BRAIN DRAIN

Just wanted to share this short commentary I found on intellectual property rights. It makes quite an intelligent argument, and rings very true.

And of course, it marries two things I feel strongly about: intellectual property issues and ramen noodles.

This just goes to show that there is a huge disconnect between the purpose of intellectual property rights and how they are being enforced. I sympathize with the former: as a former teacher and a person whose family’s background is in publishing, I know how it feels on a very personal level when one’s intellectual property is violated. But at the same time, it’s fairly obvious that present-day realities make enforcing some laws in this regard, at least in the way they have traditionally been enforced, akin to fitting square pegs in round holes, and smacks of hijacking the state mechanism to protect entrenched interests.

Now to make that point with an allusion to ramen noodles? Genius.

I ducked into a McDonald’s the other day for a snack. While I was waiting for my order, the store manager and one of the service crew were having a discussion about the three medium-sized servings of french fries waiting in the warmer. Then, without warning, the manager reached out and threw each into the nearby trash bin, replacing them with a new batch. Why? Well, from what I gathered, they’d been sitting there for nearly ten minutes, a lifetime in the fast food world.

I suppose this is just a facet of the industry’s dark underbelly. As the name implies, “fast food” is a promise firstly that the food one demands can be obtained quickly, and secondly that it is of a certain (edible) quality. Therein lies the dilemma. To make sure that there is food available for the next customer, especially during busy hours, stores have an incentive to prepare dishes in advance if they can anticipate what the demand will be, which of course goes to waste if they guess wrong. Similarly, rather than risk customers’ ire because of sub-par quality food, stores may be better off throwing out food-already-available-but-has-been-sitting-there-quite-a-while and cooking up a new batch of food right smartly. Either way you slice it, the result is a whole lot of food down equally many trash bins the world over.

Certainly, it’s hard not to feel bad about the amount of food that gets wasted this way. If there’s any consolation, I suppose the customer ultimately benefits; I mean, who wouldn’t want a fresh batch of crispy french fries? Then again, if those fries are no good after as short as ten minutes, it’s a wonder why their sale is sanctioned at all. That I’d rather not think about.

0230-0640 Hours (GMT +
Manila, Ninoy Aquino International Airport
I was told to check in four hours before my flight (owing to the recent Heathrow incident), so I found myself at the airport at 2:30 in the morning. Apparently, NAIA is a very different place during these wee small hours. It’s quite subdued, arguably more organized, and the airport staff (was I dreaming?) surprisingly quite friendly and helpful.

However, it seemed like the airline staff was still operating according to the old three-hour check-in window as they only showed up to open the counter at around 4:00am. Worse, it turns out I could’ve showed up even later than that since I was travelling business class. To top it off, there was some trouble with my ticket, as the computer system kept informing the person checking me in that my booking on the flight had been cancelled, though my onward booking was confirmed. Strange, but true.

When that was sorted out, groggy and none the worse for wear, my otherwise inauspicious return to New York was underway.

0915-1020 Hours (GMT +
Hong Kong, Hong Kong International Airport
Hong Kong has, hands down, one of the most fantastic airports out there. An added bonus, at least for travelers that don’t fly coach, is the privilege of visiting the business and first class lounges. I’m always a sucker for “free” meals, and I always look forward to visiting the lounges’ Noodle Bar. Unfortunately, noodles aren’t served until closer to noon, so I had to make do a couple of dumplings and bottled water.

Security was quite tight at the boarding gate for the Hong Kong-New York leg of the trip. The entire boarding gate was cordoned off, and all passengers were subject to a pat down, with belongings searched thereafter. I was happy to note that the airport security staff were very professional - that is to say polite, which is so unlike my prior experiences…anywhere! - and did not make a fuss over any of the gadgets in my bag.

2220-1315 Hours (GMT -4)
Somewhere in the Atmosphere
For the most part, the flight was uneventful. I tried to reprogram my sleeping habits by nodding off when it should’ve been night in New York and staying awake the rest of the time.

If there’s anything I look forward to on a flight, it’s the chance to watch a few movies, in this case: Mission Impossible III, The Bourne Supremacy, Lucky Numbers Slevin and Inside Man. All of these I didn’t get to see in New York because I refuse to watch a movie alone and can’t fathom paying $10 a pop at the theaters. I could’ve maybe caught one or two more, but couldn’t help floating in and out of consciousness when the fatigue set in. Funny how sitting around relatively idle, albeit in a cramped space, can actually be tiring.

