassy, which is enough for you to condemn them because you're a judgmental prick.

One of the reasons why I decided against doing the whole survey was that along the way, I had begun to discover unnerving facts about some people, only because their 25 Things were laid out spread-eagle all over Facebook. One of my contacts shared that because she is singularly lazy, she occasionally entertains the idea of passing water on her bed instead of toddling over to the bathroom to take a proper piss. Of course, she was quick to reassure us that this hasn't actually happened yet, but her disclaimer was too late! The damage had been done! It's gotten so that I can't dissociate her from that uric fact, oh no. When I finally bump into her one of these days, I'll have to try VERY hard not to imagine her sloshing around on her bed, the sheets soaked, the whole room smelling like a toilet bowl. I would have to resist tossing her a disc of Albatross Bathroom Deodorizer the next time we meet.

There are other, more mystifying entries. In her list of 25 random facts, one girl (whom I fortunately do not know) wrote, "i treasure my friends but im nOt shOwy abOut it..their scent alOne makes me gO back in time.." The exact meaning of this statement escapes me. Their scent--? Makes her go back in time--? How is that connected to the fact that she treasures her friends? I'm afraid the leap in logic is much too staggering.

The same person later says, "many will mistaken me fOr anything, i usually thOught sO Of myself thOugh but im wOrking On them.." Ah, what a cryptic message! It trumps even the most obscure Philosophy readings I wanted to set fire to when I was in university!

And then this: "i like tO spend a lazy evening w/ medicine related stuff - war mOvies, pizza and a few Ounces Of my fave drinks.." (Wait, weren't you talking about medicine? Lady, you might wanna lay off the smack.) Later on: "i have sad-lOOking eyes even if i smile..they said, nOw..i thOught it may be true." Oh my, I am asphyxiating here. I have to stop giggling. Is this dame on drugs? Clearly she is! Heidegger might have fucked around with one too many heads, but at least his Caps Lock key wasn't acting up on his O's. YOu knOw, like this, fOr example.

Inspired by this girl's list, I decided to hunt for more gems on Facebook. One guy was especially appealing after I gave his list a quick, cursory scan. From the items he listed down, I gathered that he might have just come in fresh from the U.S.; he probably studied there for high school, and had to be kicked back to this country reeking of Fil-Am hubris. Here are some of his precious statements:

"I still feel like I'm in high school. Freshmans here in the Philippines range from 16 to 17 yrs of age." (Wow. Freshmans. This kid is a genius.)

"I once was in juve for stealin deodarant. Yea. Go ahead and laugh ya ugly son's a bitches!" (Unfortunately, I cannot laugh. Not only did you try to steal some deo, you also got caught. You are a moron.)

"A girl with a beautiful smile and a pair of angel eyes will capture my attention QUICK. 'I said Yo0o0o! I don't know your name but excuse me miss, I saw you from across the room.' Bet I'll tell her dat. ughh!" (Ughh is correct.)

"I file my nails. Yea! I enjoy doin it too Francine! :-p" (That's nice.)

"One of my friends still owe me P600. Don't worry, I'll be getting that soon. I'll bust a cap in his ass son if he don't pay up!" (A true blue mafioso, this guy. Watch out for his deadly grammar, sickly spelling, and daintily filed nails.)

The point of this whole post is to explain to you why I will not do that 25 Random Goddamnfuckingthings About Me survey, and why I have long ago ditched my first draft (after I couldn't think of what to put down after Item #5). Look, we have too many of these Einsteins running around and delighting us with their own lists. How can I possibly compare? Of what import will my voice be in the face of such Facebook luminaries? Oh, these young prodigies humble me. Somebody put me back into my place: on a heat-stricken dashboard, nodding interminably -- a perfect agreeable little bobblehead.

