Big Brother is Watching. Should we?

I.

In Orwell's 1984, we are warned of a future where people are constantly exposed to the scrutiny of the ever watchful Big Brother, a system so repressive and oppressive that the mere thought against it is a crime.

For almost a decade now, the term "Big Brother" has entered pop culture as a hit reality TV franchise known all over the world for its hyper-realistic presentation of human drama. The premise is loosely based on Orwell's dystopian future. Strangers are forced to co-habit a common space for a period of time under the watchful eye of Big Brother. Whoever survives this living condition the longest wins the prize.

What was once a cautionary tale of excessive governance has now entered our imagination as a form of entertainment. We no longer fear "Big Brother"; in fact, we have become part of the system, our TV sets glued to Big Brother's eye, become one with Big Brother, ever watchful, ever critical, ever seeing.

Big Brother is watching. We are watching. We are Big Brother.

II.

Quite recently, the new season of a Big Brother spin-off has introduced us to a new concept: "PBB Teen". Stemming from the show "PBB Teens", to be a "PBB Teen" is widely understood as to be an immature person who makes juvenile decisions and mostly makes exaggerated reactions to the simplest problems. It can also mean someone who falls irrevocably in love, depending on context. A "PBB Teen", basically, is someone that even teenagers--in their immaturity-- look down on as an embarrassment to their generation.

In short, "A Pinoy Big Brother Teen" is someone who probably has no idea of how "Big Brother" is a reference to Orwellian dystopia.

From a strong criticism of the government overextending its will and domain, "Big Brother" in its Philippine context has become its polar opposite: a launching pad for careers of people who really, really, really want to be watched all the time. In an ironic turn of events, Orwell's warning against being too closely watched has become an opportunity to be ever present in the public's eye.

"Big Brother" is no longer a warning; "Big Brother" is now an invitation. An invitation to live your life under the ever watchful eye of the people, to subject your life to public scrutiny, to surrender your privacy and become the state's property.

Oh, how our values have changed. Where once we used to value our individuality, our right to think freely and stand up for our beliefs, we now value being used as a commodity.

III.

Once, we had an aquarium in our home. We filled it with goldfishes. Fishes that did nothing but swam all day, lay eggs, eat, shit, and die. They lived their existence solely to entertain the household.

I guess some people would do anything for the attention. Even live in a fishbowl.

Not surprisingly, we have turned our world into one big fishbowl. You think tweeting about your lunch, or posting a Facebook status about your weekend plans mean nothing. But the truth is, every single thing we share on social media is being monitored by brands. Analytic tools are so powerful that geo-tagging is now an inherent features in apps. When you Tweetpic a photo of your lunch, this is most of the information you make public: the model of the phone you are using, the location where the photo was sent from, the time, the date, the food item, the name of the restaurant, your mobile network provider, etc. How can this information be used against you? By providing marketers this information, you grant them data on how to further control your thought process. The more information is being sent by people "digitally socializing", the more data we can use to effectively target you. Next time we want you to buy baked fish, we'll know where to place the ads, we'll know what time to blast you with the message, we know which network to tap to reach you, we'll know where you usually eat your lunch.

Think about it. Big Brother is still watching. And we're letting him.

Metered Preacher Man

"Men growing their hair long is a SIN. It's an offense against God," the cab driver said. To prove his point, he referenced the Bible-- written thousands of years ago, by men who claimed to hear a voice in their heads telling them to (a) kill their sons, (b) stone their wives for the slightest rumor of infidelity, and (c) eating oysters earns you a special place in Hell.

I was on my way to Trinoma, and it really wasn't in my schedule to ride a cab with a frustrated preacher. The moment I sat my cute, bubble butt on the seat, he asked: "Do you have a Bible at home?" I should have remembered my lessons well: Never go with an Evangelist to a second location. Yet, the adventurous side of me--that part of the human brain we have inherited from our crocodile ancestors-- compelled me to go along for the ride, and see where it would lead. I felt it would make a good character study--a lonely, disgraced preacher who has turned to driving cabs for a living, and kills passengers for fun. "Why, yes. We do. I keep one close to my bed, actually," I lied.

Back to men growing their hair long. It was the most ridiculous thing he said so far that night. He went on against tattoos, people who don't pray, and women who dress up in men's clothing. I felt trapped. If I wasn't so worried about my shirt, I would have kicked the door open, and rolled out of the running taxi. He was practically against everything: Muslims, gay men, having impure thoughts. But I had to draw the line somewhere, and it was with men growing their hair long.

"Jesus had long hair," I told him.

"What? Of course not," he said, adamant.

