Some Notes/Comments On Philippine Super-Models

I read a lot of local newspapers and magazines since it’s usually the only thing most people have in their living rooms where I wait for people to shower, dress up, that sort of thing. Most of it’s dreadful, of course. For the usual reasons: intellectually and spiritually uninteresting topics, deadened prose, nonexistent viewpoints, etc. What makes it all worthwhile for me though, is the standard interview with some random model-type person, who is always female (because not even a not-at-all ‘masculine’ and non-homophobic Reader like me can slog through male model interviews― there are limits to gender-security). I have read maybe four hundred of these journalistic masterworks in the past few months and there seems to be a trend inherent to them: the first thing they always say (or have the interview say for them in the obligatory boring introductory paragraphs) is that they are not your Typical Model. No, they will declare, they are not another Dumb And Shiftless Beautiful Person. Some of them even go as far as to tell you their ‘consistent dean’s list’ level GPAs (which proves just how easy it is to state something without any proof and immediately have it part of pop consciousness).

The strange thing is that this whole phenomenon about not being a Typical Model and supposedly, having beauty and brains, has become more of a cliché than what they’ve been subverting.

So okay: according to these interviews, models are smart enough, if not smarter than most of us. Take Rissa Samson for example. She had a spread for FHM magazine a two years ago and was asked, in the interview, what took her so long to accept their offer. She said (without batting a perfectly-curved eyelash, I suppose) that she didn’t want ‘men jacking off to (her) picture,’ and slid in an encouraging aside for all men to leave their superficial realms of existence and ‘stay up all night thinking of ways to arouse (her) mind.’

Salient question: what the fuck did she mean by that?

Oh, right― I’d have to ‘stay up all night’ to figure out what that meant. Remarkable profundity there; just the kind of thing one might expect from the president of the Professional Models Association of the Philippines. You really can do tell that they all do heavy work, since they have a union. (God forbid these people be paid less than they deserve!)

They are just so smart. And cultured, too: they read all the right books at the right time (right now I guess it’s the Unholy Triumvirate of Albom, Brown, and Coelho― perfect for people just getting around to learning their ABC’s), and take great care to mention some trivial book on New Age or Zen concepts which has helped or enriched their lives in some weird, inchoate way, which, they nonchalantly reveal after all the gratuitous hyperbole, remains as of yet unfinished. Seems every model has one of those today.

Most of them try to look as dorky as possible, to complement― by design of course, as with everything― the fact that they are, without a doubt, extremely hot. They tousle their hair haphazardly, carry books around upside-down while sipping on a refreshing gooseberry-infused green tea frappe with a lemon slice wedge. Some even go as far as to wear glasses with thick plastic frames. And sure, maybe it would be nice to think that these models admit to being the ‘biggest dorks in the world’ (or some other lame echo of that phrase) simply to be true to who they really are beneath all that physical perfection. Guess what, world: they’re absolute geeks― it just so happens they look really really good doing it!

But of course that would be stupid.

I’ve thought about this for an inordinate amount of time (I honestly took up Rissa Samson’s advice and ‘stayed up all night’): why would these models downplay their tangible beauty to emphasize the quality of their brains (the only body part I personally― and most others it would seem― never felt the need to actually see)?

Then it struck me. Models want everything. They say that no, they aren’t all that physically attractive, and that they are ‘dorks at heart.’ They invite you to watch them read thick books with like, no pictures in them whatsoever and drops an occasional six-letter word. You assume that they are smart; you see that they are hot. Two birds with one perfectly chiseled stone.

(This is where it becomes clear just how entrenched I am in the whole Scene.)

Borgy Manotoc, for example: he is a model that most people in our country think of as somewhat intelligent, and magazines constantly tell us his lineage as if that were something that should impress anyone who has ever gone through a Philippine History course or even just cracked open a book in the last twenty years. Okay― let’s go with popular opinion and not question his attractiveness or sex appeal or whatever they call what he has. But does he have to be smart, too?

Interviews never explicitly come out and pronounce his intelligence, but they do so implicitly by bringing up the fact that he studies at some Fashion Institute in some nondescript European city and came from the International School of Manila (cue for girlish squeals). But really now. All those schools will accept anyone dumb enough to plunk the cash required for their irrationally expensive fees. I cannot see any reason why he― or anyone with a trust fund culled from um, dubious means― should be thought of as anything approaching smart just because he went to fashion school. Does this mean I have to applaud any shiftless rich kid who can afford to live abroad and study what comes naturally to its greatest practitioners? And please don’t tell me how mentally exhausting it is to know what colors go with a red and yellow plaid print, because I already know.

Then there’s the whole thing models reiterate when it comes to the inevitable What Kind Of Guy Would Catch Your Attention questions: that the most appealing thing in a ‘guy’ is a ‘wonderful sense of humor.’ Shouldn’t we have gotten past all this nonsense by this time already? We of course know this to be totally false, right? If you aren’t convinced, try walking up to Nicolette Bell (or whoever you want― the secret to their existence is that they’re basically interchangeable!) and tell her a very funny joke (if you don’t have one, lift one from a really funny standup comic so you know that it isn’t not-funny) and watch what happens. (Also, please tell me when and where you plan to do this because I always need a good laugh.) Here’s a clue: the male models accompanying them will hit you again and again with their beautifully shaped arms and legs. (Or just laugh derisively, whatever hurts you more.)

I mean, I hope this isn’t true. That’s all I’m saying. Because if it is― by the very fact that most of these models date other models― then they take everything. They aren’t just physically attractive; they’re also smart and fucking hilarious as well. What then becomes of us?

If we are to swallow the bullshit these models try to pass of as Absolute Fact and really believe that all of them aren’t typical (which makes the word meaningless by the way), it would be hard to imagine a divergent view of models other than this Master Race of Beautiful People we have now. In the end, it doesn’t even matter if what I’ve said here is true in any way. The thing that bothers me― and should bother you too― is that if these people are really all that, there is nothing left for the rest of us. The chestnut about nobody being perfect basically disappears. Though room does exist for some wiggling re: the definition of ‘perfect,’ e.g. a good-looking, smart, and funny person may be snobbish or condescending, the three of them together obliterates the possibility of someone not being seen as ‘perfect’ or at least ‘supremely desirable,’ and any dints in the armor is passed off as charming little quirks. 

This is the conundrum peculiar to countries with histories of foreign occupation. At least in the West, the Beautiful People never try to be more than beautiful. The classic model paradigm holds: (indulge me in a clichéd formulation) most of them are young, dumb, and practically frothing over with cum (plus gorgeous). But in our country, where the standard of beauty is unreal― near ethereal― in its stringent requirements of whiteness of skin (and the pink-ness of certain body parts that must follow logically), perilously leaning curves, and an ambiguous American accent when speaking― the sum of which is impossible to find in your local barrio― and you see where all this stems. It comes from our conception of Beauty. The women who we will find beautiful enough to be local supermodels will mostly be of some kind of foreign ancestry. The very same people with enough money (and enough élan and joie de vivre!) to study in what we think are good schools and go to universities created specially for them (and the odd nouveau riche kid from the province who want to fit in and be fabulous). It’s just so stupid.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: it’s just unfair.

It’s unfair that these people who have more beauty in their icky places than I would wager to have in my whole body would dare step into the only places I have left. I am smart and I am funny (and a really good listener too!) but I’m not extremely good-looking. (I mean, I wouldn’t call myself ugly; but no one has ever did a double-take on me, positively or negatively.) I have accepted that fact: that it is not in my fate to be that kind of person. What hurts is that a person with the level of physical attractiveness I (and most others like me) would probably desire (not really desire per se― just that it wouldn’t hurt to have it, you know) and they’re trying to be like me (or us). I am being totally serious. This isn’t fair. Why can’t these people simply be beautiful? Isn’t it enough?

These models.

They keep going on and on about how they aren’t typical. Where are these Typical Models? Those are the people I want to see featured in magazines, and show me just how pretty they are and how smart I am. I want a model to say without a glint in her perpetually dewy eyes, ‘I am a fabulous Local Supermodel. I am rich and dumb and sexually promiscuous. But who cares? I am hot as fuck.’

Please?

