Unless I totally misread him, I think John Mangun is saying that, with the current increase in prices of goods and services, we are merely experiencing the darkest hours before dawn.

In stark contrast to the gloom and doom being peddled over at Filipino Voices, Mangun opines that:

Now, the difference between the “future” price and the “spot” price is narrowing, indicating that the momentum is changing, and soon, the “spot” price will move the “future” price and that direction will be down.

In other words, while things will keep on getting worse for a while yet, the turning of the tide is no longer too far off. When things get too pricey, after all, people will stop buying; when people stop buying, demand falls; and when demand falls, so too will the price of things.

But as wonderful as that news is, I can’t help but be struck by the differences in approach taken by these two writers, especially since they’re talking about the same basic thing: the increasing cost of living.

Where Gagelonia rhapsodizes about “perfect storms” - I swear, if I ever meet the guy who made that movie, I am going to hurt him so bad for adding yet another term to the lexicon of filipino melodrama - and dire predictions and exhorts us to “hang on” as though we were about to go off the edge of the world. Mangun , on the other hand, chooses to tell us that this isn’t world’s end.

The difference in points-of-view is important to acknowledge because the first - Gagelonia’s take - does nothing but increase the sense of despair already pervading our nation. And he does so gratuitously, gleefully predicting darker times. But of course, since he’s a juh-nah-list, he’s allowed to do that, isn’t he? HAH! And juh-nah-lists have no responsibility other than to tell the story they want to sell; never mind if it destroys a nation’s faith in itself, and by necessary implication, it’s ability to look beyond its despair and so get on the road to recovery.

Imagine what the outcome of WWII would have been if Churchill had not talked incessantly of victory even in the darkest days. Imagine what it would have been like if journalists constantly dwelt on how numerically superior the Japanese invaders were compared to our guerillas. The determination to win would have been pummeled and quite possibly snuffed out.

And it’s even worse today. At least, during the war, if you felt frustrated, it was perfectly alright to go out and whack a few enemies. When you’re frustrated with economics, on the other hand, who do you whack? LOL! You could maybe drive a truck into a crowd of late afternoon pedestrians and start stabbing people with a salad fork. Or you could shoot some kids in the playground now and say “I don’t like mondays.”

Mangun’s approach, by contrast, was a sober assessment of a singularly thorny situation; one which laid out the problem (high prices) but which also demonstrated that the problem is not insurmountable. Where Gagelonia insinuates that we’ve nothing to look forward to but crap, Mangun attempts to show that there is hope. And, as Pandora found out, hope matters.

And for us especially, hope is what we need if we are to actually turn the tide at some point. Just like the basic law of economics Mangun was citing - about how there is a point when prices rise so high that deman simply drops off - there is a basic law of human psychology that if you batter the psyche long and hard enough, it will reach a point where it just accepts defeat as an inevitability. In the face of a sustained barrage of gloom and doom, higher goals are abandoned, defeatism becomes the default, and mediocrity becomes the acceptable human condition.

And that, is simply not acceptable.

It would seem that people are having a really tough time accepting the appointments of the two new Comelec commissioners.

Surprisingly, in Leonardo Leonida’s case, the main objection isn’t to the kitschy alliteration in his name (that was my personal gripe) but to the administrative case for which he was admonished by the Supreme Court. Reading through the Newsbreak report, it would seem that the root cause of the admonition was - explicitly - not corruption but the perception that certain surety agents enjoyed a certain level of clout with Leonida when he was still a judge. Apparently, the agents were so influential that they could order office staff to do things like type release forms, allegedly upon Leonida’s say so.

The Court, in other words, warned Leonida to be more careful about how he could be perceived. A judge, after all, is expected to be like Caesar’s wife.

While the bare assertion that he was admonished by the Supreme Court clearly implies that Leonida is a bad character, reading between the lines gives me the impression that he was more hapless than ruthless. Anyone who has had any sort of dealing with government offices knows for a fact that in any office there is always a cadre of private individuals the regularly do business with that office. In most government offices, this cadre consists mostly of agents of suppliers - sniffing around for contracts to bid for or collecting payments or selling odds and ends. In trial courts, surety agents - those who secure bail bonds - are the office lurkers.

And it is also a known fact that these individuals have been around for so long that there is often an easy familiarity between them and the office staff and, on occasion, the boss or (in this case) the judge. This familiarity leads to these individuals being tolerated certain liberties - like telling the boss’ secretary to type up something for the boss’ signature - as Leonida was accused of. In a vast majority of cases, these activities are harmless since the staff can easily confirm the order with the boss. But the staff usually don’t either because the activity is routine or because they’re on good terms with these individuals anyway.