"Yes, he did. Look at all the crucifixes. Beside, there was no barbers yet at that time," I informed him confidently.

He was silent. Deep in his evangelical thoughts. Finally, we reached my destination. I reached for money from my bag, and handed him the fare, adding a little extra because I appreciate passion in people, even when it's misplaced and misguided.

"Jesus had short hair," he couldn't resist saying right before I stepped out of his cab. "I saw a movie once where he had short hair."

All is as it should be.

It's a nice thought. I saw it tattooed on someone's wrist. I was also trying to get a glimpse of what was written on his chest, but it would be highly appropriate, seeing that we were both at work on a convention for doctors.

It's a comforting thought. All is as it should be. It's the one lesson I'm clinging on to right now. It's not enough to accept that "shit happens"; believing that shit happens for a reason, so it can teach you a lesson, free you of something, or there's a yet unseen fortuitous consequence of it, well, ain't that bliss? Every heartbreak you've ever experienced, every disappointment you've ever faced, every thing is a part of what would ultimately make you a better version of you living a better version of your life right now.

When our plans fail, believe in the mantra: All is as it should be. We won't always get what we want, but we'll always get what we need to get. We hope for gold, but we are handed coals. Instead of getting disappointed or heartbroken, think: even gold yields to coals.

At Chili's Greenbelt

Met up with the NJDC last night. We're starting to feel more and more like a multi-cam sitcom barkada, getting the same booth every week, with the blocking geared at one camera. We all got Santa Fe steaks, because Cam-b wanted one. We downed two pitchers of much deserved strawberry mango margarita, and played Pinoy Henyo for an hour or so. It was the nerdiest game ever played of Pinoy Henyo, what with several contentions and qualified yeses, and noes. Also, learned something new about Cessna planes. Which, along with my new knowledge of obstetrics and pediatrics nutrition, would come pretty helpful, if ever I find myself pregnant on a private plane.

These are the photos.

On Orestes Dizon

I've been stuck for the longest time on my current writing project. It's the third volume in my series of young adult novels. Years has passed in real time since the first book was published, but in the timeline of the narrative, it has only been a matter of weeks.

Since I started writing the series, I've got lots of feedback from readers. Most of them positive, some not quite so. Which is just as well.

Anyway, clearly one of the crowd favorites is Orestes Dizon. Orestes Dizon is the son of a senator, and he's gay. He's in the closet because of his particular position among his peers, and he's finding it harder and harder to deal with dealing with public perception and his personal feelings.

What I find problematic about his character is that I'm really not trying to say anything about any LGBT issue. I don't want his story to be an LGBT crusade for acceptance or for gay marriages or whatever. I just want a character torn between his public persona and his private life.

Anyway, one time, I was browsing through the internet, and I saw a meme showing Disney princesses as hipsters. This led me to a link that shows Disney princes as sexy beefcakes (naked, save for the occasional loincloth).

Which got me into thinking, "Hey, the next Disney prince should be gay."

Which I think is a brilliant inspiration for Orestes Dizon.

At the heart of my narrative, Orestes Dizon IS a Disney princess/prince. He's an idealized / idolized person, he lives in his own fairy tale.

Despite JC Penney's initiative to redefine the family, I don't think Disney will be coming up with its own gay Disney prince soon. So, I humbly take on this challenge.

What if the next Disney prince is gay?

I suppose, we'll all have to wait until I'm done writing "DIRT" to find out.

BAYO What's Your Mix Campaign - Alternative Studies

Dear Bayo,

You've had had quite a week. You were expecting excitement for a new campaign, but suffered the backlash of a poorly executed idea instead. There's a chain of blame you can trace, perhaps, pointing a finger at the creative team, another to your own marketing team, but what's the point? There was a series of bad decisions, and what was a campaignable idea was proven to be, yes, campaignable, but only to ridicule itself.

I do not offer more ridicule. You have gone viral. Everyone and their followers are creating mockeries of your "What's Your Mix?" ads. I will not shoot at the low hanging fruit, and glorify myself with easy jokes.

Instead, I'll offer you free professional consult. I love a good challenge. And what's great about this exercise is that neither of us loses anything.

Let's review the campaign, and look at ways we could have done it differently.

The Challenge: Invigorate the brand by daring the consumers to "mix and match" their look. As this is a bold step from traditional notions of "building an ensemble", the challenge is to introduce the idea that "creating your own look IS what makes your outfit fashionable."

INSIGHT: WE ALL HAVE OUR OWN UNIQUE MIXES.

Where You Went Wrong: You interpeted "unique mix" as something genetic and inherent. You positioned models with mixed lineages as "beautiful" and "world class".