Random Snippets On Prose, One

All the people who tried to be a mentor to me or something in writing has told me to ‘show, not tell,’ always in low tones, as if it were some big secret no one ever heard in a Freshman Lit class in some random local computer college. I’ve always rejected this, but only know now why I found it so untenable. Prose pieces with carefully parsed dialogue and very precise details that somehow ‘speak for themselves’ seem to me overambitious. It could very well be the case that a solitary detail such as a phone receiver hanging limp two inches from the floor could ‘mean’ something like a sudden abandonment, etc., but it doesn’t follow that when writing a story re: abandonment, every detail should scream ‘abandonment.’ Not just because it’s been done to death by minimalists, but because, in the end, a symbol doesn’t mean anything but itself. The sun rising could be some kind of thing signifying hope or a new beginning, but we see it rising everyday without a single hitch in our breathing. This is the problem of Student Fiction. Too much playing around with connotations and secondary meanings when what the thing Really Is goes missing, as in a story about death that features the moon shining shyly through thin clouds, a wheelbarrow with one wheel rusted off, ants consuming a dead dog on the street, bit by bit, etc. Okay, let’s assume it all means something and that their very presence lends mood and a portentous air to the story. But why are those things there in the first place? Symbolic Worth should be secondary. How great is it that one character in the story dies and all these deathlike things keep occurring all throughout? Seriously― I like Hemingway and Carver. Most of what I’ve read of Hempel is good. But come on. This is getting boring.

When I was still trying to get published in the school Literary Magazine, I remember having this vague sense of not believing in the whole Show And Don’t Tell thing most of the editors had as their Bible. I remember the Prose Editor actually writing ‘Don’t tell― show’ on one draft of my story. As if I had never heard that before. I think the main point of that was to leave something for the reader to do. Allow your work to speak to your reader and gain new meanings with every rereading. And I remember saying to myself ‘bullshit,’ thinking of the churning waves of things I wanted to tell everyone in my prose which couldn’t be broken down into any discernible symbols. I didn’t want to show you anything. I didn’t want to encrypt anything in overburdened symbols used universally all through time. I was convinced (and even more so now) that I have too much to say. That I will always leave the Reader with something to do. That’s it. That I will tell you everything but you still won’t completely understand.

Psycho Analyzing Me

A friend of mine― a former one to be exact― once tried, in a moment of intense emotion, to psychoanalyze all of me that she might understand how I turned out to be way I was. She had known me for maybe two years and yet there she goes; chopping through the dense and thorny foliage of someone not-at-all simple, skipping any preliminaries, straight to what should very well be the final exam. Of course she’s a Christian (a convicted one― the very worst fucking kind) and a student of Psychology― a dangerous combination since it the latter gives some semblance of rational justifications for the inclinations to blind condemnation of the former. Naturally she’s absolutely convinced that I have no knowledge re: ‘true happiness,’ and will never do unless I surrender my heart, soul and body to our Lord God and Savior Jesus Christ. She unravels this gem of psychological insight: I am supposedly an extremely bitter and angry person (now there’s a surprise!) who hates at (yes, hates at― her term, something to do with projecting hate when none exists, etc.) anything/everything that tries to get close and help. The remedy for this kind of soul-deadening existence is, she tells me, a conversion to Christianity. And not just any Christianity― the best one! Their church! Undergoing that whole process would assure me of lightening my spiritual burden (didn’t even know I had one) and help me get in touch with my Real Purpose in this world, i.e. being so humble as to think God does everything in my life, effectively making me the Apple Of His Eye, among all the billions (literally) this world has to offer. More important is the fact that all this is supposed to make me happy. Like her. What an eerie coincidence.

This went on for some time. She continued to speak in a manner I would euphemize as ‘impassioned’ while I kept trying to remain calm (since we were in a public place) and smile wanly during the odd moments where she actually cared what I was thinking/feeling and looked at me. I didn’t laugh or even smirk when she misused ‘special’ psychological terms (I especially loved the overconfident usage of ‘appropriation’ and Jung’s anima/animus), which she did a lot, sprinkling them in way too obviously and pausing for a millisecond right after as if waiting for me to gasp and kneel at her linguistic prowess.

I reminded the smug psychoanalyst that um, she didn’t even know me that well. Two years since that night we were introduced and sporadic nightcaps every few weeks since then don’t exactly count as a meaningful relationship in the usual ways. Especially when you consider the fact that I never really talk about anything concerning just me; it’s always what I think of something. But of course that doesn’t stop her. She had the stubbornness required of a True Christian.

Oh I know you, she intoned breathily. I know you more than you will ever know. The reason, supposedly― and she really did just name one― why I was so cynical and self-destructive is that my mother and father weren’t (and aren’t) married. She told me that I blamed God for every non-pleasant thing in my life when it wasn’t His fault; and instead of moving forward and bathing in the glorious illumination of God’s love, I lash out haphazardly at everything and everyone that tries to help me (don’t be fooled― she only means her).

A keen piece of psychological insight, no doubt. As can only be expected from a little girl in a little college in a little town. I mean, don’t get me wrong: I love the whole ‘my family’s fucked-up so I guess the best thing to do would be to aggravate the whole situation and be fucked-up as well’ paradigm of explaining personal disposition, but isn’t it all just a bit too cliché for any random moron on the street, let alone me? She believes that such an explanation cuts cleanly through the extraneous layers of my self-justification, and there is some part of me that acknowledges the fact that maybe, if my family were normal and happy like no one in this world is, maybe I would be less me. But it cuts off too much. The rational thing is wrong in this case. My family is fucked-up in most branches but it isn’t any worse than most. I’m not going to glorify my present state by exaggerating how miserable my upbringing was, because honestly, it wasn’t all that bad. She is at least half-wrong here. Why must I have a horrible childhood to be the way I am now? Why can’t I be this way despite it? Is that all there is to me― a self-loathing adolescent rebel who resorts to faulty panaceas to ease my own pain while projecting everything else to anyone in the vicinity? Can I really be that simple that everything about me can easily be dissected and presented summary-form in five sentences brimming with psychological terms lifted indiscriminately off some local textbook?

I’d have to say no. And I’m being brutally honest here. It would be too easy to chalk up my um, ‘difficult’ nature to my not being a part of what the traditional conception of a family should be. But the easy thing isn’t always the right way. Most times, a multiplication of entities is required way beyond mere necessity, Ockham’s Razor be damned. Only a one-track, dogmatic bent of mind can assume that everyone (most people, but not everyone) can somehow be forced into a distinctive ‘type’ that encapsulates everything in that person without first listening to what that person has to say, since they would be the ones who would know the most about their own mind. I’m not saying no one has the right to judge a person from their own outsider’s viewpoint; what I am saying though, is that one must first understand where the other is coming from before barging right on in with their prognosis. Really knowing how to look at a person is an art. You should know who you’re dealing with first, before trotting out the paradigms and stuff. If she had listened to what I’ve been saying to her the past two years, she would have found it obvious that I am not at all the kind of person who denies things that might seem to others as ‘weak’ or ‘embarrassing.’ I am a splendid and unapologetic liar when it comes to most things, but I never lie when I speak of my opinions. I am too arrogant, too much of a perfectionist when it comes to myself. I will never be caught with an argument or statement that I’ve made about me or my beliefs that I am unable to defend. She should have known that. But she never listened. Only waited for the perfect time to get me weak, then jumped in with her half-baked analysis.

And it’s so fucking sad. Not only did she totally miss the mark on the family angle (she concentrated on the nonexistent marriage of my parents when that was the only thing I was okay with in the whole family deal), but sneaked in a ringing advertisement as to the glories of her family (since she makes it seem as if she were happy). It further stressed an already precarious relationship by using something I had told her in confidence (the only way I manage not to lie is because I never tell things easily) as something to be used against me.

Look. I hate misguided attempts at psychological attempts and ironclad judgments based solely on what others, i.e. you, see, so let me help it all advance for you. I love my mother unconditionally and have a weird hate-indifference relationship with my father. I don’t blame God for whatever it is that transpired between them with regards to me since they were both adults by then and anything stupid I think they’ve done are done already through a conscious willing by two right-minded (for the most part) adults and not at all a celestial happening no one had any control over. That’s it. All of it.

You know, I find it amusing. That people can look at me and actually see a lost child groping for love when I am shrewd and calculating― I have long accepted what I am and where I come from. There is no use grappling over the past. Only morons try to change things that cannot be undone. I am not a moron. And I don’t really care for marriage anyway; I don’t believe in its sanctity, its holy underpinnings. If my mother had married my father maybe I wouldn’t love her so much now. Can someone please tell me why would I be bothered about my parent’s situation, then? It’s funny. And I laugh when some boob tries to peg that shit on me, reducing my whole self to nothing more than a reacting piece of machinery, the proverbial troubled kid whose story will forever be used by fear-mongering parents to tell them what not to do. Like I said, it’s very funny. Until of course a friend does it to you. Then it hurts.