More plainly stated, the act Leonida was accused of - coupled with the finding that no corruption was involved - was harmless and ultimately meaningless. In fact, about the only circumstance that makes it shady is the fact that Leonida was, in fact, a judge and should have held himself to a higher standard. But still, with no corruption tainting the big picture, we are left only with the image of a judge who was lax in running his office, either because he didn’t have a forceful character or because he was easy-going by nature. I would have said incompetent, except that the Supreme Court didn’t conclude that either.

Hardly reason to disqualify him from becoming a commissioner.

The problem, I think, is that people are apprehensive of the Comelec becoming subservient. In truth, there is much logic in this fear. A weak-willed commissioner who cannot even control his own staff will not likely be able to stand up to the powers that be. In that way, the Comelec might truly end up like silly putty in the hands of unscrupulous powers. And inasmuch as the Comelec performs quasi-judicial functions, i.e., at some point, Leonida will have to be a judge again, this track record of weak-willed management portends a future where all his decisions will be mistrusted because people think that he can be manipulated or unduly influenced. He may not be a shrewd operator like Garci was; but his apparent pliability might well ensure the same outcome.

So, taking everything into consideration, I’d have to say, wtf was the Palace thinking? My theory is that Leonida is not a serious appointment but more of a placeholder. Someone who can give the Comelec the quorum it needs but who can easily be replaced when he is inevitably rejected by the CA, or when he is no longer convenient to have around. In a sense, this also explains why he was appointed only to finish out the recently deceased commissioner’s term.

~

Lucenito Tagle’s appointment, on the other hand, was clearly based on his race’s uncompromising honesty and dedication to cold logic. I mean look at the picture.

The guy’s a Vulcan!

All this talk of 200 thousand pesos for every one of Sulpicio’s latest victims has gotten me thinking whether they’ve got the valuation right. I have a sneaking suspicion that Sulpicio pegged the compensation arbitrarily.

One can almost imagine a bunch of Sulpicio bosses, sitting around a board room, talking about how deeply they were willing to dent the company’s wallet to recompense the victims. I’d like to think, that in that scenario, there was at least one BYM (bright young man) who spoke up - no matter how timorously - to tell his bosses that they could never pay anyone enough. But as these things go, no such BYM might have existed at all.

So, they get down to haggling. I’m pretty sure some nervous ninny suggested 500 thousand to begin with. Then some lawyer is gonna argue costs of litigation and whatnot, so the number gets chopped down to 400 thousand. But wait! the myopic accountant pipes up: we need to patch up some of our other ships! We can’t afford to pay every claimant 400 thousand - make it 300 thousand. Then one of the bosses harrumphs - those people can’t be worth more dead than alive, can they? And besides, it’s nearly Christmas (wtf?!) so we need the money for bonuses. Make it 250 thousand.

One imagines that everyone falls silent when this number is mentioned. Everyone knows it’s less than what is fair, but is still more than what they’re willing to pay. Then someone yells, “Fuck it! Let’s give ‘em 200 thousand and tell them that it’s up front and they don’t have to wait for the courts to award them damages. They know we have lawyers and they know if they go to court, they prolly won’t get anything at all! Hell, I’d say give ‘em 100 thousand if I thought we could spin that with PR. They’ll take the 200 thousand. Believe me.”

And a collective sigh of relief sussurates around the room. The press release is drafted in 15 minutes.

But what is a life really worth?

Most valuations take into consideration the deceased’s age, physical condition, mental health, and educational attainment; all of which go into determining first, how many more productive years of life he can reasonably expect, and second, how much money he can earn during that time.

Other valuations involve happiness indeces; how happy was this person in life? How content was he? And how much would it have cost to keep him that happy for the x-number of years he might stay alive? Cultural factors are brought in, as well as lifestyles - if he were an adrenalin junkie, for instance, he might not live too long. It’s a little like insurance, I suppose, only a little more morbid since the object of the projections is already dead.

The problem is that if Sulpicio were to follow these formulas for everyone of its victims, some would get more, some would get less. That would be a terrible PR position for them to be in. Those who get less will crucify the company for sure. Not to mention the fact that those who get a judgment may actually net more than 6 million in damages - the recent award for the family of a victim of the MV Princess of the Orient.

