Slamdunk Beggar

"You are correct, my friend, Butch Francisco is not not-gay!"

One should watch Slumdog Millionaire if only for the child-actors and actresses who were plucked from abject poverty to play vital paying parts in the movie. However, one should not watch Slumdog Millionaire for the apparent reason that these child actors and actresses have gotten raw deals and have meekly returned to abject poverty as soon as the klieg-lights in the 2009 Oscars have been put off. One should not watch this, too, for its bad acting, bad reels, bad cinematography and bad Bollywood dance number. This is the first Best Picture which solely relied on smart editing and smarter state of suspended disbelief. All the rest are prototypical Danny Boyle: the template is to shock the viewers and rattle their nerves. Trainspotting did it gloriously well. Slumdog did it by slapping the viewer at the end to emphasize the point that the movie was indeed over-hyped.

More vomit-inducing events were triggered by its Philippine showing foremost of which is the writing of a critique cum I-love-Richard-Gutierrez perorations of uber closet queen Butch Francisco. He forwarded the thesis that the Filipino directors could have done the film better. Wrong answer, Mr. Closet Queen. If you have your way, the material will be handled by the Reyeses and the Lamangans because you do not like the abrasive Lav Diaz and the indie directors are not masters of the melodramatic. Your vision, Mr/Ms Francisco will be a Slumdog with your GMA male-crushes on it answering stupid questions as “Do you like Butch Francisco’s biceps?” and “Will you marry Butch in London?” then segue-ing into a song and dance number every two minutes. Your Slumdog will be as vomit-inducing as your gossip reportages. Do not ever pose the question again why Jamal in Slumdog did not file an administrative case against the police who tortured him because the proposition is plain stupid and you’re disgracing your gay community by this chain of closet queen logic.

My point is: Slumdog is a gem by its premise and by its smart editing. The tension, the build-up, the staccato flashbacks, the thematic approach and the poverty frames are the Oscar-worthy elements of this opus. It is really the feel-good movie to go to, well, up until when the last question was finally answered. As I’ve intimated, the train station reunion and the song-and-dance number are forced and served no purpose. Jamal just won 10 Million rupees in national TV and he sat there in a dark corner of a train station seedier than the crannies of Quiapo, at midnight. Well, he did it for love. Right. I guess I’ll throw up. Embrace your love, Jamal, then launch in a sing and dance number in all Bollywood glory. Please let me go, I’ll vomit again.

The premise—actually a take from a novel—is a magnificent fantasy staple which anybody can relate to. I found it specially so and more when I each answered the quiz questions in my head and got 3 correct ones. The moral of the story is that in quiz bees and similar competitions you answer the questions banking on your stock knowledge—from those you learned in school and more importantly so from the rough edges of real life. In one’s so called life, the knowledge formed from engagements and encounters in the opposite spectra of human experience (the glorious and the traumatic) sticks encyclopedic in one’s mental backburner. Slumdog, if one can read between the lines, tells us that it is not Magic-Realism at work; trivia and random questions are answered by one’s earnest recollection and re-association of these hit and miss information with one’s life encounters.

If I was the one glued in that seat—before that menacing and heckler host—I would still have nailed realistically all the nine questions as anybody in us could. Some of those questions are localized (that on showbiz, religion and literature) which many of us, including and specially Butch the gossip-monger, could have a chance to hurdle. I answered Benjamin Franklin correctly because in my whole life, a US dollar note in my pocket is always a $100 note. I answered Samuel Colt correctly because it is the most suggestive of a revolver in the choices given. I answered Jack Hobbs rightly using my elementary bluffing sense nurtured by occasional poker games (two choices and the other was suggested in the most dubious manner, which would you settle in?). The 10 Million rupees question was spot on—to my liking, to my taste, to my prejudices.

For ten million rupees, the question is:

In Alexander Dumas' book "The Three Musketeers", two of the musketeers are called Athos and Porthos. What is the name of the third Musketeer?