Especially when you consider the fact that you have told them details re: your life and they use it injudiciously, throwing you under the ever-going wheels of her One True Love, i.e. Christianity. Every quirk you have, the things you have worked so hard for to learn, the things you have chosen, all of them treated as aberrations, trivial tics to be used to show you just how dumb you are and how you would be better off with our Lord God and Savior Jesus Christ. I found it unforgivable when it happened to me. I could be wrong; and I sometimes feel pangs of guilt-like feeling whenever I dredge the whole story up. But what can you do. It started and ended with one go.

I mean, think about it now. Was it really worth our friendship, having a crack at my teeming neuroses and complexes? You could have just asked me what my deal was. I would’ve told you. In fact, I’ll tell you now: everything in my life― bad, good, or as is usual, somewhere in between (but always leaning towards the bad)― hasn’t made me bitter or cynical. You can ask anyone I knew as a kid if they had any inkling I would turn out this way. They all didn’t. What made me this way is my life, yes. What made me everything I am now is my deep-seated knowledge inside that things aren’t right. Everything is wrong. And I want to see them right. That’s all it is. And I’m not going to turn inward like you have done. I will make something better.

I made that point to her once in an e-mail (since I by then couldn’t stand her stupid face and the smarmy way she would look at me across the table with her legs crossed daintily at the ankle and her chin upturned slightly― how subtle her looking down on me was!). That she was nothing. All she has is Church. It’s the only thing that defines her in a world that has given her nothing. Why would I hate God, I had said, when it is you who hadn’t been given anything by Him? She blamed God for her awful mediocrity but instead of thinking that maybe there isn’t one, or that He isn’t all that cracked out to be, got scared and snuggled deep into his bosom like people who need to befriend professors to get a good grade.

She called me a month after and started chattering about some dumb Christian camp and asking me if I wanted to go*. It took a long time for me to speak. You read my e-mail, right? Hm, she said (she really did say hm!). Oh, yes. The one with all the swear-words, right?

I couldn’t believe that she had managed to belittle me yet again: reducing everything substantial I had said in that letter (and I did make some good points re: Christian humility and the folk psychology she applied thoughtlessly) to a careless stream of scatological rampage (and there weren’t even that much swear-words: three instances of ‘fuck’ and two each of ‘shit’ and ‘bitch’). It was more than I could take. I dropped her call and rejected all the others that followed. Imagine how close it all was. She could’ve just asked me why I was so angry. Maybe then we would still be friends. I note that not with regret, but with unabashed relief. She could’ve just asked me! I guess thanks are in order for a Higher Power.

*Actual Chuckie Manio tidbit from late 2006! (I’m kind of embarrassed about my cursing a Christian camp, but you were young once I assume.) Verbatim!

Re: Christian camp invitation. In one word: no. In ten: no no no no no no no no no no.

Fuck Christian camp. Nothing but a bunch of losers with nowhere to go. Nothing but a pathetic, weak group of humans weary of rejection, deluding themselves of a better place outside this earth because they can’t cope with real life. Nothing but a collection of privileged kids who stomach the idea of a benevolent Supreme Being since they themselves haven’t seen anything more evil than a cockroach. Fuck Christian camp. No no no no no. I’d rather bathe in sulfur and brimstone and hellfire (and if you have your way, that’s exactly what would happen, right?).

A History In Argument: My First Loss And The Soul-Crushing Win Right After

I still remember the first time I was beaten ‘soundly’ in an argument. (‘Trounced’ was the word used by a friend privy to what counted in my life then as an ‘event’.) It was my first year in college. There was an Art Appreciation class that had an online group where the students (there were three sections at least) could engage in ‘intellectual discussions’ regarding art for bonus points in our final grade. Most of the discussions were boring; usually nothing more than a blind rehashing of previous concepts. They explicated one concept after another in the orthodox manner already prescribed in class. There was nothing for me to engage in until the discussion turned to movies, or as they called it, ‘film.’

The question posed was this: Are Filipino movies better than American movies? Dozens of students of course responded, all with the answer that yes, Filipino movies were actually better than American movies. I found it annoying at first. Isn’t it a fact that American (or to broaden that, foreign) films grossed more, locally, than our own productions? Not that I’m saying just because morons like something, it immediately should be considered ‘better’ in any way. I should know that more than anything by now. But it all just seems more than a little phony when people like me (i.e. La Sallians, i.e. middle-class upwards) would actually say that Filipino movies were better than anything else when most wouldn’t be caught dead in any major screening of it without a plausible excuse, e.g. ‘I only watch Marian Rivera movies for the kitsch factor, not the kilig factor…’ etc. (That’s how the word kitsch is used by the way. Someone owes me an apology!) So when the dozen student responses became almost everyone in class, I had to step in and finally, say something.

My argument started with what I had said above. I wasn’t questioning the artistic worth of any Filipino film (at least not in that venue) and I’m sure plenty of such films won awards abroad. (We had just watched Maynila Sa Kuko Ng Liwanag.) What bothered me was the visceral reaction of the students to the question. As if they felt that there was a ‘right’ answer, i.e. knee-jerk nationalism. Anything framed in such an unfair manner as ‘ours’ versus ‘theirs’ will always result in ‘ours’ winning. I mean, look at the justifications for such a (to my mind) ridiculous assertion: Filipino movies are better because they have moral values, speak to our souls, by us and for us, and (I swear) because they give jobs to deserving people. Disregarding any aesthetic considerations (since I think movies are just movies and have no ideas regarding cinematography or lighting or whatever) or the script as literary text (since I found the whole MSKNL story banal and not at all so far beyond the average city maid’s story― maybe it was all so new when the movie was released, but it’s just another cliché now), I really had nothing to say about Filipino movies. Except that these students who keep declaring how great they are should honestly shut up because they couldn’t even tell me the last Filipino film they saw outside of class.

And of course I wrote all of that badly. I didn’t make the point immediately clear. The insight gleaned from the whole thing seemed only to be: Filipino movies suck (and oh yeah, fuck you). Which I guess was kind of a side-note to what I was really trying to say, that you should stop pretending to like Filipino movies when you really don’t, because if you did you would watch them. Dozens of students responded to some point of mine, but never all. Most of them saying, in a fanciful roundabout manner, that Filipino movies ‘rule.’ I always responded promptly. They never responded back. But my professor did.

A word about my professor. She was young and always looked very stern― the special look of the Serious Pedant. I’m not being snide at all. I mean, she taught Art Appreciation and constantly wore black turtlenecks. She really did have that look. I’m not saying she was stupid, but she took ‘Art’ so very seriously. And I could never take any person without a sense of humor seriously. In case everything prior seems like an insult, let me just say that she is very pretty. (She probably would be very offended by that since it assumes calling a woman pretty will ease all pains. But it’s a fact; she is pretty.) And I learned a new word from her. (‘Windang.’ It’s a synonym for crazy, e.g. ‘Nakaka-windang si ――’ means ‘―― drives me crazy.’ I rarely use the word, but when I do, the image of Sisa  from Noli Me Tangere (I think) keeps popping up in my head.) So there. That’s her.

All this time the whole cyber-hoopla is taking place (the first of many, I am ashamed to admit), I’m up in my dorm giggling, basically, while typing up another waterproof (at least for me and the morons who tried to trip me up) reply to every argument lobbied against mine. Everyone always retained the same arguments. We only tuned them up as we went. One by one, the students dropped out of contention. They didn’t even tell me I won. Just disappeared. I was understandably very happy and very proud of myself. I had beaten everyone in three classes. Life was good.

Then as if from of a ham-fisted chunk of Regulation Ironic Foreshadowing from another carpentered Student Fiction Piece, when everything seemed to be so well, it wasn’t. I guess my professor had waited a long time for someone to parry my thrusts and give glory to our great country. But no one could, so she did. I remember how she went about ‘beating’ me. Throughout the whole series of rallies back and forth (four of them if I’m not mistaken), here are some of the things she did.