So for Sulpicio, both financially and from a PR standpoint, only an across-the-board valuation is even worth considering. By its very nature, therefore, the valuation is arbitrary and does not accurately reflect the value of the life lost.

So why offer it at all? Because, as the imaginary boardroom anti-hero said, people will take the money, no matter how crappy it is.

Part of the problem is the mendicant mentality most people have: they will fight for scraps because scraps are better than nothing. And they don’t even have to actually be beggars to think and act this way. All it takes, I think, is a certain kind of despair; the conviction that things are so unsalvageably bad that you have no choice but to grab the knife by the blade, even when you actually don’t have to.

In the case of Sulpicio, this despair is created by, among other things …

Wait …

RANT!!!

Don’t you hate it when reporters and juh-nahlists write things like “the plaintiffs filed an instant case?’ As if cases were noodles or three-in-one coffee. For future reference, people, when a Court’s decision uses the phrase ‘instant case’ what they actually mean is ‘this case.’ As in, this specific case we’re currently resolving. Derived from “instance,” the phrase makes reference to the present and immediate matter under consideration.

… the belief that the justice system is so irretrievably flawed that justice cannot be expected, and is fueled by the overwhelming desire for instant gratification. But since the latter is a clear function of social conditions - and therefore unavoidable for some people - it isn’t really something one can object to; it simply is. What aggravates the situation, however, and turns the desire for instant gratification into repetitive whining and breast-beating self-pity is the populism of media, pundits, and politicians.

Media sensationalizes the story, dwelling on the tragedy and playing up the pathos, thereby reinforcing the helplessness already felt by the families of the victims; pundits expound hate and anger - as I myself did - further fueling the sensation of being hoodwinked by someone; and politicians, well, politicians politicize the issue, casting the victims into the role of victims twice over: once, at the hands of Sulpicio, and again, at the hands of the government.

Its a recipe for despair, and it plays right into the hands of Sulpicio.

With this ready made atmosphere of desperation, it takes very little to convince the victims that it is in their best interest to take the shut-up money, and in the process - perhaps even unwittingly - to commoditize their grief.

And they are not alone. The rest of us, by letting this happen, also commoditize our outrage; it’s just that we’re not the ones getting the money. When we see the victims get paid off, we pipe down, content with the altruistic feeling - an illusion - that we have done something. But kid yourselves not: we haven’t done anything worth writing about. All we’ve really done is compromised the dead by putting a monetary value on their lives.

What’s a life worth?

It is worth remembering.

They want to re-float the MV Princess of the Stars? I’d rather not, if it were up to me.

The proposal to re-float the vessel makes sense only because of its humanitarian aspect - it’ll help recover the bodies. But we all know that this is a business decision. Recover the bodies, sure, but isn’t it pretty obvious that the main point is still to recover the vessel and thereby eventually resume making money with it? Only the unbelievably or deliberately dense would say otherwise.

SO, my proposal is - raise the damned thing; recover the victims; and allow it to settle back to where and how it is situated now. AND leave it there.

Leave it there as a reminder to all and sundry that life is fragile; and that because it is fragile, life must be protected at all costs - especially from crass commercialism and hubris.

Leave it there because the spirit of the law says that the perpetrator of the crime cannot be allowed to profit from the proceeds of his criminal acts; Sulpicio Lines cannot be allowed to recycle this vessel into yet another means to make money for itself; not ever, and especially not when the memory of the people who died in this ship is still fresh.

Or if it’s too morbid to leave in the water ( a feng shui expert once commented that the reason our country persists in the doldrums is many of our modern statuary show people in anguish, or anger, or - in the case of Ninoy Aquino - dying), turn it into scrap iron, and out of that create a lighthouse (or some other monument) that will serve as a warning to all ships not to set sail into a typhoon.

Or if a lighthouse is too pedestrian, why not use the scrap to build a statue of a woman, waiting to welcome her sons and daughters home from the sea?

And in order to round out this list, why not chop the ship up into little pieces to be used as artificial reefs. The imagery should be obvious: out of death, life; that which caused death has been transformed into something which shelters life; swords into plowshares and all that.

Any other suggestions in the comments will be welcome.