One odd thing: for some reason, I was mostly ignored by the flight attendant seeing to my section of the plane. I noticed this during meals, when he would offer the lady sitting beside me bread, dessert or something more to drink, but not extend the same courtesy to me. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t think much of this, but what was strange about it was that I was the one sitting in the aisle, and the lady had the window seat. Anyway, I was too tired to make a fuss about it. And no, the lady wasn’t all that attractive, so that couldn’t have been it either.

Oh, the food was relatively good. For airline cuisine.

1315-1530 Hours (GMT -4)
New York, JFK International Airport/Subway/Apartment
This was the first time in a long time that I flew into JFK on an international flight. My flight came in at nearly the same time as another from British Airways, so there was a lengthy delay at immigration.

When my turn came up, the immigration officer couldn’t help but notice that I was attending Fordham University. Most of the time, when people hear I’m studying in New York they assume it’s at NYU. Now, while Fordham isn’t Ivy League it does elicit a significant degree of respect here in New York. I’m beginning to appreciate that.

Deciding to save a few dollars, I took the subway back to my apartment. There’s arguably no easier way to getting back into the rhythm of things in New York than negotiating heavy luggage through the subway system.

Not much longer after that I was back in my apartment, where things were as I left them two months ago: my papers were a mess, the bathroom was still smelling fresh (thank heavens!), and the fridge was devoid of anything to eat.

The vacation was over. “Welcome back!” to me.

Epilogue: 1715-1830 Hours (GMT -4)
New York, Midtown
I couldn’t really get settled when I arrived. I needed to forage for dinner (I do not exaggerate the lack of anything to eat in my apartment), and thought it would be a good idea to hear mass so I could hole up the next day. Besides, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to visit my friendly neighborhood comic book store and use the $20 of store credit I had coming to me.

On my way back to the apartment, comics and food in hand, I encountered a group of people sharing a stash of weed by the sidewalk.

You gotta love this city.

I’d begun packing for what will be another four-month stint in New York when I struck by an overwhelming feeling of…sadness. It’s a glass-is-half-empty versus glass-is-half-full sort of dilemma. I know I’m a lucky fool: I get to jetset, live on my own, and get a world class education (thereby avoiding the need to find work altogether in the interim). Yet at the same time it’s not what I have to look forward to in New York that’s on my mind but everything that I leave behind. In the grand scheme of things, the four months (and the several more to follow) will pay itself back later on. But here and now, it’s still a long time and a whole lot more than I bargained for.

Half empty? Half full? Maybe I have too much glass.

Anyway…

The good news is that I have a more direct flight this time (just one layover) and I don’t have to worry about bringing my laptop and other gadgets onboard the plane. The bad news is that my plane departs at the crack of dawn, and because of the new security measures in place I have to check in four hours ahead of time. I suppose you can’t win them all.

Either way, the next time I update this blog I will be back in New York.

Let the next four months begin.

Not too long ago, a British television channel sponsored a “How to get published” competition for aspiring writers. Hopefuls were asked to send in manuscripts of at least the first chapter of their book and a description of how the story would progress; the best would be awarded a publishing contract with Pan Macmillan. The author that took top honors in that competition was one Christine Aziz, with her winning manuscript (now in print) The Olive Readers.

The story is set in the not-too-distant future where nation-states have been replaced by Corporations as the basic political-economic entity in the world. Massive amounts of people have been uprooted from their native lands to work where they can be most productive (in the manufacture of their corporation’s specific product), and because they have been socialized to accept their situation they are a people without a past. There is no reality except work, and to work is to serve one’s Corporation.

However, within this society there are subversives who fight to preserve what little is left of the past by collecting books long thought lost, which are contraband. These Readers pool their collections in hidden libraries in the heart of each community, and plot to overthrow the powers-that-be in order to acquire their freedom and reclaim their pasts. When a brief war between the powerful Water Company and the backward Olive Company threatens to destroy the lives of Olive farmers, a series of events are set into motion that lead a young girl named Jephzat to learn about the Olive Readers and discover the truth about her past, as the freedom of the world hangs in the balance.

Now, I really tried to like this book. It had a promising (not to mention creative) premise, and at its best it was vaguely reminiscent of George Orwell’s iconic 1984. But that’s about it. What begins as a promising story tends to drag on longer and longer, with the author taking a dig at too many social issues along the way. Totalitarianism and corporate greed are native to the story that Aziz seeks to weave, but in the process she uses the story as a vehicle to lament the excesses of crass materialism and champion the cause of environmentalism, which does not so much advance the plot as muddle it. Also, it is hard to miss the fact that as the story progresses it becomes more science fiction-ish and new age-esque in tone and substance than perhaps necessary. And like others who have also read it, I was extremely disappointed with how the story concluded: after carefully and laboriously building up the plot, the story resolves itself in a very convoluted fashion within a span of twenty or so pages that are bound to elicit a very emphatic “huh?” along the way.