She isolated the argument away from my indestructible (I still think so) position of ‘You are all being hypocritical saying something is better when you don’t even support it’ (I know it’s an ad hominem and it isn’t logically necessary that recognition of worth precedes patronizing but it’s basically commonsensical) and veered into the whole ‘Art isn’t always appreciated’ pabulum. She then proceeded to list the varieties of things that make Filipino movies at par, if not better, that their foreign counterparts; none of which really matters now (or even then, now that I think of it), all technical ‘filmmaking stuff.’ I could only swat at the weaker, moral parts of her arguments, e.g. our stories don’t really speak to us more than tells us that it is okay to be poor and stupid and naïve, if not better. You understand how a precocious college freshman would be paralyzed by all this, right? That was my biggest fear then: a barrage of indubitable facts I couldn’t break down because I didn’t yet have the expertise. I mean, I could play with words and arguments without even really thinking about it, only as long as I know as much as my opponent does. Because it usually is the case that when we know the same things, I win by virtue of my mad skills in reason (I find having ‘mad’ skills in ‘reason’ extremely mirthful!). But I didn’t then. So when she brought up the example of Pablo Picasso and how he wasn’t appreciated in his lifetime and am I actually going to say he sucked artistically?, I was pretty much confused and speechless. (I didn’t even have the awareness to point out, politely, that it wasn’t even the fucking point we were supposed to be discussing.) And all I could say back after a weak rebuttal was (verbatim― checked my Yahoo! account): ‘sIGh… oF aLL tHe pEOpLe nA pWeDe kOng mA-oFFenD… : )’

I’m kidding of course. I may have spoke Taglish around that time and typed in alternating caps once in a while (mostly when I was feeling ‘cute’) but I never am that way when it comes to serious stuff, as I treated an… online argument (God, what a precedent for all my internet problems thereafter). I really did say that, though, about her being the last person I wish I would’ve offended, including the smiley-face at the end. Not that I’m scared of her in any way. Just that I wanted to win. It was probably the same with her. I find it hard to imagine that an intelligent woman such as her would fail to see my salient point and shoot off at non-agreed upon tangents just like that. She did know, I think now, what I was trying to say; but chose to ignore it for fear of losing, and exposing her bias for Shallow Nationalism as nothing more than that: a bias. She didn’t want to engage in an ‘intellectual dialogue’ or some other pretentious formulation like it; she didn’t want to face the possibility of losing, changing her mind. She wanted to win, period.

And now if I might be indulged in a lasting life-lesson. Arguing shouldn’t be for the sake only of winning. We’re dealing with beliefs― and consequently, lives― here. It isn’t a vehicle to strut around in and showcase just how amazing you personally are, but as an exercise to find out― or at least get us closer to― the Truth, capital-T. If I were a weak and suggestible dolt, that experience of being dismantled beyond all recognition― in front of dozens of rabid children (who all, by then, despised the me that they knew) who were inordinately happy to witness an unequivocal whipping of someone who seemed to be so untouchable― all of itwould have been taken as a Humbling Experience; that I am But A Small Part Of A Larger World, that I am not the Smartest Person in the world, etc., etc. But I’m neither weak nor suggestible, and the reaction I engendered from my professor not only failed to downgrade my self-worth, but shot it through the roof; I mean, if I weren’t so um, formidable, my professor wouldn’t need to resort to such tortuous lengths, to such  underhanded tricks, just to beat me.

I’ve gotten better though― I can admit that I lost that exchange. I had an intuitive feel that I was being cheated but didn’t know how. So I lost. I would live. And the next time someone would employ a similar argumentative tactic, it wouldn’t be pretty.

One last thing. A very large part of understanding how someone such as me, i.e. a rare slice of humanity, treats ‘intellectual discussions/arguments’ is the fact that I am a very very sore loser but an amazingly graceful winner. You can really ask people about this. When I win, I won’t say it was all because of dumb luck (since that would be disrespectful of the other’s hard work) or because of God (since that would entail God being on my side and even I’m not that arrogant); I will say I won, but I don’t stick it in too deep. I just make sure they knew that I won, and leave, as said, gracefully. Losing to me isn’t that big of a deal for me or anyone else. It is usually the case. My nonchalance makes it easier to get down.

Now let’s talk about me losing. I am a very bad loser, especially when I feel cheated or spun around without me knowing how. Perfect example would be the exchange with my professor. I was so confused at that time how I lost that argument. I felt duped in that encounter with not a superior class of mind, just more knowledgeable. Instead of engaging in an honest argument pursuing Truth, e.g. the way Socrates prescribes doing, she unleashed a stream of dialectical trickery at me, twisting my words on purpose to destroy my position and leave me with nothing, e.g. the way Socrates actually does things. (I have finally managed, in a non-forced manner, an insider-joke for Philosophy majors and enthusiasts!)

I was very upset to say the least. I pretty much shut up in class after that. My classmates would tell me that it was my fault, arguing with someone so much smarter. I remember knowing then that my professor was aware of who I was when she took a millisecond-longer look at me after calling out my name in attendance. I remember the faint, mocking curl on her lips. I was determined to forget about it.

The class talked about Akira Kurosawa two weeks later. I correctly appreciated the film Yojimbo and my essay on the prevalent themes of the movie (entitled Yojimbo: Themes Great!― you get it, right?) got a 3.5 (very high in that class) and I went back to our online group to unload some more insights I had during repeated viewings. But first I read a couple of posts. There were a lot since the bonus-system was perceived to be tied-in to frequency of posting. I read the first one after my concession to the professor. (She didn’t deem it worthy to reply, by the way.) I remember reading it only because it was written by someone with a very stupid name, a triad of one-shot syllables in quick succession: I’m guessing that if it isn’t Sir John Boy, it would be something in the vicinity of its inherent stupidity.

What I remember now is that he was siding with the professor and subjected me to more unsubstantiated abuse, e.g. I wasn’t patriotic, I still had to have my head purged of Colonial Mentality, etc. All this wouldn’t really ruffle me that much. Given that I had won. But I didn’t. I felt then that I was down and bloody after battling with a heavyweight-class (let’s please suppose that I am a middleweight, okay), and here comes this pinweight-class child kicking me gleefully, assuming (mistakenly) that I have been chastened by the whole experience and would accept his derision wholeheartedly.

Now comes the part where my sore-loser side comes rising up.

Instead of me being (relatively) nice and making the boy see how wrong he was even in his understanding of what I was trying to say, and therefore having no right whatsoever to tell me why I was wrong, and understanding that this was probably a middle-of-the-road intellect trying to score points with our professor for siding with her and kicking on a murdered horse (i.e. me), I disregarded my stray insights re: Yojimbo and went at him full-force. It was something else. You should have seen it.

How his two paragraphs, totaling about four hundred intermediate-level words strung together, were obliterated by the two thousand words (okay so it was bloated, but it was still better than his) I keyed in (angrily!) at my laptop. How I started with his name (I think it went something like, ‘I can’t believe I am honestly debating frickin’ (yes, I was once ‘That Guy’) art with someone named Sir John Boy’― it was very cheap, I know) and, one by one, clinically destroyed his arguments using his own words. It was limpid anger. Everything I couldn’t say to my professor― because she would probably eat them up, and/or fail me, which was a big deal to me then― I said to this sycophantic drone. And the professor didn’t even defend him. He certainly couldn’t do it himself. Every reply of his leave one shred of self-dignity, as in ‘at least I was right about this,’ or ‘you have to give me this point,’ and I didn’t! I really didn’t! I choked the fucker out one inch at a time until he had nothing more to say, nothing more to preserve, nothing else to hang on to. He was nothing. And I made him feel every last bit of what he was.

He could’ve just shut up, you know. He could’ve just shaken his head at the chutzpah of this one student who tried (and failed) to say something different, even if it was against the professor’s established opinion. But he had to say something. He had to win. It was easy, now that he knew his position was the ‘right one.’ He tried, and was subsequently destroyed. He still may have nightmares about it. Imagine your stupidity being proved in front of anyone with a Yahoo! account. Every word taken away by someone so far beyond you. Nothing left to curl up on. Now he knows his place.

I really don’t feel sorry at all.

A Gentle Reminder

You didn’t win; Manny Pacquiao did.

There is no need to congratulate him in your social networking profiles. He will not see them. And if he did, he wouldn’t read them. And if he could read, he wouldn’t understand. And if he understood them, he wouldn’t give a fuck about you or your banal formulation of congratulations which you keep repeating and repeating as if you had anything to do with his fist hitting the other guy’s chin and knocking the poor fucker out. Shut up.

Solid Tip For All The Guys Out There

If you are a Filipino* man and you speak to another Filipino man in English without serious justifications**, all it means is that you find the other man handsome and would like to (at least) kiss him.