I’ve always enjoyed Recah Trinidad ever since I heard him as a commentator when Onyok Velsaco fought in the Olympics. I was just a kid but those hysterics were forever burned in my memory. “Sumuntok si Onyok! MABUHAY ANG PILIPINAS!!!! … teka, teka, DINADAYA tayo mga kababayan, DHINAHDHAYAH TAHYOHHH!!!!” He just unabashedly abandons all pretense of professional detachment and that makes him a true representative of the public - the one who speaks in our hyper-ventilating language, and with our hysterical voices at ringside.

Of course, I’m still conflicted about dear old Recah. I love his total lack of restraint, but I also cringe at his hyperboles.

Well, today, he unleashed a doozy of a lovesong to the boxer du jour. It’s a long article, but I just had to put it up here.

COMMENTARY
Pacquiao dumps the script for his greatest moment

By Recah Trinidad
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 04:04:00 07/01/2008

MANILA, Philippines—He was a work in progress, trainer Freddie Roach kept saying of Manny Pacquiao. There was likewise no clear hint the former poor boy, a skinny southpaw who used to sleep on the cold floor, would be able to come up with the greatest, richest performance of his life.

But last Sunday in Las Vegas, Roach, a two-time trainer of the year, could only watch in quiet glee as Pacquiao transformed from a brawling bull into a full-fledged ring matador with his clinical demolition of defending world lightweight champion David Diaz.

The change was complete as it was classy.

It also erased whatever cheap doubts there were on Pacquiao’s earlier installation as world pound-for-pound boxing king.

Not bad so far. A little too gooey-eyed, but still tolerable. Now if only he would quit while he was ahead.

* * *

Roach may have exaggerated in bragging that Diaz would need something supernatural to conquer Pacquiao.

I think I may need something supernatural to get through this smarmy crap.

But the way Pacquiao did it, not even a miracle would’ve saved Diaz from the speed and sharpness of the former one-handed raw banger they now call a prizefight masterpiece.

Raw banger?

Fight promoters hit it right when they labeled the championship “Lethal Combination,” peddling the promise of a bloody, no-holds barred duel in the Nevada desert.

Pacquiao however threw away the script and, in the process, created one of the most awesome mismatches in prizefight lore.

What script? I’m confused.

* * *

Indeed, there were suggestions of two brick-fisted warriors out to outgun and out-slug each other in a terrible test of steel nerves and gangland guts.

You gotta love’em metaphors, but gangland guts? Awesome alliteration.

Pacquiao however left his boiling temper, his predictable impatience in the dugout.

Of course, there were instances when he would smirk and again bang his gloves—a trademark of his explosiveness—after getting hit.

But these could all be a put-on, a ploy to mask a surefire edge he had gained with his newfound overview fighting stance.

Instead of bend low, engage his foe in an eyeball-to-eyeball goring battle, Pacquiao coolly stood his ground, speared and danced his way out of harm’s way enroute to a slow but sure dominance, before unleashing a crisp, soundless left cross to the chin, a sword thrust through a bull’s heart vein.

Heart vein? Is that the same as the lung windpipe? Or the kidney ureter? Or the womb fallopian tube? And didn’t you love how he “danced his way out of harm’s way?” Sounds like a male flamenco dancer ducking the flying stilletos of his partner. But beyond that, if it were such a storied mismatch, how could Pacquiao have ever been in harm’s way?

* * *

To those who wondered where they had witnessed this scene before, it could be in the movies, out in the sun-baked bullfight arenas in Madrid or Hemingway’s Pamplona where, as the great American writer put it, “the bull, as it should be is dead; the man, as he should be, is alive with a tendency to smile.”

Fight fans can be such gore-loving fuckers, can’t they?

The truth is that, after completing a perfect execution, an unforgettable world boxing rarity, fear suddenly crossed Pacquiao’s mind as Diaz lay battered, bloodied, convulsing on the floor.

Oh dear god, no.

Here, Pacquiao decided to again dump the fight script.

Again with the script! Are we in Hollywood? Or Gangland? Or the bull rings of Spain? Make up your mind, Recah.

* * *

Instead of thumping his breast, instead of bursting into a triumphant yell, Pacquiao readily turned to his fallen foe. Pacquiao reached out for Diaz’s arms and tried to pull him back.

The celebration could wait.

He suddenly saw in the opponent a brother in utter distress and, like a passing Samaritan, Pacquiao offered to help Diaz off a deathly cliff.

That he did it before claiming triumph as cameras rolled and the whole world watched was indeed incredible.

Maybe this same thing had happened to other ring greats, Ali, Sugar Ray Leonard, Julio Cesar Chavez, or Oscar de la Hoya himself, but they had left the golden chance at heroism and nobility slip.