A.Cardinal Richelieu
B. Planchet
C. D'Artagnan
D. Aramis

Without blinking my eyes: D. ARAMIS! Give me the 10 Million rupees, please. I answered that correctly not because I was a quiz bee champion in high school. Nor would it be due to a voracious appetite for the Classics. The Classics to me being limited to a narrow band of orgasmic literary treats: Dostoyevsky, Kafka, the books on war and violence in the Holy Bible and the Beats. Nor would it be credited to the movie-version which I purposedly did not waste my time on, until now that I’m older. Slumdog sums it for us, man: it is written. Life encounters give it to you, no less, no more.

In 1999, I was in First Year Law and it was customary that a law student should repair his weary shoulders (the heavyweight law books taking their toll) and his worn-out butt (for sitting so long trembling in fear of the daily recitations) in a sauna bath. The repair shop of my study group of four DOMs with teenager hormones was in Antipolo, a smoking windowless block conspicuously named Aramis. While browsing numbers and comparing two-pieced visions of the tender and the unholy (damn Budweiser, damn Red Horse), I blurted to the mommy-san: WTF is Aramis, anyway? Mommy-san, schooled in the ways of the drunk and the horny, softly whispered to my ears: Hijo, he is one of the three musketeers. I have never forgotten that piece of information ever since. Credit it to the Zen-demeanor of Mommy-san, credit it to dear No. 17 for whom I have made Aramis my Saturday pilgrimage in the gasping months of the last millennium.

See, it is written. Now, give me my 10 million rupees, you thrash-talking host, before I stick burning pokers into your eyes!

Ninja

Nine Inch Nails. Jane’s Addiction. We’re In This Together Now. And All That Could Have Been. I have no money, of course, to fly to North America to watch them perform. If I have, damn the pandemic, I’ll go there even on short notice and before the drum loops in Somewhat Damaged tiptoe in disarray, or before the whispered novena in Three Days descend like metallic rain. I will not utter the F-word again.

Nine Inch Nails. Minus Jane’s Addiction. In Asian cities. Sounds a great deal. The horned icons from the barbecue pits have been accommodating of late. Happiness In Slavery. The Perfect Drug. The Day The World Went Away. Closer. A closed deal, sweet. I will not utter the F-word again.

8-12-09: NIN will be in Taipei.

8-12-07: I small-talked with Quentin Tarantino in a coffee shop in Gateway, hours before the maiden Philippine showing of Reservoir Dogs. He sat with me over coffee because all the kibitzers who approached him were either after his autograph or his awkward smile in some pa-picture poses. I happened to be at his side and I blurted: People, watch his movies, that’s the point. He patted me and addressed the milling gawkers: Oh, right, hey, how about if instead of autographs I’ll just shake your hands! People started to go away and some commented: Ang suplado pala, Kill Bill lang naman ang hit, akala mo mga Stallone nagawa niya, hmmpt. We proceeded to exchange notes for about 5 minutes, over bland coffee. That was two years ago. On my 3O plus birthday, I’ll spend all I’ve got; I’ll heed to Taipei and watch NIN. La Mer. Pilgrimage. I’m Looking Forward To See You Finally. I will not utter the F-word again.

I browsed the website to purchase my ticket. I saw it—the thing—staring back at me like Placido Domingo on acid:

08.05.09 manila, philippines araneta coliseum

Nuff said, no words can visualize, not even suggest, the string instruments in World War III and orchestral notes plastered a la Pollock welling from the great below. Araneta Coliseum, 30 fucking minutes from my shack! Mar-Korina, gamitan-wedding, who gives a rat's face. Seven days before my birthday, I’ll be in the stage-side, NIN will be my Pavarotti while Araneta Coliseum savors the sublime death rattle before the dome will be reduced to a linear note in a marriage in aid of election. Fucking awesome!

Echols v. Pelullo, A Dissent

377 F.3d 272
Antwun ECHOLS, an individual
v.
Arthur PELULLO, an individual;
Banner Promotions, Inc., a
Delaware Corporation, Appellants
No. 03-2740.
United States Court of Appeals, Third Circuit.
Argued February 24, 2004.
Filed: July 30, 2004.