* ‘Filipino’ here meaning born and raised in the Philippines.

** M2M! I.e. ‘too many to mention.’

I Know God Exists Because You Do, Babe

bhebhe and i just had a fight.. i just thought that you would love the dress i wore today.. i was thinking before on how you would be proud of me and i was just trying to impress you more.. but i was wrong.. and i know you’re only after on my safety since i am working on a graveyard shift and i have to commute all alone without you to protect me… anyway all things are said and done.. i just have to be more careful next time.. i love you baby.. muuaaahhhh!!!

Continued here:

Hello, my bhebhe.

You screamed at me so loud just a few hours ago. The cartilage in my ears seemed to curl up inside my head as your reddened head was all up in my face and shouting at me nonstop for hours, listing for me in agonizing detail the multitude of reasons (the dress referred to above being the latest one) for my being the dumb slut that I truly am. I was still wearing the dress: shiny and black, cut extremely short with tiny greenish stars printed all around, dark cloth conspicuously tight across my ample bosom and hip areas. Do you remember the cute frayed ends at the hem and how they brushed gently as I walked, making me shiver with cold delight as they tickled my thighs― my thighs that remember your touch and ache for it then until now. My tongue peeking shyly from the inside of their lustrous red prison, showing only the slightest tip of pink as if it were scared of you too.

Are you angry at me, bhebhe? Your dear beloved bhebhe? Your mouth and tongue say  Yes I am mad at you but only I can see that your heart is true and loves me so very much― crying psychically as you hold forth, labeling me a dumb whore who needs to a serious slapping to learn the littlest fucking thing. I see what lies deepest in your heart. You love me; and are only testing me by calling me all these horrible names. I will pass your test with flying colors, my bhebhe!

I thought you would never stop with that diatribe, bhebhe. But you did, eventually― and if I forgot to thank you for your loving courtesy before, let me thank you now. And let me say just how sorry I am. It is all my fault. Stupid bhebhe, stupid bhebhe― I can’t believe I actually thought wearing something that strayed from my usual plain look and made me feel good about myself for the first time since meeting you in that TV chatroom would make you happy! I only wanted to impress you. Maybe see that thing you call your jaw plop down and bathe in the lovely sounds of skin scraping against the unpolished concrete that serves as our floor. But you hated it.

I see now how right you are, bhebhe. As I stated earlier, I work ‘on the graveyard shift.’ How dare I try to assert my femininity and wear a dress that makes me feel beautiful inside and out, when there are men who would no doubt think awful and dirty thoughts about me as I walk past them! And can you imagine― what if a strong gust of wind blew up my skirt and everyone got a clear view of what can only be yours bhebhe! Any man would probably go crazy and rape me right then and there! And not one person would help me. They would probably all just stand there and watch and think that by my wearing of a pretty dress (now being torn to bits), I really wanted to get raped all along. It makes perfect sense: me paying actual money for a nice dress so I would get raped. You saw right through me and my motivations, bhebhe! That’s why you are my bhebhe! (Muuaaahhhh!!!)

I was so stupid wearing whatever made me feel good without once thinking of how a man would view me. You are right: I should continue wearing my drab sleeveless shirts instead. That will show those men! Now it would be impossible for them to think up sex fantasies about me! Thank God for you, bhebhe. I was this close to going out in that dress and inevitably getting raped by construction workers! It’s a good thing you came up and projected your self-esteem issues on me. We both don’t want, of course, people to think that I’m some liberal woman who does things simply because she wants to do them. No, no, no― it doesn’t even matter that when we are at home without your parents, you treat me like a gymnast monkey trying out for the Olympics. What matters is the opinion of strangers!

Bhebhe, I thank God everyday. The instant I wake up, I drop down on my knees and praise His Holy Name for giving such a dumb, shiftless whore such as myself a man who will ‘protect’ me from monsters that only he sees. How can I have been so lucky, I’ve asked myself millions of times now. I really don’t know! But what I do know is that I am very glad that you are always there for me! And that’s all I need to know in this life.

I love you pOh sO mUcH, mAh bHebHe kOh…!!! (Know how much I love you? I misspelled ‘baby’ just for you!)  

What The Inside Of My Brain Looks Like Right Now

I understand theism and to some extent, atheism too. What I don’t understand is Satanism. I mean, the Satanist accepts the basic premise of theism, i.e. that there is a God, since the existence of either one is contingent on the truth of the Bible. So he/she accepts that this God created everything, including Satan. But still chooses to be on the other side, knowing that Satan is bound to lose. (It’s in the Bible.)

I don’t know how the Satanists are supposed to ‘win’ in this. Do they want to go to Hell? There most likely is one, given that Satan exists. But is that why Satanists choose their religion? To get there? It’s a place of absolute suffering, of teeth-gnashing and haunting screams. And I don’t think Satan would make his disciples lieutenants of Hell. He just doesn’t seem the kind of being that shares power.

Let’s say that the Satanist does want to go to Hell. Would God send them there? It is a place of non-redemptive pain. Somewhere to make its residents know that what they’ve done is wrong, for eternity. But how much of a punishment could banishment to that place be if a person really wants to go there? Would God then send the Satanist to Heaven? It’s not what he/she wanted but I don’t think they will actually suffer there.

I’m thinking about this kind of thing.

So I guess it’s obvious how bored I am right now.

Here’s Something To Start Us Off On What Morons Call The Right Foot

Here are some ‘facts’ about ‘me.’

1. My name was supposed to be Charles Lawrence with my present name as a nickname, but the priest at my baptism misunderstood and that’s how it was. (Not the last time a religious person misunderstood something…)

2. I have four kinds of hot sauce in my closet right now.

3. I hate it when people try too hard to be funny in ‘normal’ conversation. Trying to be funny on a stage as a comic or a performer of some kind is different, as in it’s okay to look like you’re actively trying to be funny, since that is kind of the point. But it’s weird when people are talking seriously about one thing and someone seizes a stray word or a phrase and takes off from it, speaking in ‘funny’ voices, e.g. an ultra-sarcastic tone or a cheap, broad ‘impression,’ and trying to make a ‘joke.’ I guess I’m being totally dogmatic here, but my test for things to say in normal conversation is this: if you can say your ‘joke’ or ‘humorous observation’ without it screaming for attention as a Funny Remark, and can totally be taken seriously without impeding ongoing conversation, then go say it. If it sticks out as a very explicit joke-type thing, don’t say it. That’s how I do it. And I am fucking hilarious.

4. I am very very fussy when it comes to words. I can debate word choices for hours.

5. I like milk and have always wondered how people first got the idea of sucking a cow-teat and drinking what came out.

6. I don’t like bad movies, bad music, bad TV shows, bad books, bad comedy, and I don’t usually like the people that like those things (and they don’t like me either). I guess that makes me an elitist.

7. I talk way too much when I’m nervous. I can actually― and I have done this more than I’d like to admit― carry a whole conversation by myself if pressed enough.

8. I find no use trying to appear bohemian and progressive and cool about the Filipino masses, as if I found them not-useless or not-stupid or not-ugly. I know it’s not their fault, and that we should do everything we can to get them to school to learn and be upstanding citizens; but until the day they are that, I’m not about to act as if I’m not wasting my time interacting with them. (Please don’t tell me peasants can teach me Life Lessons I Can’t Get From DLSU. Please. Just don’t.)

9. I’d rather read than talk to people. Books aren’t always good but at least they’re distillations of human thought/knowledge/arguments/whatever and they’re always somewhat more polished and more direct than the conversation of most people. (Including mine.)

10. I don’t find any kind of grammatical/pronunciation mistakes funny. At all.

11. I don’t exactly hate meeting new people; it’s just that I don’t find that sort of thing exciting. It’s pretty sad, but most people are total clichés and can be bunched up harmlessly into neat little piles; like The ‘I Hate Everyone’ Rebel Who Only Needed One Hug Before Converting To Christianity, or The Ordinary Guy Who Euphemizes His Absolute Stupidity With Being ‘Happy Go Lucky.’ (Lots more, obviously) I really wish I could meet someone I couldn’t summarize, but I’m not hopeful.

12. A lot of people have called me ‘suplado.’ And it’s weird: because they wouldn’t know that if they didn’t want to talk to me so much.

13. I don’t work well under pressure, but it’s the only way I can work.

14. My favorite writer is David Foster Wallace. He killed himself August last year. Please read his work. (Start with the essays. You can Google most of them.)