This is the Seaside Town that They Forgot to Bomb, Come, Come, Come, Nuclear Bomb

Remember me to one who lives there.
She once was a true love of mine.
- Simon and Garfunkel

As I did mention in previous posts, I owe you all an entry about the weekend trip to Corregidor that Jose and I took last year. Last year, meaning, November 15, 2008. Last year, meaning, three long months ago. As you can see, the subject matter has lain inert too long, enough so that I should have discarded the notion of even writing about it at this point. Unfortunately for everyone, I still feel like crowing about the trip -- which was also Jose's birthday gift to me -- largely because it's already gained the status of being The Best Weekend of My Life, cheese aside.

Now let's veer our attention to the island of Corregidor. If you've read enough about it, you will most likely have bumped into a few references that say that the island is shaped exactly like a tadpole. Even WikiPedia (which is not an entirely reliable source, but still!) says something similar in its entry for Corregidor, and I quote:

The island is about 48 kilometers west of Manila. It is shaped like a tadpole, with its tail running eastward, and has a land area of 9 km².

I want to tell you that all these sources that claim that Corregidor looks like a tadpole is lying. Lying! Corregidor might resemble a tadpole, I'll give them that. But the truth is that the island looks more like a sperm cell than a tadpole. It's true. Don't let the Catholic Church tell you otherwise.

To illustrate, here's a map of Corregidor, complete with indiscernable names and all those useless lines and squiggles you so often find in maps:





And below, a side-by-side comparison of a nice widdle tadpole and a sperm cell.





I mean, look at that tadpole! Isn't he the cutest thing? One day he will grow up to be a frog, and I will want to cuddle up to it when I'm lonely late at night. That sperm cell, however. You might as well call it the Corregidor Reproductive Cell. Hee hee, I'm so witty. The Corregidor Reproductive Cell! Biology books everywhere must be revised.

Back to the trip. It's pretty hard to give you a blow-by-blow account at this juncture, since three months have passed, and everyone knows that the state of my memory is comparable to a hunk of Swiss cheese: dense, but full of those goddamn holes. Anyway, enough of that. I want to start where the trip begins: in a bus full of ooh-ing and aah-ing Filipinos, plus a sprinkling of your requisite white foreigners.

Jose and I on the Tramvia, the island's nod to the trams that used to ply the routes along Corregidor.

I was part of the ooh-ing and aah-ing contingent because so much of that island invited nothing less than raw wonder. The tram-like bus we rode on coursed over the island's concrete roads, which snaked between cliffsides and hushed woods, forests that wouldn't let you peer into its heart . Ruins lay in the very same state they were found in, a doleful toppling of beams and charred wood, the concrete rich with lichen and sodden with history's sap.

A park employee in Philippine military garb during the Japanese-Filipino war.

We slinked through dank, labyrinthine tunnels chilled and weighted by the presence of a thousand unseen things, hands that weren't there when you turned around. Our guides showed us the ammunition that had been used during the war, all the cannons and the mortar shells and the scars they bore, the way they were later driven into the earth to become sleeping, harmless juggernauts.

Jose's big gun.

In front of the Malinta Tunnel

Inside the Malinta Tunnel.

In Corregidor Inn, dicking around.

Jose and I spent the night in the Corregidor Inn, which had a wheezing (but surprisingly efficient) airconditioner, white linen sheets, and a general appearance that made it look like a picture straight out of a history book. I will no longer talk about the room or any other activity related to it, because I will gross you out if I go any further, and I don't want to make myself look like a hussy even if I already look like one, in which case, I would like you to shut up.

While that weekend in Corregidor was amazing -- especially since I had spent it with Jose -- I would have been a fool to assume that we would discover something new there. On that island, our eyes met nothing but secrets, and what was ostensibly disclosed to us gave way to more stories that we could not plumb into. Our position in the timeline didn't permit for anything beyond some access to a body of conjecture, a smattering of facts, a relic sealed in a glass case.

What I found instead was this: the island does not mourn itself, and it proceeds anyway in the fashion that it's expected to. Its forests have overcome the violence from decades back, the woods teem with birdcall, and fields of emerald grass lie asprawl around the island. Nature has seen, moved on and forgotten, but there we were, thinking of the dead and gunfire and a war we had never experienced, the onus of remembering sitting square and restless on our chests.