QUINONEZ, dissenting.

The majority in painstakingly overreaching to find a living contract when there is none has delivered a knockout to a boxer already sprawled in the canvas, battered and bruised. In insisting validity out of a non-contract, it dealt a killer blow to the cautionary tales conjured in Don King Prods., Inc. v. Douglas, 742 F.Supp. 741 (S.D.N.Y.1990) and perpetrated the ghastly spectacle of boxing promoters preying upon hungry struggling pugilists. Along with the critical blow, the majority made adverse back-pedalling in the progress made by jurisprudence in the realms of contract formation, contract interpretation and remedies for contractual breaches. The majority presided on a no-contest, forced the exchange of blows and roped the emaciated combatant for being, well, gaunt and helpless.

The majority should have taken note with much thought that the pseudo-contract of exclusive promotional agreement between Antwun Echols and Banner Promotions, Inc. is open ended and crucial provisions thereof require further negotiations. In large measure, the relationship between the boxer and the promoter in this respect was at most a preliminary commitment which needs formalization and finalization should the condition annexed arise. Critical terms of the agreement—the minimum price structure after a loss at the core—are left to future negotiations. This alone prevents the actualization of the contract; abates its becoming into a final, formal and completed agreement.

Quite certainly, the agreement by its uncertainty as to price structure fails to pass muster the restrictive requirement in the formation of contracts that consideration is elemental and constitutive of the pact. Further, the agreement is unenforceable because it sought to negotiate future agreements without even specifying its material and essential price terms. The District Court insisted on this finding and this should be sustained. On the other hand and more tellingly, the majority fumbled on its stilted enunciation that price is not an essential element in this regard. Boxing is not a jab at vanity nor could it ever be; it is a bloody sport and its participants enter the ring not so much for vainglory as it is for money. No self-respecting pugilist would shatter the jaw of his counterpart just for the blood splattered in the canvas. It is an income raiser and those who climb the ring are in it for the money. No exclusive promotion agreement can ever be forged without the promise and the prospect of a payoff to the boxer. A boxer would not enter into such a pact if he is not entitled to a sum nor would he continue trading fists without the prospect of a take-home pay.

The majority should also take to heart that a typical exclusive promotional agreement is a contract of adhesion. It is a contract that does not allow for negotiation as the adhering party is left to take or leave the concord completely. There exists a prior supposition that the parties negotiated the terms in unequal grounds and the one who adheres is all the time left to pick up the crumbs. In the extant relationship, the boxer is in no position to negotiate the standard terms of the contracts; the promoter laid down the scrawny buffet table for him to partake of or to get hungrier. Courts of law should enforce standard form contracts. On one hand, they undeniably fulfill an important efficiency role in society. Standard form contracting reduces transaction costs substantially by precluding the need by the parties to negotiate the many details of contract each time a service is bartered. On the other hand, there is the potential for inefficient, and even unjust, terms to be accepted by those signing these contracts. Such terms might be seen as unjust if they allow the seller to avoid all liability or unilaterally modify terms or terminate the contract.

The judicial weighing scale should be tilted in favor of the adhering party for the following reasons:

Lengthy boilerplate terms are often in small print and written in complicated legal language which often seems irrelevant. The prospect of a buyer finding any useful information from reading such terms is correspondingly low. Even if such information is discovered, the consumer is in no position to bargain as the contract is presented on a “take it or leave it” basis. Coupled with the often large amount of time needed to read the terms, the expected payoff from reading the contract is low and few people would be expected to read it.

Often the document being signed is not the full contract; the purchaser is told that the rest of the terms are in another location. This reduces the likelihood of the terms being read and in some situations, such as software end user license agreements, can only be read after they have been notionally accepted by purchasing the good.