Anyway, Pacquiao may have not realized it but, after making his countryman very proud with his conquest of a fourth world crown, he next handed the Pinoy a rare gift. The native nobility Pacquiao displayed in that moment of moments helped immeasurably in telling the world that the Filipino, cheated, cursed, corrupted, is brave, strong, and, last but not the least, worthy of applause and respect.

*Sniff-sniff.*  Okay. I admit it. This part really rang true. I was never prouder of Pacquiao than I was at that moment when true concern came over his features and he grasped Diaz’s outstretched arm. That was a golden moment for sportsmanship. Quite a refreshing change from all the trash-talking one has come to expect - and dread - from professional sports.

Thank God for the greatest Filipino fighter ever.

Too cheesy, but can’t argue with that.

Manny Pacquiao is a superlative athlete. After his win over Diaz today, I heard people referring to him as the best pound-for-pound fighter today. Whatever that means. So, yeah, its a given: the boy can box. But since we’re Filipinos, you can expect that there will inevitably be an orgy of race-based self-congratulations where everybody will take as much credit - no matter how vicariously - as they can for the awesome felling of Diaz.

Stupid stupid stupid. Today was not a victory for Filipinos; it was the victory of a Filipino.

First of all, talent and skill at any discipline is never a function of race. It is a result of natural ability, good training, and dedication to craft. Manny has all three; despite his frequent -and frequently abortive - forays into non-boxing pursuits, his dedication to the sport cannot be questioned. When he starts training, he fucking disappears, except when Roach says the world can see him again. The sad truth is, Pacquiao could be ethnically Mexican and he would still be as good.

Secondly, Pacquiao’s Filipino-ness is totally eclipsed by the fact that his boxing ability is honed by foreigners. This means that he is not the product of Filipino intelligence and values, but of foreign, specifically American.

WHAT PASSES FOR A SIDEBAR:

Remember Rocky IV (I think)? Dolph Lundgren played the role of Drago - the Siberian Express. A fucking giant of a man who felled Apollo Creed, then a symbol of America.

Drago was the product of Russian technology (yes, he shot steroids and so was a fucking cheat), and his training was directed by Russian values - a cinematic exaggeration of course, and prolly not an accurate representation - and intelligence. He was, therefore, Mother Russia focused to a laser point in one man.

By contrast, Apollo Creed embodied American disdain for its enemy. He trained lackadaisically, owing to the belief that Russians were inferior and could therefore do nothing to threaten the superior American - and by extension, American superiority. Creed died.

Then comes Rocky. Rocky represented a return to the core values that made America great: hard work, building strength through adversity (Hitlerian shadows there), and individual triumph over deprivation. In the final fight, Rocky brought to the ring everything that Americans believed good about themselves, and clashed with everything the Russians thought admirable about themselves. And since it was an American movie, American values won. Rocky was America.

Manny Pacquiao is NOT the Philippines. He did not go into the ring bearing anything even remotely Filipino, unless you count his rosary and his devout rituals. While it can be said that at least that aspect of him represented us Filipinos - in the sense that almost by default, we think adversity can be beaten by prayer - everything else he needed to secure a tangible victory came from his American trainor - and by extension, America.

ANOTHER SIDEBAR:

I can hear howls of protest: he embodies perseverance under extreme personal adversity - isn’t that Filipino? Yes, it is. However, so did Navarette, so did Velasco, and so did that other guy who looked like my college classmate. But where are they now, eh?

The truth is, Pacquiao’s perseverance under extreme personal adversity was enough to get him knocking on the door of greatness. Beyond that door, how can that perseverance matter? He’s not even in adversity anymore. Beyond that door, other values and traits start taking precedence.

In the case of other almost-great Filipinos, the traits we’ve most often seen are hubris, self-indulgence, and terminal cases of persecution complexes. These things we see everyday in our neighbors and in ourselves; and it takes a deliberate effort of will - also known as discipline - to overcome them. Are we - in general - a disciplined people?

And third, the victory of one Filipino says nothing - absofuckinglutely nothing - about Filipinos in general. Despite Manny, far too many Filipinos are still lazy, unimaginative, and mediocre; far too many of our youth are pathologically enamored with consumerism; and we are still a nation run by morons, who are ‘fiscalized’ by idiots, with running commentary from mercenary retards.

Diaz got his, and Manny is by now probably the winningest Filipino boxer evah.