15. I honestly believe all this nonstop, unlimited texting and calling promo-type things with cellular networks is a carefully designed scheme to inculcate a culture of meaningless, unremitting banality to any and all human interaction in this country.

16. (Related to previous number) I can be a little paranoid sometimes.

17. I love explaining things to people.

18. I would like to believe in a Platonic ideal such as Truth or Love, but it’s extremely hard to even conceive of it. It’s like, you know there must be something more in this life than just trying to look cute for the opposite sex all day and make everyone else think how great it is to be you and how they must want that so bad. But what is it? Is there anything True in this world? Or does truth rely simply on the assignation between signifier and receiver and nothing more? Can a God exist in that kind of world? What kind of God would He/She/It be to allow such a shiftless universe?

19. (Related to previous number) I talk to myself a lot. I mean, if you were me, you probably would, too. I may not always be right, but at least I’m always interesting.

20. I hate the word ‘gadgets.’ Not just that: if you’re the kind of person who likes to describe themselves as ‘techies’ or ‘road warriors’ and just loves talking about gigahertz speeds or megapixel counts or the best ‘hotspots’ all day long, I think that you’re a corporate drone who tries to hide behind a torrential stream of stupid toys to childishly avoid having an actual soul and living like a decent fucking human being, and I am not at all being cute or ironic, I swear to God.

21. So many have tried to teach me ‘lessons.’ Usually having something to do with me being not as good as I think I am. It has never worked. I tend to bring out that kind of thing in people, that visceral feeling of insecurity they try to remedy by concentrating more on the little I do wrong than what I do right. Remember, kids: be good, but don’t be too good… until you can handle it.

22.  I have a hard time remembering faces and names. Because I usually don’t care. Remembering Some Girl’s face or Some Friend’s Friend’s name isn’t really worth bothering with when you know you’re only going to meet them once and that they don’t like you that much either.

24. I’d rather speak in front of a large audience than to a group of five to fifteen. Easier to talk to a faceless slope than to actual people whose eyes you have to look into to establish Good Conversational Technique. I find eye contact between lecturer and audience to be unnecessarily creepy from both sides.

25. I have this rewritten this list five times. Because that’s just the kind of person I am.

Presenting The Most Important And Perfectly Written Essay/Polemic On Philippine Standup Comedy: How To Be A Great Standup Comic, by Chuckie Manio, The Absolute Greatest Standup Comic In The Universe Ever (Or: Hey Chuckie, Why Not Write Five Thousand Words On Something That Only Interests Fourteen People, Most Of Whom Are Incredibly Stupid And Wouldn’t Understand It?)

There’s a new kind of comedy in town.

That’s right. A new kind of comedy! And no; there are no male homosexuals involved! (Insert much exaggerated homophobic laughter here.) Imagine that!

Well, I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to― no! Because it’s here! And it’s standup comedy! American Style, to be exact! In this style, there are no cheap tricks involved as in the ‘traditional’ comedy we have in this country. Yes, say goodbye to all that and throw away the trash! Not to mention that this new style is much funnier and way more filling intellectually as well!

Now look. It must be said that I― Chuckie Manio― am not just one of the beacons, but the brightest and most wonderful beacon of standup comedy anywhere in this world, even much more so in this country.  Anyone worth anything knows that. And you know what; I’m not a selfish god. I know that there are millions of kids who want to be like me. It delights me to serve as inspiration for the aspiring Great Standup Comics out there. But being not just the Greatest Standup Comic Ever but a good and decent person as well, inspiring from afar is not enough. I want to share my secrets and strategies learned from my one year (yes, count it guys: one year!) career, so you can be kind of like me but always a little worse! Not because I’m nice― it’s just that my talent is just too damned much that I can give scraps of it away without diminishing my genius! Yes! I am that good! The very reason why I am the Absolute Greatest Standup Comic Ever!

How exciting is this? (Answer: ve-ree! See? I told you I was fun-nee!)

Okay guys: I know you’re all pretty much wet all over about this whole Learning-From-Me thing. And really, you damn well should be! But first let’s check out the things in store for you― the amazing things that only being a Great Standup Comic can give!

One day, you might be able to do corporate shows! Yes, friend! Corporate shows where you can earn (take a deep breath now) 10,000 pesos just for speaking what passes in your body as a mind! (Note: no profanity, nothing about religion or sex or politics except through the softest and most obvious angles possible, no absurdity, nothing polarizing, etc.― basically nothing to further artistry) Imagine that! Corporate fucking shows! Be honest now: aren’t you just bubbling over and frothing in the mouth with excitement? Of course you are! What kind of person would you be if you didn’t find this kind of thing amazing? A person with a healthy sense of self-worth and real knowledge of art? I know you aren’t that stupid, aspiring Great Standup Comic. I know you’re excited to learn from me about the Holy Grail of Great Standup Comedy, i.e. Corporate Shows! And you should be! Nothing― absolutely nothing― spells a rollicking good comedic time like stupid call-center employees who think they’re smart, wearing cheap suits and ties! Plus get this: maybe, if you do well enough, a talent scout might feature you in a cute little segment in some stupid and talent-diluted show no un-poor or un-stupid person will ever watch! Isn’t that breathtaking? Imagine― real people on the street actually walking up to you at inopportune moments and tell you that aren’t you, like, that guy I saw from somewhere, or something this one time? Feel the hair on your neck rise up! That’s how it feels!

Let me guess what you’re thinking right this moment, Dear Reader. (Because not only am I a hilarious motherfucker, I am also a smart and perceptive guy who watches Dr. Phil and Boy Abunda, believing it gives me the right to say I know ‘a little bit’ about psychology!) This is what you’re thinking: Oh my frickin’ God, Chuckie Manio! (That’s sweet of you, calling me by my full name. But really, you can just call me ‘Chuckie Manio.’ I’m such a nice and approachable guy!’) That all sounds so wonderful! I want to be just like you! I want to be a Great Standup Comic! But I have no idea how! Will you be so kind as to tell me everything you know so I can be like you, the Absolute Greatest Standup Comic ever?

I thought you’d never ask, you dumb fuck! Let’s do this!

Tip Number One: Never Use Any Dirty Words

Because God knows no one ever says them in real life!

And honestly, guys― being a ‘dirty’ and/or ‘insulting’ comic presents absolutely no challenge. Trust me on this one. You can jump up on any stage on any night and just unleash a torrential stream of ‘bad’ words/phrases, (especially in Filipino) e.g. puta, suso, titi, puke, and get monstrous laughs every time! It’s just too easy. It doesn’t even matter anymore if, for example, you were to find a fresh and unexpected angle to hit that same old spot; it’s still a big (ahem) ‘no-no.’ Now you might say to yourself, aspiring Great Standup Comic, ‘But any definition of the ‘dirty’ or ‘obscene’ will inevitably be defined (arbitrarily of course) by those with the least developed moral sensors, i.e. self-righteous (usually pseudo-religious) morons who want to ban the very words that no doubt have been used against them since forever (which they deserve fully); in the end, being ‘dirty’ is fine, as long as a clean ray of intelligence permeates all throughout and is never compromised.’

It’s a good thing I’m here to tell you this: stop being so goddamned stupid with all this tolerance! It’s totally obvious and fucking unambiguous that it’s so much harder to talk about the Holy Trinity of Comedy (deep breath first!): Family, Work, Relationships. Talk about them― a lot! Because surely we must all know that constructing jokes from what we experience every day is incredibly difficult, and that the Great Artist who toils in such tortuous hardships to glean slightly amusing insights obviously deserves tons and tons of respect!

Not to mention the fact that telling ‘dirty’ jokes brings our honorable and dignified comedic revolution closer to the traditional comedy we have in this country. And we sure as Hell wouldn’t want that now, would we, guys? You have to see this clearly, aspiring Great Standup Comic: the problem with those dumb and physically and spiritually repulsive peasant homosexuals (and the odd woman who somehow speaks like one of them) is not at all that their so-called ‘jokes’ are soul-crushingly banal and unfunny with not one miniscule trace discernible of any original thought, oh no, it’s not that; the real problem with them is that they use ‘dirty’ words! Let us not follow their squalid paths to readymade minor ‘stardom!’ Let us be high-minded and follow the path of the righteous towards the very same thing! For that is the path every Great Standup Comic must trod through! Come now, Brave Soul! Take my hand and follow me further into the deep! Together― so very together that it’s fucking unbelievable― we shall trudge forth courageously, blazing forward to a new path to Comedic Greatness!