THE CRITICAL FLAW: UNLIKE CREATING AN ENSEMBLE,  one CANNOT CHOOSE THEIR MIX.

THE SOLUTION: UNIQUE MIX = The sum total of characteristis and experience that each individual has.

THE EXECUTION YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE FOR:

Juxtaposing the images of "eclectic" ensemble with "character" models, we create "personalities" which the consumers can relate to.

Note: All images herein are used to demonstrate "peg looks". I do not own these images, and I am not using them to promote the brand "Bayo".

[Study 1]

Copy: "50% Haute, 50% HOT"

[Study 2]

Copy: "Full-time Columnist. Part-time Rockstar. Oft-times Inner Child."

CONCLUSION: The critical flaw in the execution is that you defined and prescribed the mix, positioned it aspirationally, without awareness that the consumer cannot control the "mix" as you have defined it (genetically). As an aspiration, one cannot aim to achieve a mix that is part-Filipino, part-something else. However, when you LET THE CONSUMERS DEFINE what their mix is, you then engage the brand into a conversation with your market. You are now asking them to be bold and inventive in DEFINING THEMSELVES BY MIXING AND MATCHING THEIR LOOKS USING YOUR PIECES.

You're welcome.

New Roads to Creativity

I was whining to my friend how I'm finding it exceptionally difficult to do any writing lately, and said something I find truly fascinating.

He said I may have outgrown my writing methods.

This is interesting for me to hear because it may be true. I have been doing the same process since I started, and only because it's a process that works. It's a tried and tested formula. However, I failed to take into account my own rate of maturity. That as years go by, I grow. I acquire new sensibilities, I learn new tricks.

What my friend said is worth exploring. Perhaps it's time for me to find other ways to reach my point of creativity. Maybe I'm growing bored with how I usually approach a problem, and my attacks have been monotonous, if not predictable.

With that thought, I'll go to sleep tonight. Good night, everyone.

Unrequired Readings and Necessary Fictions

                A couple of news stories shocked me recently. As someone who always end up drunk first in every game of I’ve-Never, it takes quite a lot to shock me. The two news stories that did were a.) the video of two teenagers brutally slaying a kindly doctor in his own home, and b.) the Bible-toting nice young man from Miami who was found growling in the streets, naked, and eating a hobo’s face off.

                There’s a lot to be said about these horror, and a lot to be asked. It is when we are confronted by these harsh realities do we confront the dark side of our humanity: this is what we are capable of.

                We are capable of generosity: a doctor—well respected and loved in his community—picks up two teenagers he met on Facebook, and gave them shelter for the night.

                We are capable of love: a young man from Miami, known to carry a Bible around, called his girl friend to let her know how much he loves her, shortly before stepping out to go to a party.

                So, how did we make the jump from love and generosity to brutal, shameless slaughter? I wish we know the answer to that one, but we can guess based on what we do know.

                What we know so far: right before slaughtering their host, the two teenage boys who the doctor picked up set-up his phone to take a video recording of their planned slaying. They promptly slaughtered him amidst his pleas to be spared. How anyone could stand to execute man while he pleads for his life is beyond me. The doctor was stabbed, repeatedly. Dragged across the floor, and bled in his own bathroom. One of his killer then went back to the camera, showcased his handiwork—by then, a lifeless sack of flesh and blood—and then DARED to put his stamp on it by focusing the camera on his own face. This killer, not even a man yet, took the life of another, and felt pride.

                What we know so far: a naked man was found devouring a homeless man’s face off. He was growling, primal and carnivorous. The police officers who responded had to shoot him down as a matter of necessity. Investigators suspect he was under the influence of “bath salts”, a dangerous compound known to cause sensations of high temperature (compelling the man, perhaps, to take his clothes off?) and hallucinations—oh, that tricky domain of the subconscious to break down reality in its entirety and replace it with its own follies.

                And with what we know, we must ask: what do we learn from these? Other than losing our faith in humanity, what have these incidents taught us?

                No doubt, guilty parties must pay the price of their crimes. There are consequences. It is in the upholding of the laws that govern the land do we feel safe and protected as a society. Murderous sociopaths and drug pushers must be punished. It is only when we can see these monsters behind bars can we comfortably tuck ourselves in at night.