Snapping Diaz’s head with a right jab, Pacquiao unleashed a right jab before uncorking his pet left hand, sending the now former champ, who never saw the killer blow coming, crashing at the 2:24 mark of the ninth round.

This is, without doubt, the single bright spot in this entire week of heartbreak. I should probably be thanking Manny.

It is said that once every millenium, the Devil decrees a perfect day in hell. All the fires die down and a cool breeze blows through, bringing with it the scent of jasmine. On that day, the boiling lakes of sulphur turn into placid seas, the thorns on the whips of the demons all blossom into soft-petaled roses, and the torturers themselves administer healing ointments and tender reassurances. On that day, all the screaming and weeping and wailing of the imprisoned souls turn into a huge sigh of relief.

And then, just as abruptly, the Devil returns everything to the way it was.

This, it is said, was the Devil’s unique addition to the tortures of his domain: the reminder to all imprisoned there that they were, in fact, in hell.

Today, I woke up from a dream and realized that it was just a dream. My perfect day had ended and I was back in hell.

I hate it when people call each other ‘beh.’ Obviously short for baby - or more precisely, short for baby’s idiot cousin: bebeh.

I explain this because today, I lost patience with an otherwise dear friend of mine. It had been a long afternoon and this thing we were working on just wasn’t … well, working. Now this friend kept whining (sorry luv - you know you were) and dreaming up worst case scenarios. “Oh, shit, we’re in trouble if we can’t get this done, beh!” “We’ll fail, beh!” “We’ll turn into pillars of salt while the known universe crumbles into so much sawdust, beh!”

Arrrrrrgggghhh!

I shot up out of my seat and rounded on her so severely that I think she fell out of hers. Remembering it now, it all seems so funny. But back then, everything seemed to be unfolding underwater. I felt so sluggish, but the words were spilling out of my mouth faster than I could edit. I watched as her face went from worried to shocked to incredulous to weepy; I watched as tears welled up in her eyes and start making tracks down her cheeks.

And during it all, I had a mounting sense of satisfaction. Everyone is a sadist; the only difference is how deep we’ve buried it. Well, tonight, my inner Marquise clawed its way to the surface and went apeshit on my friend’s ass.

Not that I’m proud of what I’d done. She’s the sweetest thing on earth. She’s so sweet that once, when she couldn’t sleep because of a buzzing mosquito, she caught the pesky thing, cupped it in her two hands and - instead of squishing it - made loud buzzing noises into her cupped hands. “So it’ll know how annoying it was,” she explained. Hahaha.

Well, tonight, I guess was her turn to be annoying; and it was her that i held in my cupped hands. I only wish I hadn’t lashed into her like that. Hence this semi-public apology … and *gulp* debasement.

P_______, I’m sorry … beh.

Over at Filipino Voices, Marck wrote:

To me, at least, now is not the time to go after the Sulpicio Lines owners, strap them to the stocks and pillory, and throw rotten tomatoes at them before they get hanged publicly for making the bingo. There will always be time for the scathing rage that comes from the indignation following a tragedy. There will always be time to accuse. I still believe in the inherent goodness of people to add up to donations, to help out in whatever way they can.

I disagree. There is no time like the present to beat Sulpicio Lines senseless and blast it out of the water for good.

Two reasons. First: if you wait until public outrage dies down, the movement to tear that murderous shipping line to shreds loses momentum. Without the unflattering attention of mainstream media, the regulators jump right back into bed with the regulated, and the ships of death sail on. I mean, even in the midst of this outrage, didn’t Sulpicio even have the chutzpah to say that it would continue to sell tickets despite a beaching order?

Second, there is no reason why the ’scathing rage’ cannot be stoked while the gentler passions of charity and love are also being paid attention to. Being angry should not mean being rooted to one spot just churning out bad vibes. That lady who gave part of her NFA ration? Hell, she was prolly pissed as hell about Pag-Asa - if it weren’t for their crappy predictions, she’d be bringing home her full ration instead of having to share it with the poor bastards in the provinces. Because let’s face it: giving is never easy. That’s what makes the act of giving so heroic - you’re giving even if it bites you. Besides, it’s always irritating when the incompetence of other people cause an inconvenience in our own lives; doubly so when that incompetence - as in the case of Pag-Asa and Sulpicio - proves fatal.

So, the government - and everyone else who cares a damn about how things ought to be - should give succour with left hand and, with the right, bring down the almighty motherfucking hammer of god.