The most important terms to purchasers of a good are generally the price and the quality, which are generally understood before the contract of adhesion is signed. Terms relating to events which have very small probabilities of occurring or which refer to particular statutes or legal rules do not seem important to the purchaser. This further lowers the chance of such terms being read and also means they are likely to be ignored even if they are read.

Standard form contracts are signed at a point when the main details of the transaction have either been negotiated or explained. Social pressure to conclude the bargain at that point may come from a number of sources. The salesperson may imply that the purchaser is being unreasonable if they read or question the terms, saying that they are "just something the lawyers want us to do" or that they are wasting their time reading them. If the purchaser is at the front of a queue (for example at an airport car rental desk) there is additional pressure to sign quickly. Finally, if there has been negotiation over price or particular details, then concessions given by the salesperson may be seen as a gift which socially obliges the purchaser to respond by being co-operative and concluding the transaction.

If the good which is being sold using a contract of adhesion is one which is essential or very important for the purchaser to buy (such as a rental property or a needed medical item) then the purchaser might feel they have no choice but to accept the terms. This problem may be mitigated if there are many suppliers of the good who can potentially offer different terms.”


The promotional contract in dispute should be read in such a way that it gives necessary concession to the adhering party. To read it otherwise as what the majority did in favor of the promoter is to give away all things deemed unjust and unfair. It should not clearly be the case for Antwun Echols.

I Am Morris Arka-tsi

Taong 2050. Boy Abunda is on his nth year as President of the Republic. He/She is already an It, having been dead for so many years past. The Boy Abunda in the Palace is a trans-gender robotic construct as metallic and cold as Kris Aquino Version XXX to the X power which still hogs the headlines as the screaming machinated configuration of all things kitsch and over-acting. The robotic Boy Abunda possesses some of the characteristics of its human past foremost of which is its thirst for intrigues and some liquid bodily materials. It is, however, well-known for its humanistic regard for all robots with soft spots at the carburetors and those with rainbow auras when submerged to highly-toxic acids. It is this affinity with the erstwhile gay population which catapulted Boy to the Presidency. Not that robots are gay but robots are bad, so bad that a gay robot is deemed a whiff of sulfuric air in a world suffused with carbon monoxide and mercuric refuse. Boy’s election to the highest post in the Republic immediately brought promising results: all the Uncle Boys in every family were exterminated (there could only be one Boy) and society page correspondent Morris Arka-tsi Version 969 was appointed Spokesman for the Robotic 100 Years Hence, the highest possible position a society parties habitué could ever aspire for.

Taong 2010. I caught a robotic rat in the dingy alley in Tinio Street (Kanto in Filipino, go figure). To my surprise and without speaking a la Mickey Mouse (it communicated completely by tele-kinetic projection, whatever that means), it explained to me in all great details what 40 years after will look like. That after Terminator-Salvation II (the sequel to 2009 Terminator-Salvation supposedly the last installment of the Terminator series until blockoffice had spoken that the series is better without Governor drawl in it) was shown, the robots of the future became angry that Arnold was again excluded. That five years after, zombies over-populated the Earth (religions banned family control in zombie communities) and then the robots came to wipe out the zombies and the humans inside their festering entrails. That the robots in keeping Earth alive assumed the identities of popular humans to put a semblance of normalcy and to keep the Martians from suspecting that the robots are now Earth’s inhabitants. That Robot Priest Panlilio became the Republic’s President, then, Robot Comedian-Philantropist and Dracula of the Poor Willie Revilla, then, Robot Lesbian Aiza Guerra, and, then, finally and for the last, Robot Boy Abunda ascended to the throne. That the bad robots and the Uncle Boys were recast into pornographic characters in junk steel. That Morris Arka-tsi Version 969 won the Robotic Nobel Prize for Literature of 2055 for his compilation of society page dispatches entitled “Transmissions From Society In A-Major.” I was scandalized by Roborat’s implausible narrations, well, that is, only on the Morris Arka-tsi Version 969 side-story(the rest of the stories are very much believable, right?). So Roborat brandished a page ripped directly from the award-winning compilation. My jaw dropped to my feet. It is so f*(=#@*n true! And I said ucki! :