Tip Number Two: Never Ever Respect The Audience

Allow me to drop some knowledge here. The Audience is nothing but a faceless swirl, dejected clumps of something that quite closely resembles humanity in a weird and inchoate manner. You― an aspiring Great Standup Comic― might have encountered such names as Lenny Bruce, Mitch Hedberg, Bill Hicks, Patton Oswalt, etc. and really do think you can pull off being edgy and ironic and talk about stuff that shoots past the Mark Of Normal And Comfortable Entertainment. But you’re obviously stupid, if not totally delusional! The Audience so does not want that! What they want is Happy Comedy: regulation ‘sure-hit’ vaudeville-era lines and pre-approved tangents and/or riffs from the clear and well-defined lines of Real Life, delivered by smiling non-threatening faces! What they want are mundane and everyday topics, candy-unicorn-rainbow type premises with marshmallow punchlines! (Mmmm… Soft and sweet!) The Audience wants you, their intrepid performer, to slacken the death-grip of Life Itself even just for five minutes. This, undoubtedly, is the admirable task every Great Standup Comic must take seriously. Abandon all notion of individuality and pander to their middling tastes! Yes! Like a clown, but better: you can actually call your engineered attempts to cater to The Audience’s basest instincts artistry without even cringing! That’s the kind of gall one finds in only the Greatest Standup Comics!

Never aim for any sort of comedy that shakes the foundations of souls! Stray from anything that probes the unconscious deeper than a pinprick (which is another mainstay of the Great Standup Comic’s physiology, which comes with a psychological bonus of Overcompensation by means of superfluous pontifications re: artistry!)! Reject anything that makes anyone think! Seriously― fuck The Audience! Fuck ‘em! Keep the chattering masses complacent and sedative-level happy with cute little bits or set-pieces about how they might also have noticed this cuddly little thing you noticed ‘earlier’ and isn’t what you had just said sooooo true and automatically (it logically follows) sooooo funny as well, ha ha ha! Never commit the rookie mistake of talking about anything weightier than a wisp of cotton-candy. In doing so, remember that you treat The Audience with respect, since you honestly expect them to follow your mental-processes; you are actually treating them as equals, which is really stupid given that the morons will inevitably feel offended― the last thing in the world a Great Standup Comic wants (next to I don’t know, a life?). Offending the small-minded and self-loathing mediocrities in this world should very well be the last thing on your trusty Comedic Checklist For World Domination (or some other archaic joke-type phrase like it). Instead of raising the collective consciousness up to your level, stoop down and cater to their every disgusting proletarian inclination! Make them think their lives really matter and feel the oncoming rush of Doing Well In This Thriving Industry!

Tip Number Three: Never Offend The Audience

There’s this thing that goes: ‘you can’t please everybody.’ And it’s true! But a Great Standup Comic must try, nonetheless!

How the fuck is this humanly possible, you might ask. Well, for one: never talk about anything ‘taboo’ or is anathema to basic human decency. What those ambiguously-defined words mean: don’t talk about anything that people really do and say and think everyday. Keep everything you say vague. And if you were to make fun of someone in the context of a joke, always make sure to keep the target as far away as possible from The Audience in terms of empathic feeling. The absolute best way to do this sort of surefire laugh-inducer is by insincerely making fun of yourself. In the very same words of another Great Standup Comic who likes to dress up sometimes as a Genuine Artist (painted Chuck Taylors, oh my God!): ‘be self-depreciating.’ (So ironic and meta and apt!) Regale The Audience with cheap, pandering tales about how your family has these funny things that they do that they might relate to; about how your Visayan maids are dumb as fuck and have ridiculous lilting accents; how amusing it all was when you mistook this one thing for another thing and got caught up in a bunch of hee-larious debacles that you will now recount, point for point in comically excruciating detail to give The Audience of Really Being There!

But what if you don’t have the supreme arrogance necessary for such trite self-deprecation? What other lofty, avant-garde fodder can a Great Standup Comic employ for his Humorous Musings? A suggestion is making fun of The Others. Who are these people? They morph periodically; basically, they are The People Who Are Not In The Audience Tonight. Perplexed? Wondering what perplexed even means? (Of course! You want to be a Great Standup Comic!) Let me help you all out.

Salient truth: the goal of the Great Standup Comic is to soothe the jangled wiring of The Audience’s ego, to psychologically and spiritually fellate their collective genitals while taking great care to free one hand to stroke/pinch/mash other erogenous zones. See, when we make jokes about someone or something, we have to let The Audience know that of course they aren’t the ones we are laughing at. A great example would be the Filipino Family-Favorite school of drollery: mistakes in English grammar/pronunciation. Every Filipino thinks that they speak/write in decent English and will laugh uproariously at anything that reinforces that unwarranted belief. The varieties of Filipino malapropisms, e.g. the Visayan predilection for confusing the letter ‘P’ for the sound ‘F,’ adding an ‘S’ to the end of singular nouns (more so on names ending in consonants), utilizing an accent that unequivocally establishes poverty or kabaduyan, etc., etc. These omnipresent ingredients for any socially relevant joke are personally guaranteed to make most given Audiences laugh their fucking heads off if not shit bloody chunks of vomit outright, all the while providing cathartic relief. How great is this: the Audience has fun while having embedded in their souls that The Others are stupid while They aren’t! It’s a warm and comforting feeling. Totally untrue― but comforting! And isn’t that what truly matters in life?

Never ever make the mistake of letting The Audience know just how stupid and despicable they all are compared to you, my dear aspiring Great Standup Comic, no matter how obvious it may be. That cannot be classified as Being Nice― and don’t we all know deep in our hearts that Being Nice is unquestionably essential for someone to be a Great Standup Comic? Of course we do!

Now here are other common errors we must keep vigilant watch for: writing jokes that require some semblance of an effort to be met halfway and thus gotten correct; delivering said jokes in a low-key manner that eschews jumping around, ‘funny’ faces and voices; an inability to spoon-feed punchlines; and the unwillingness to be laughed at. These are some of the death-traps that litter your sterling path towards glittering Comedy Superstardom. Remember this, my friend: the worth of a Great Standup Comic is solely determined by The Audience’s perceptions. If they do not laugh at you or react in a positive manner (especially if they call you ‘not nice’), then you are, by definition, not Great! This is all that matters! Nothing else!

When The Audience laughs immediately following your punchlines, you― a budding Great Standup Comic― are without a doubt finally Great! Never be content with what you really are! That’s the hallmark of a healthy consciousness! Don’t say to yourself, Yeah well, I’m a completely unfunny moron but at least stupid people find me amusing! No! No! No! Always believe that you are not simply a high-grade moron with whorelike tendencies disguised as Giving Them What They Want, a popular hack― but that you are a critical darling as well, a Comedy God! Believe!

If, for example, you might contend at this juncture that you are simply trying to push the boundaries of what is Funny, such as, say, leading The Audience to cringe awkwardly towards laughter, stop being such a fucking stupid-head! Don’t you know that gay comedians already do that? It doesn’t even matter now that their insults/offensive material are rehashed tripe served deathly cold and never hit the mark completely, e.g. ang haba ng baba mo sister, ang panget ng t-shirt mo, etc. Oh no, that doesn’t matter at all. What matters is that we take the High Road and refuse to be offensive like them, and nothing else!

Tip Number Four: Gay Standup Comics Are Never Great, But It’s Always Funny When A Great Standup Comic Is Gay

Okay. So we all know that gay standup comics suck. And their jokes are bad too. (Ziiiiiing!)

Not because they rely on ridiculously outrageous outfits, stupid enunciations and voices, or their ineffable gay-ness, but because they talk ‘dirty’ and ‘offend’ The Audience. However! When writing a joke that stumps you on the all-important (in our grand Comedic Theories, anyway) punchline ending and tempts you into throwing it away, reconsider! You can save the joke by simply inserting ex nihilo that you are gay! What a unique and unexpected twist! I know what you are about to ask next: how the fuck, Mr. Greatest Standup Comic Ever, can we mortals ever hope to achieve such a strange and wondrous and alchemical thing? Here’s how, you stupid motherfuckers!

