Keeping it in the Cult

I don’t pride myself in being a bigot, but there are certain issues where the uninitiated simply cannot tread on. Which is why I’ve always held respect for matters that have gained cult status (a common term when talking about pop culture). Not to say that I endorse elitism, but more, the quality control that these measures of exclusivity ensure.

Take for example the cult that has always worshipped and adored certain anime series; their fanatic efforts often cause them to be labeled as “otaku,” much to the flattery of their conspirators, of course. Their presence; marked only by symbols (like the one on the very bottom of my sidebar) known only by fellow otaku, serving as proof of their secret society, their deeper appreciation.

Yet it’s not the selfish trade it may appear to be to outsiders. Their work rivals that of museum curators, preserving the purity at the cost of popularity. There’s purpose to that. It’s a kind of distillation, if you will; one that sets apart the idle viewers from the hardcore fanatics. Similar in the way there is debate in the translation of the bible, misinterpretation of the morals is a grave sin. It’s a code that abides by nearly the same laws of oral tradition. Better then to leave only the adamant to continue the legacy, few as they may be, than to have gross misinterpretation of key concepts.

A runaway case of gross misinterpretation would be that of a popluar anime series that revolves around vehicles racing down mountain passes. Failing to realize the intense technicality of the show, (and perhaps wishing to gain more viewers), the network ha decided to import the series, dubbed in Taglish, voiced over by personalities least compatible to their characters. Their (the personalities) only contribution to the show will be publicity. But let’s be honest, it was a cash cow waiting to be slaughtered. What irks me is the fact that all their efforts to import the show have become contradictory to all that the program has stood for.

The mangga has always been popular among car enthusiast cults because of its avoidance of conventional anime mantras: no superhuman strength (i.e. fireballs, flying, spirits coming from within a supposed inanimate object, etc.), no impossible physics-defying feats (most of the time, at least), and no foolishly costumed characters. It was a show that prided itself in focusing on an individual’s skill and the value of learning (which consequently leads to losing). It was never one that banked on face value — the cars featured are at least 10 years old and are easily acquirable (if you lived in Japan). It was one that featured time-honored bushido values like subtlety, humility and honor — a modern motorized samurai, if you will. And finally, it was purposely anticlimactic. Perhaps its only clue that it was indeed Japanese was its reluctant hero. It was a perfection found in imperfection in the trademark Japanese style. All of which are quite the opposite of the pop-culturalized, pretentious treatment of it.

Faithfuls, such as myself will cry foul and sacrilege. Never mind that they’ve chosen the most incompetent people to play key roles. More, rather, because our shrines have been desecrated, like the heads of Cambodian idols sold as souvenirs.

You can imagine I'm kicking myself for my hypocrisy as I type this.

Automobile of Memory

This month marks my anniversary in the magazine. A year ‘Down from the Hill’ and I feel like I’ve unlearning all that the good Jesuits have hammered into my head. I’ve restructured priorities, been severely humbled, and though crankier, have gained a better appreciation for others’ ideas — yes, less of my old bigot self. Not to mention that my dates are off, one month off to be exact. Tell me you’ll meet me on the 15^th of August and I’ll pause for a while to determine if it’s September already. But I’ve kept appointments much better that way.

Remembering has become easier since I’ve been associating months with cars - our cover cars in particular. Forgive me, then, for calling September Porsche and October BMW, or January Ferrari. August last year was a Honda Jazz — prophetic, you could say.

It’s the kind of classical conditioning only a car nut could understand. Memories are linked to senses, as anyone’s is, but sensations that normally wouldn’t trigger a nostalgic response from others. A flower’s scent, or the feel of a blanket would have no bearing for me. But a frosty windshield, scent of leather, or even the rebound of a suspension arm would hark to a more exciting episode. Only a car nut, after all, would remember the shade, interior, engine and tire of the car with which he fetched the girl that was to be his wife. Vivid, still, in his mind, is the soggy concrete, creaking wipers and lethargic grip of that day. And in wed locked days, he will feel her wrath for keeping a detrimental, polluting, drain-on-family-income-rust-bucket. But that to him will serve as a reminder of that fateful day, more accurate than any current 8 megapixel camera could capture.

I still pine for our old ’89 Lancer GLX (no longer in our possession) whose loosened mechanicals and heavy steering would cause me to reminisce those rebellious exploits of reckless youth. A neighing cold start still reminds me of the ’79 Dodge Colt that rapidly ferried me to Greenhills’ once famous Eskimo Pie. Old cars, like old clothes, are eventually tossed away at one point or another. A steering wheel or an old plate often all that remain of those faithful vessels of memory.

I’m thankful though for period movies and old photographs, that refresh blurred visions of those old cars, and consequently, those good old memories.

An End That Never Came

Back in the last millennium, I was almost sure the world would end at year 2000. Call it impressionable youth. I had already calculated it in my mind: I’d be a fresh grad from high school, finally have my own car, take advantage of my new found freedom, and, while I had nothing to hope for yet, prepare myself for Armageddon.

Obviously, nothing happened, and life went on as usual. So I found myself suddenly having to decide what to do with my life, half the time cursing the lack of an end to the world that royally screwed up my well planned, short-lived youth.

So I clung to whatever came within proximity, hoping the end that was promised me would come soon. Years passed, and I know find myself a writer, re-writing the short-lived youth with new twists and turns, but short-lived nonetheless. Their open-endedness reflected my own cluelessness about the future. I couldn't end them because I myself hadn't written my own ending either.

It’s odd that I’ve made a career out of something I just used to pass the time with. And if you look close enough, they're just as open-ended and full of possibility. And I’ve learned to look farther into the future too, with the impending possibility of death becoming less and less of a factor. But it's all claws scratching on sand.

Whether it was pessimism or cowardice back then, has turned into a faded shade of old photographs. I didn’t want to grow up. There was so much that needed to be done, so much I still had to learn, and an enthusiasm and perpetual ignorance that I wasn’t too keen on giving up.

I just didn’t want the responsibility. But the recent circumstances have provided a hefty shove. It’s the same push that keeps me at my desk, staring into a screen I used to procrastinate away from. It’s not about earning the greens. I just want to get back to that nexus, when and where everything didn’t need a choice. It just so happens that that process will require a hefty amount of those green backs.

Call me childish and I might even be flattered.

The beauty of capitalism is that, one way or another, it's going to suck you in.