VOL. 535 TRANSMISSIONS FROM SOCIETY IN A-MAJOR PAGE
90,312:

Power Lunches Galore! Moi was the Panauhing Pandangal,
meaning the most fab and the most glam, in the ribbon-cutting gala affair of the
super-fab Bhong-Bhong Kambingan in tres chic IBP Road Payatas Junction. Got the
faaab time in my life as I got to rub elbows times two with the illustrious
Bhong-Bhong Raval who himself invited moi to the splendid bash. It was “how are
you doing” times two with Bhong-Bhong’s lovely and stylish wife Bheng-Bheng who
was sooo fab and glam in her Famela Clothes Ukay Ukay duster ensemble.

Ohhh, la dolce vita, hijos y hijas! The papaitan kambing and
kilawing aso were perfect to our chi-chi palate. Yummy and sophisticated! The
pickled liver and pancreas of Whitey and Meee-meee were sooo divine as per the
fashionista-hija Nheneng, A-1 stylist of Beb’s Sar-Sari Store and Beauty Parlor.
The main course of isaw-baboy and barbecued double-dead pork were perfect,
really perfect to the bahaw, NFA rice and spaghetti with sugar. Lholong Taga,
now chief chef of Jhudy Ann Eatery and Ihaw-Ihaw, can only sigh in
approval.

Mi amiga, dahling Bheng-Bheng, knows how to really throw
a party for the stylish and the mobile. The Magic Sing was already in full blast
when my padyak came. The pedicabs and the padyak driver-entrepreneurs were
already belting classics, from Journey to Bon Jovi to Air Supply over gin-bulag
and emperador con tubig cocktails. To luxe it all, Moi had a grand time with
Jhomar and Jhun-Jhun, CEOs of J&J Funeral Parlor W/ Pasa-Load, whom I
rubbed elbows in the fresh and green restrooms at the back of Bhong-Bhong
Kambingan—the oooh so nature talahiban and compost pit. We chatted tooo looong
and we talked on annnyyything fab and glam. We closed and consummated a deal
right at the back of the sagingan, P100 each for a full-blown
job!

Power Lunch it was. Gracias, Bhong-Bhong Kambingan!

The future is as ghastly as we conjured it to be.

A Crash Course On Corporate Governance

Greetings, my imaginary students! Be still, shut up and freeze to boredom! I'm going to teach you today some stone-cut imperatives on effective corporate governance. I did not just pluck these laws from the space between my ears (zero-gravity); these have been distilled through time and through the teachings of Li Po, Sakuraba (do not mistake him for an immortal Samurai, he is the MMA fighter who defeated Royce Gracie), the Pope Alexander and Jar Jar Binks, the most annoying, hence, unforgettable Star Wars character. If you are already listening intently, please allow me to pull the rug away from your feet anew! I am not only kidding, I'm making fun already of your naivete. These intellectual imperatives have been imparted to yours truly by the miracle of...wait, not by inter-generational tele-kinetic transmission, gullible fool! I got this from yahoomail, forwarded by...I no longer remember. Making use of my creativity and to up the ante on plagiarism, I borrowed another concept from 48 Laws of Power (the book that everybody claims to be his bedside reading to show that he is a predator in controlling other people when the claim only shows that he is, in fact, controlled by his pretensions), thus:

CORPORATE GOVERNANCE LAW 1

Transgression of the Law:

A man is getting into the shower just as his wife is finishing up her shower, when the doorbell rings. The wife quickly wraps herself in a towel and runs downstairs. When she opens the door, there stands Bob, the next-door neighbour. Before she says a word, Bob says, 'I'll give you $800 to drop that towel.' After thinking for a moment, the woman drops her towel and stands naked in front of Bob, after a few seconds, Bob hands her $800 and leaves. The woman wraps back up in the towel and goes back upstairs. When she gets to the bathroom, her husband asks, 'Who was that?' 'It was Bob the next door neighbour,' she replies. 'Great,' the husband says, 'did he say anything about the $800 he owes me?'