Would I recommend the book? I am divided on this. I can imagine that the book would have an audience, and not just the type of people who sympathize with the causes Aziz brings to the fore. For instance, it’s difficult not to be entranced by her characterization of Jephzat, whom she brings to life so well in the earlier half of the book. But at the same time, if I had the choice now I’m of the mind that I’d look for something else to read. It’s not that the book is bad; it’s just that it should’ve been so much better.

Pardon this “by-way-of-ranting” about the Philippine government. Old habits are hard to break: I am a political economist deep down, after all.

I’m tired of the all too familiar public posturing that numerous politicos purport to propound about reform (what an alliteration!). What I take issue with is not the sincerity behind such pronouncements - though one can’t help but be skeptical, either way - but with the tendency for suggestions along these lines to consist of grand gestures. Amend the constitution. Change the form of government. Revamp the electoral process. No matter how sensible the rationale behind these, it’s plain to see that it will take a Herculean effort to get them started and the benefits won’t be reaped until twenty or thirty years down the road, if at all.

I think even simpler initiatives can be as effective. As far as I’m concerned, I can think of three things I would like to see that would improve the quality of governance immensely.

Stop attaching the titular “Honorable” to the name of any public official. I would even go so far as to say that if it could be made illegal, it should. In a perfect world, that title is earned based on what you do rather than who you are, and “what you do” does not include getting elected or appointed into office but instead pertains to how the powers that accompany the same are put to use. The problem is that when done often enough the politicians themselves begin to believe that they are, when in fact many of their actions - not the least of which those that propel them to office - are anything but. No: I say, call them by the titles they have earned as private citizens - Mister, Miss, Doctor, Attorney, Whatever! - to remind them that they are no better than their fellows and that their responsibility is to serve the public rather than themselves.

Make it illegal for public officials to take personal credit for public projects. It sickens me to no end that every public works project must have a sign proclaiming whose priority project it was, sometimes with a picture of the official in question. I’m all for giving credit where credit is due, but in this case the sign is less about taking due credit and more about making sure that one’s “achievements” are bandied about in big bold letters so voters remember come the next election. It’s downright wrong. Roads do not get paved, buildings erected or water mains fixed because of the genius, dispensation or favor of Mayor/Representative/President so-and-so. These projects see fruition because our taxes pay for them and thereby we are entitled to them. If anyone deserves the credit, it should be government the institution rather than the specific individuals who happen to represent it. Admittedly, it’s a fine line, but one that is important to make and intuitive to grasp. If such signs are any indication, our politicians would have us believe that we are lucky that they have had the time to put together one project or another for us, when in fact we have the right to demand those very things from them in the first place.

Eliminate all perks for government officials. And I mean all perks. If they were subject to the same things that ordinary people experienced - and in the same way - it stands to reason things would improve very quickly. If they could not fast track procedures or skip to the top of queues, I’m betting a lot of red tape and bureaucracy would disappear. If they had to suffer the same as anyone else would in traffic without their “emergency” lights or convoy of motorcycles and lead cars to get them through faster, I’m betting traffic would improve overnight. If acquiring a personal security detail was never and option (even for the President!) and they had to worry constantly about their safety, then maybe peace and order would improve, as would the justice and penal systems in the country.

I know it’s mighty idealistic, but there’s a lot of common sense to it. The last one in particular will be a tough sell (though how I wish!). But typing up these thoughts gives me a profound sense of despair and pessimissm, if not hopelessness: they remind me all the more that this country gets by in spite of its government, not because of it.

I had the misfortune of having a bum stomach while at the mall this evening. That being the case, I naturally pursued what would be the most logical course of action for anyone in my position: I made my way to the mall’s very own “customer lounge”.

Those who frequent Philippine malls a lot (mostly those with the Ayala brand attached to them) know what I’m talking about. They’re practically restrooms on steroids: clean, always fully stocked with toilet paper and good quality soap, and well-attended. Anyone can make use of them, provided you know where they are in the mall and you pay the token ten pesos (that’s less than a quarter dollar, for those not familiar).