                Yet, these monsters aren’t all the monsters there are in the world. We may put these ones behind bars, but there are monsters under the bed, there are monsters we share our beds with. The Canadian Psycho—the former pornstar who chopped a Chinese student and mailed the pieces, bit by bit—was said to be “in a relationship” with his victim. Every day, the local tabloids are replete with headlines of spouses slaughtering spouses, of women battered, of daughters raped. Recently, a 5-year old boy was rescued from a Satanic ritual involving his own parents gouging out his eyes with a spoon. On TV tonight, a mother holds her own daughter’s arms as her partner rapes her.

                The monsters we are most afraid of maybe the same people we most love.

                As a poet and novelist, it makes me question my role in a society on the brink of a breakdown. In our darkest hours, what use have we of fiction and poems? Indeed, why do we tell our children fairy tales, and not the truth about how dangerous the world really is?

                I believe in fairy tales. I have never been a fan of the ‘ever after’ part (I have always been afraid of commitments, even as a child, and ‘ever after’ sounds too long a time to commit to), but I love the part where the wolf is defeated by his own pride, or the wicked witch is destroyed by her own vanity. Of all the Disney movies, I love Alladin the most. There is something about a street rat socially climbing his way to the sultanate that appealed to me in my formative years.

                We tell fairy tales not because they are heart warming tales of teapots bursting into song, and twittering birds producing haute couture from scratch. We tell fairy tales because we don’t want our kids to pet the big, bad wolf. There are big, bad wolves, some of them will knock on our doors, and just like the three little pigs, it is our responsibility to ourselves TO REFUSE THEM ENTRY.

                We are duty bound to protect ourselves, our properties, our loved ones against monsters. If a friendly stranger offers us apples in a party, we must not take it, it may be laced with bath salts. We must not welcome wolves inside our homes, especially if we’re a kindly, old grandmother and our Little Red Riding Hood’s not coming to visit till the weekend.

               

                We must not trade our own voice just so we can stand alongside princes and their courts.

                We must not wish to be real boys when we are perfectly crafted the way we are. Don't enter houses, especially when they're made of gingerbread.

           And, if we take a quick survey of the fairy tales we tell in the Philippines, the most dangerous thing you should avoid doing is to fall in love. How many rivers, fruits, waterfalls, hills, caves, mountains, and trees have been created out of lovers foiled? A chopped hand, a drowned maiden, a lady left by her betrothed, a man betrayed. These are the stuff our fairy tales are made of. We formed the islands out of the carcasses of our fallen lovers. The first rain of summer. A creeping vine. The pineapple. The tarsier. The stars we have pounded away. The flower that spoke of our guilt. These are the things we have turned those we love into.

                And so: the fiction we tell ourselves is necessary. They may be stories we make up, but we made them up to bear truths: truths about humanity, truths about the world, truths that would horrify us otherwise and distract us from recognizing them. Stories don’t have to be true to be truthful.

                So I take upon this unlikely role of storyteller. In times when the most important thing to have is not a sharp mind, but a tablet that mimics human thinking... and that the highest earning professional of today is a lawmaking boxer who preaches about hate while promoting the use of foreign brands, I refuse to give up my faith in that one, undefeatable truth: In stories, salvation.  

                I am a storyteller. I bear the unfortunate burden of saving this world, one word at a time.

Not Dating D.

I made a pledge to NOT DATE anyone until I'm done with my thesis, or I'll have to sponsor a child through world vision. My friend Miriam suspected it's a great motivation for me to come up with a thesis overnight.

So, I went out last Wednesday with my friend D. It's not a date, since it's D, and I'm not dating D. We went to see the movie "Raven", and NEVERMORE would I watch it again. It's the worse movie I've seen this year, and I've seen Shotgun Preacher. This is John Cusack's worse performance ever.

The best part of the movie happened AFTER THE MOVIE, when the lights turned on, and people started exiting.

Backtrack: In the middle of the movie, someone's phone rang loudly. It was a woman's phone, and her ringtone was something loud and rocking. Like a hardcore, deathmetal kind of rock. It rang for quite some time as she searched her bag for it.

While she was looking for her ringing phone, the man sitting behind us yelled "ASSHOLE!"

The woman with the ringing phone yelled something back, which prompted the guy sitting behind me to keep yelling "Bitch! Asshole!"

This happened in Glorietta, which should give you an idea of what kind of people they have over there.

Anyway, after the movie, the woman with the ringing phone's boyfriend stood up, and confronted the jerk. Well, they're both jerks, but I think the bigger jerk was the guy sitting behind me.

It was all so dramatic. They were yelling at each other, and they were throwing punches.

AND I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF IT!

I was trying to stop them. I was grabbing them by their arms, telling them to cool down, stop it.

My friend D pulled me back. "Let's go!"

"Why? I'm trying to stop a fight," I answered.

"Then why are you SMILING?"