First, take a very common premise for the background of the joke. Let’s use this one: ‘My girlfriend is the jealous type. She gets mad at me whenever she sees me holding hands with my friends.’ Now, any self-respecting and even just mildly original standup comic might protest at this time and say that this premise is dumb― mundane and obvious and boring. But see, the Great Standup Comic never gives up! What he would do here is stare down the inexorable dead-end and slap on an old punchline from his Old Bag Of Hackneyed Comedic Punchlines. The Middling Standup Comic would here say that this is a terrible piece of work and quit right then and there, but that is why he isn’t successful like we are! (We get 500-1000 pesos a week! Just as we deserve!) The Great Standup Comic will retool it the joke this way and use it in his next set: ‘My girlfriend is the jealous type. She gets mad at me whenever she sees me holding hands with my friends. What’s so bad about it? Bruno is, like, (pregnant pause) my best friend!’ Hooray! The Great Standup Comic has once again saved the joke and the day! He has implied― the very same way a heavy brick crashing through your window implies irritation― that he, in fact, is gay! Oh my God! What a stroke of genius! Someone should get a medal for that one! (And I did!)

* A Short Interpolation

If you are pressed for time with joke-writing processes, you can just wrap up any meandering testosterone-packed story with a ‘Pare, pa-kiss!’ and get that tired shit over and done with. Back to regular programming.

Tip Number Five: Fuck Punchlines (And Pretend You Never Knew Them)

Listen close, kids. This is one of the biggest and most important secret of every Great Standup Comic, the magic formula, if you will, of most, if not all, of our jokes: observe the shit out of everyday occurrences and reenact them wholesale onstage. That’s it! Some might think that premises are only the setting up of targets to be knocked down by the punchline. But they are stupid to think that― completely naïve as to the Great Standup Comedy Tradition. An ignorant bloke! (Doesn’t matter that neither you nor I aren’t at all British and that saying this sounds incredibly affected: ignorant bloke!) When a joke is written in the old classical ‘set-up, punchline’ scheme, it perturbs the mind of the Great Standup Comic; he, being supremely erudite, would rather spend more time surreptitiously watching scenes unfold from real life and paint them in clumsy and overly broad strokes onstage. To make you feel as if You Were Really There… my God… the acting ability involved! (It’s not a small wonder why Great Standup Comics don’t just go on directly to film!)

How can we you do this? Always try to set up the joke in an everyday situation as to ensure maximum ‘relatibility.’ Once the context is set, unleash a manic display of shiftless mimicry! Do your stereotypical Visayan maid voice! Jump around and pretend to really fall down! Shout words intermittently and without warning and to do stupid noises! Shimmy about the stage like the attention-hungry husk of an Artist you truly are, beneath all the frivolous posing! Do absolutely anything but give a punchline. You can call me on this one, my friend: by the time you, sweaty and short of breath, cease the gratuitous inanities, The Audience will be Rolling Down The Aisles with tears smeared on their cheeks from pure laughter and enjoyment, never once thinking that there was no punchline involved. But they laughed! The only important thing!

Are you getting confused? Okay. Since you’re probably not a paragon of abstract thinking, here are some clear and simple examples:

‘Have you ever noticed men and women are so different? It’s probably the reason why they were called different things in the first place, right? Like, when a women breaks the news that she’s engaged, her friends are like, ‘Whaaaat? You’re getting maaaaarried? (Mime a woman showing other women a ring) A-yeeeee-yeeeee! (Repeat said sound ad infinitum until laughter dies down.) And you know guys, right? They hear that their guy friend’s engaged, they go, ‘Is she pregnant?’ like it’s the only reason one should get married, right, right? Because men never propose! We surrender! Just as Chris Rock once said! But let’s say succumb! It’s such an original joke! Right, guys?

‘And how about shampoos, huh, guys? Have you ever noticed women use horse shampoos? Well, men like me, whose only dream in life was to have chest hair, use it on our chests! Have you ever tried that, guys? It’s great! But the hair that grew formed a horsetail! No idea why that happened or even if that is possible in any parallel universe, but it’s funny, isn’t it? Right, right? Please tell me it is! I exist only for your viewing pleasure, guys! (I also stole this premise from a private conversation and fumbled on the punchline!)’

‘Have you ever noticed how Chinese I am? It’s ridiculous. I recycle joke-premises like my forebears recycled meat and gristle to sell as luncheon meat! I will copy anything but make it a little different and pass it off as my own! Isn’t it funny how much of a stereotype I am?’

‘Have you ever noticed how anyone from the College of Saint Benilde is stupid? I can say that, because I’m from there! And I think of myself as an exception! Listen to my jokes! My maid is so stupid! My mother nags me a lot and compares me to my brother a lot! She thinks my brother is so much smarter than I am! Which he is! Which is sad because he’s still in the general vicinity of Stupid! Haha! I’m so funny I made myself cry! Right, guys, right? Oh God please tell me I’m funny! I may be old and ugly and a shiftless, irresponsible dick still living with my parents but at least I’m funny, right?’ Right? Please love me!’

I know what you’re thinking: those ‘jokes’ are moronic, simply gives a premise then proceeds to continually, mercilessly milk the shit right out of it without even bothering to offer anything original or remotely funny in itself. Do not fret! A Great Standup Comic’s jokes are never funny when set down on paper. (That’s the style of the Mediocre Standup Comic!) That’s corny. Our jokes must be experienced! Because we don’t use words in a funny way. We are funny whatever kind of words we choose to use! How do I know this? Because someone told me! Trust me! You may be way smarter than I am, but I am older than you and have been in this Thriving Industry longer than you have been! That’s where all my authority stems from!

Tip Number Six: Always Respect Your Elders

Remember this: elders got to be this good because they followed their elders also. And don’t we all want to get to be this good? Of course, you might be saying right now, wait the fuck up: weren’t all those Great Comedy Rules today formulated after someone ran through the previous rules and shredded them to bits? Well, yes. The rules were indeed gleaned from non-conformists who cut through their own individual paths. But now those products of courageous iconoclasm are The Law! And we must follow them to the very end! From the top of the gleaming red head to the shaft, down to the very last squiggle of crunchy animalistic hair!

Find this disheartening at any level? Fuck you, child. Quit being so goddamned cocky, thinking you’re All That when you’re totally Not. When older, more experienced Great Standup Comics give you advice, follow it blindly! Because you are certain to receive Good Advice at all times! Every single one of us Great Standup Comics wants you to succeed! We only want the best for you! It doesn’t even matter that we have absolutely no idea what the fuck we’re talking about! We want the best for you! Sop up all the miscellaneous tips and advice we throw your way, aspiring Great Standup Comic and do it with the utmost indiscretion; it’ll all work out for the best!

We will try to tweak your Comedic Styling to conform to the stupidity of the masses. Follow us unconditionally! We do not tell you this because we are emotionally needy and insecure of anyone who dares assert their originality― we do it because we care! We will not endlessly nitpick your way of doing Comedy because we’re just too dumb and (and as is usual) arrogant to understand― we do it because we care! We will not try to bring you down with trivial, small-scale politics because we’re self-important morons whose small-mindedness cannot grasp anything outside our own solipsistic stupidity― we do it because we fucking care! We will even tell you that it’s your choice whether to follow our advice or not. Do not fall for such obvious falsities! Follow our advice! Even the ones that contradict the other ones! Nothing more to be said! Because if you don’t, we’re going to be offended that you disregarded our well-meaning idiocy and will feel like the Ignorant Blokes that we truly are! Why? Because we care!

And then we can all be friends! All of us Great Standup Comics writing jokes together in gay-ass cafés, slurping foam from gay-ass lattes while Being Funny in conversation and acting like what we do is Very Important! Then our jokes will be virtually indistinguishable from each other’s― a Sloppy Amorphous Blob Of Pure Mediocrity! Then we can exchange jokes freely with other Great Standup Comics! And then― yes!― world fucking peace! Whooo!

Tenk yu, dats may taym ‘guys!’ My name is Chuckie Manio and I am the Absolute Greatest Standup Comic In The Universe Ever! I have now outlined to the best of my abilities the full extent of my vast knowledge re: the Sacred Art of Standup Comedy and How To Be A Great Standup Comic. Hopefully, the aspiring Great Standup Comic has learned some valuable and heartwarming lessons today. Now go forth and apply these gilded rules to your own Standup Comedy Set! I am all a-tingle with excitement for the day when I can watch you perform, and personally laugh at you. Until then, young one! Talk about The Art as if you know a fucking thing! Say bye-bye to anything vaguely original or surprising and say hi-hi to Mass Acceptance! Happy whoring, kiddies!