I’ve always thought that women would be more disposed to making use of it if need arose, but now I see that it has, er, a much broader appeal. Also, from an economic standpoint, it’s probably the best value for money in the entire mall. No, really! In fact, I can see the MasterCard television commercial for it now: “Roll of toilet paper 15 pesos. Liquid soap: 20 pesos. Personal bathroom attendant: Minimum wage. Value of a ten peso visit to a clean restroom, guaranteed stocked with soap and toilet paper, and maintained by a watchful attendant: Priceless.”

Ah, but there’s the rub. In all, there are maybe three attendants who keep watch over the restrooms; that is, one each for the men’s and women’s respectively plus a third to take care of the cash and disburse the “tickets”/receipts. Assuming the one I ended up utilizing is representative of similar “lounges”, it would seem that the 10 peso surcharge is enough to discourage most people from using the lounge too frequently, which means that at any given point in time, they have few patrons. Which means that those attendants have a lot of idle time on their hands. Which must also therefore mean, if my perception of human nature is at all accurate, that the attendants inevitably end up talking about those few patrons they do have.

Now I can’t help but wonder what they must say about the people they come across. Do they marvel at how one would not expect such people to have sensitive rear ends? Do they recount the strange gaits and faces that people must have as they pay their money and dash to the restroom? Do they talk about the fastest anyone’s been in and out of their area of responsibility in their experience as a lounge attendant? One has to admit that it must make for interesting conversation.

So I suppose in the end, it’s a wash. The mall generates a bit of revenue, the customer gets to use the most hygenic public restroom that money can buy, and the bathroom attendants get the occasional person to be the unwitting butt of their jokes. Embarassing? Perhaps. But even I can see the humor in that.

If you haven’t heard of it before, give Steven Johnson’s Everything Bad is Good for You a read. It’s a book about popular culture or, as the subtitle suggests, “How Today’s Popular Culture is Actually Making Us Smarter”.

This effect is what Johnson refers to as the Sleeper Curve, which arises because of the increasing complexity of popular culture. This complexity extends beyond the fact that today’s media is awash with gritty realism or tackles subjects previously considered taboo: rather, it is inherent to the fact that popular culture becomes more and more interactive and engaging. From one-trick ponies like Pong and Pac-Man, video games like World of Warcraft or Ultima Online create open-ended storylines and immerse players in worlds requiring them to become “productive” members of virtual societies and thus truly live alternate lives. Television shows and movies also have evolved from the time when they would offer no more than “least objectionable content” and linear plots in order to attract an audience by not offending public sensibilities. Instead, their modern counterparts boast of “most repeatable content” that encourage multiple viewing and are replete with interwoven storylines that seldom get resolved after a single episode. All these point to a paradigm shift in the very nature of popular media: whereas these would previously ask viewers to “sit back and relax”, today they encourage the audience to “lean forward” and get involved.

Naturally, in the course of his discussion Johnson cannot help but single out some types of popular media to make his point, and he tackles some better than others. For instance, his views on reality television come across as a bit of a stretch, while his ideas concerning film are much more insightful. By and large, the true gem is his insight on video games. As an example:

“Start with the basics: far more than books or movies or music, games force you to make decisions. Novels may activate our imagination, and music may conjure up powerful emotions, but games force you to decide, to choose, to prioritize. All the intellectual benefits of gaming derive from this fundamental virtue, because learning how to think is ultimately about learning to make the right decisions: weighing evidence, analyzing situations, consulting your long-term goals. No other pop cultural form directly engages the brain’s decision-making apparatus in the same way.”

Amen to that.

What gives credence to Johnson’s discussion is the balance he strives to provide throughout the book. Contrary to what it might seem, the book is not meant to sing the praises of popular culture; rather, it is meant to allay fears that popular culture has little redeeming value as it races to the bottom to keep viewers’ attention. Indeed, what allows Johnson to develop his argument - for better or worse - is that he acknowledges and takes as given the fact that much of the content behind today’s popular culture leaves a lot to be desired.

Which is the point, really. In making the case for the value of popular culture, the book drives home how much potential today’s media can have with the right content. That alone makes the book worth reading, and then some.

Today I’ve decided to put an end to a compulsion I’ve long had: I will no longer put a plastic cover on the books that I read.

It has always been a sort of ritual when I’d get a new book. Before I could even begin reading it, I would cover it in plastic. It was a sine qua non of having the book, and in some way the exercise of “preparing” the book and taking care of it just added to the anticipation of reading it.

But no more.

Lacking new material lately I’ve resorted to reading a few of the books on my shelf, some of which I’ve had since high school. Good books are hard to find, not to mention expensive, and I’ve always taken great care of the books in my possession (paperback or otherwise). So you can imagine my “collection” of neatly arranged books, with their plastic covers gleaming.