The Law:

If you share critical information pertaining to credit and risk with your shareholders in time, you may be in a position to prevent avoidable exposure.

CORPORATE GOVERNANCE LAW 2

Transgression of the Law:

A little bird was flying south for the winter. It was so cold the bird froze and fell to the ground into a large field. While he was lying there, a cow came by and dropped some dung on him. As the frozen bird lay there in the pile of cow dung, he began to realize how warm he was. The dung was actually thawing him out! He lay there all warm and happy, and soon began to sing for joy. A passing cat heard the bird singing and came to investigate. Following the sound, the cat discovered the bird under the pile of cow dung, and promptly dug him out and ate him.

The Law:

(1) Not everyone who shits on you is your enemy.

(2) Not everyone who gets you out of shit is your friend.

(3) And when you're in deep shit, it's best to keep your mouth shut!

I'm getting bored now, class dismissed!

Planespotting

On May 24, 2007, New York Governor Eliot Spitzer announced in full glory a $2 billion settlement to end an almost six-year dispute over the value of the insurance policies covering the now gone World Trade Center. The good governor had all the reasons to be euphoric not because he was not yet caught teleconferencing with $1,000 per-hour-prostitutes but because a rather tumultuous and ugly side-story in the post 911 New York was effectively consigned to its conclusion. The agreement brought to about $4.55 billion the total insurance proceeds developer and 99-year lease-holder Larry Silverstein and the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey will receive. The good governor in all his pre-Kristen-for-$4,000 magnificence even compared the insurance standoff to a Stanley Cup playoff hockey series in which the two sides play a ``very hard match'' and ``at the end of the series they always shake hands and move on.'' Or, did they?

To most, this simply means that the actual construction of the Freedom Tower in Ground Zero will now be finally commenced. To the real stakeholders, however, this untangled a Gordian knot which baffled so many from the very start. After almost seven years, those not privy to the mess are still repulsed by the fact that the stakeholders have the temerity to ask difficult questions and demand awkward if not revolting answers over the powdered remains of those who perished in the terrorist attacks. Everybody thought, at first, that the proposition is uncomplicated. Timing, as it had been later impressed, complicated it to a notch. Developer Larry Silverstein prevailed over the biggies as the 99-year lease-holder of the Twin Towers only in July 2001. Thus, the respective liabilities of each in a pool of 24 insurance companies tapped by the developer will have to be reckoned from binding preliminary commitments and not yet from formal and final insurance policies.

As it turned out, the extremely odd set of tragic circumstances compounded the problem even worse. The 16-minute interval between the impacts of the two hijacked jetliners could well mean that there are two separate insured occurrences that took place. To the insurance companies in the developer’s pool, this is 911 all over again. The 16-minute interval is, in fact, a $7 billion question—the additional amount of insurance proceeds the developer is entitled to receive under the two-occurrence standpoint. The standoff spawned a chain of events that saw the stakeholders battled—for some, in infamy—for all the loose billions at stake. Multitudes of cases have been filed in the District Court of the Southern District of New York, and later appeals crisscrossed in the US Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit. As of 2004, the federal juries ruled that Silverstein is entitled to a maximum of $4.68 billion. With the latest settlement, the insurers have already obligated themselves to pay the developer 97.2% of the aforesaid maximum amount.

The developer and the insurers seem content. But, as most would insist, the chapter grossly disrespected the dead of Ground Zero. To others, it exposed as feeble critical common law principles on contract formation as they apply to insurance contracts.

The Day Satori Came Like Jesus Christ

The pavement walked upon was banal
just the same: begrimed by staid rain,
snubbed by words scurrying past.

The lights peeking in isosceles
out of high-rises and occasional
all-steel, all-glass and refracted

carrara

silhouetted flowers and soaked
rocks in moss
and leafy

foliage.

The morning loosened
and was left

behind.