And, much to my dismay, their pages yellowing and molding.

That’s when it hit me. No matter how carefully I try to keep my books – covering them in plastic and what not - they will still be subject to the elements. And to time. The irony is not lost on me. Some of my favorite books are already looking very worn in spite of the plastic, while the plastic itself is still pristine.

I suppose I should have given up the ghost long ago. I once hoped that the plastic cover also served as a sign to people who would borrow my books to take extremely good care of them; yet few really would, and the plastic could never prevent the book or its pages from getting dog-eared or torn (as I sadly learned with my oft-borrowed Sandman graphic novels). I used to tell people who’d borrow my books to return them to me in as good if not better condition. Few ever thought I was serious. But I meant every word.

SIMPLY SITTI
Sitti Navarro held her “first major concert” at the Music Museum last Friday night. Apparently, she’s one of the Philippines’s budding talents in the Latin/Bossa Nova music scene. And boy, can she sing!

What worked: Most definitely, her voice. To my mind, it’s a cross between Billie Holiday and Stacey Kent that’s put to good use in the niche that she’s carving out for herself (and the fact that it overlaps with Jazz tunes is just fine with me). I also thought that her personality was quite engaging: on several occasions throughout the performance she was game to pose for pictures with members of the audience, and the show took off after the third or fourth song when she settled into the rhythm of things (no pun intended). Plus, the show had several supporting acts and “cameo appearances” (including a hilarious drag queen comedy routine from Jon Santos) that made it that much more enjoyable. But for my part, what I appreciated the most from her performance was that she was able to make me like the songs on her album that I previously didn’t.

What didn’t work: Obviously, her performance repertoire needs improvement. Throughout the first half of the the show she tried to engage the audience in a personal narrative of how she started her career, and it fell terribly flat. She definitely needs a better scriptwriter as the show picked up when she ditched that routine. She might need a better song selection as well: in a two-hour period she covered Latin, Bossa Nova, Jazz, Standards and OPM. While she mostly did justice to each, the show itself felt a little disjoined. It didn’t help that her onstage actions got a little repetitive (move stage left, dance a little; move stage right, dance a little; repeat, rewind). Oh, did I mention that the concert started 30 minutes late?

Overall: She has awesome potential. I’m betting we can all expect great things from her in the years to come.

THE PRODUCERS
Had a chance to catch the movie version of Mel Brooks’s The Producers over the weekend. I’ve seen it on Broadway twice, though by then Matthew Broderick and Nathan Lane had moved on from the show already (I did get to see them in The Odd Couple, though). To see them in the roles that propelled the show to fame was as good a reason as any to watch the movie, and if ever there was a faithful movie adaptation of a Broadway musical, this one would be it.

In fact, the movie was faithful almost to a fault. I couldn’t help but feel that the movie was just an excuse for the stars to record their performances on film: Broderick and Lane were at their neurotic best, as would be expected from anyone who had to put on that show night in and night out as they did. Perhaps 80% of the movie was exactly how it was shown on stage (sans the song Where Did We Go Right?). The remaining 20% comprised those parts edited out to suit the new medium (the intermission gags, for instance) or utilizing the flexibility of location shoots to add to the production numbers.

When it works, it works really well. The best number in the film, by way of example, was I Want to Be a Producer, where Broderick is just too good and which is so much better than on stage. But in some areas the stage remains superior. The actors can’t take that pregnant pause to allow jokes to set in, and sometimes the limitations of camera angles take away from seeing everything all at once. Casting was also a mixed bag: Uma Thurman did her best but was ultimately miscast as Ula (her Broadway counterparts are almost always much better), but on the other hand John Lovitz and Will Ferrell were perfect for their roles.

One thing I did particularly like were the Easter eggs at the end of the film. As the credits roll, the audience is treated to three songs sung by Matthew Broderick, Nathan Lane and Will Ferrell (har, har) respectively. Then at the very end of the credits, there’s a final song number, complete with the typical cameo from Mel Brooks. For the curious: yes, they sing that last song on stage, too, as the curtain call.

AND FINALLY…
Three times in as many days last week I had to sit in at public functions on my dad’s behalf. I also attended a fourth, but you could say that was entirely of my own doing. Never have I felt more like a fish out of water. There was a time when I might have been able to pull it off with more aplomb (in the college days when I was drunk on my own hubris and felt like I could do anything), but “networking” isn’t my strong suit (which sort of explains why more people hate me than I realize). It’s just one of those things I didn’t win in the genetic lottery, together with height. But I am a dead wringer for my dad, though. That ought to count for something.