Novelist Kurt Vonnegut dies at age 84

By CHRISTIAN SALAZAR,
Associated Press Writer



NEW YORK - Kurt Vonnegut, the satirical novelist who captured the absurdity of war and questioned the advances of science in darkly humorous works such as "Slaughterhouse- Five" and "Cat's Cradle," died Wednesday. He was 84. Vonnegut, who often marveled that he had lived so long despite his lifelong smoking habit, had suffered brain injuries after a fall at his Manhattan home weeks ago, said his wife, photographer Jill Krementz.

The author of at least 19 novels, many of them best-sellers, as well as dozens of short stories, essays and plays, Vonnegut relished the role of a social critic. He lectured regularly, exhorting audiences to think for themselves and delighting in barbed commentary against the institutions he felt were dehumanizing people."I will say anything to be funny, often in the most horrible situations," Vonnegut, whose watery, heavy-lidded eyes and unruly hair made him seem to be in existential pain, once told a gathering of psychiatrists.

A self-described religious skeptic and freethinking humanist, Vonnegut used protagonists such as Billy Pilgrim and Eliot Rosewater as transparent vehicles for his points of view. He also filled his novels with satirical commentary and even drawings that were only loosely connected to the plot. In "Slaughterhouse- Five," he drew a headstone with the epitaph: "Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt."But much in his life was traumatic, and left him in pain.

Despite his commercial success, Vonnegut battled depression throughout his life, and in 1984, he attempted suicide with pills and alcohol, joking later about how he botched the job.His mother had succeeded in killing herself just before he left for Germany during World War II, where he was quickly taken prisoner during the Battle of the Bulge. He was being held in Dresden when Allied bombs created a firestorm that killed an estimated tens of thousands of people in the city."The firebombing of Dresden explains absolutely nothing about why I write what I write and am what I am," Vonnegut wrote in "Fates Worse Than Death," his 1991 autobiography of sorts.But he spent 23 years struggling to write about the ordeal, which he survived by huddling with other POW's inside an underground meat locker labeled slaughterhouse- five.

The novel, in which Pvt. Pilgrim is transported from Dresden by time-traveling aliens from the planet Tralfamadore, was published at the height of the Vietnam War, and solidified his reputation as an iconoclast."He was sort of like nobody else," said Gore Vidal, who noted that he, Vonnegut and Norman Mailer were among the last writers around who served in World War II."

He was imaginative; our generation of writers didn't go in for imagination very much. Literary realism was the general style. Those of us who came out of the war in the 1940s made it sort of the official American prose, and it was often a bit on the dull side. Kurt was never dull."Vonnegut was born on Nov. 11, 1922, in Indianapolis, a "fourth-generation German-American religious skeptic Freethinker, " and studied chemistry at Cornell University before joining the Army.

When he returned, he reported for Chicago's City News Bureau, then did public relations for General Electric, a job he loathed. He wrote his first novel, "Player Piano," in 1951, followed by "The Sirens of Titan," "Canary in a Cat House" and "Mother Night," making ends meet by selling Saabs on Cape Cod.Critics ignored him at first, then denigrated his deliberately bizarre stories and disjointed plots as haphazardly written science fiction.

But his novels became cult classics, especially "Cat's Cradle" in 1963, in which scientists create "ice-nine," a crystal that turns water solid and destroys the earth.Many of his novels were best-sellers. Some also were banned and burned for suspected obscenity. Vonnegut took on censorship as an active member of the PEN writers' aid group and the American Civil Liberties Union. The American Humanist Association, which promotes individual freedom, rational thought and scientific skepticism, made him its honorary president.

His characters tended to be miserable anti-heros with little control over their fate. Pilgrim was an ungainly, lonely goof. The hero of "God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater" was a sniveling, obese volunteer fireman. Vonnegut said the villains in his books were never individuals, but culture, society and history, which he said were making a mess of the planet. "We probably could have saved ourselves, but we were too damned lazy to try very hard ... and too damn cheap," he once suggested carving into a wall on the Grand Canyon, as a message for flying-saucer creatures.

He retired from novel writing in his later years, but continued to publish short articles. He had a best-seller in 2005 with "A Man Without a Country," a collection of his nonfiction, including jabs at the Bush administration ("upper-crust C-students who know no history or geography") and the uncertain future of the planet. He called the book's success "a nice glass of champagne at the end of a life."

In recent years, Vonnegut worked as a senior editor and columnist at "In These Times." Editor Joel Bleifuss said he had been trying recently to get Vonnegut to write something more for the magazine, but was unsuccessful. "He would just say he's too old and that he had nothing more to say. He realized, I think, he was at the end of his life," Bleifuss said.

Vonnegut, who had homes in Manhattan and the Hamptons in New York, adopted his sister's three young children after she died. He also had three children of his own with his first wife, Ann Cox, and later adopted a daughter, Lily, with his second wife, the noted photographer Jill Krementz. Vonnegut once said that of all the ways to die, he'd prefer to go out in an airplane crash on the peak of Mount Kilimanjaro. He often joked about the difficulties of old age. "When Hemingway killed himself he put a period at the end of his life; old age is more like a semicolon," Vonnegut told The Associated Press in 2005.

"My father, like Hemingway, was a gun nut and was very unhappy late in life. But he was proud of not committing suicide. And I'll do the same, so as not to set a bad example for my children

The Green Lantern in Me

Hehehe...Try this one, I'm afraid I'm a villain :)


Your results:
You are Green Lantern

Green Lantern 85% Robin 75% Spider-Man 70% Superman 65% Supergirl 60% Wonder Woman 60% The Flash 60% Catwoman 60% Hulk 55% Iron Man 55% Batman 15%

Hot-headed. You have strong will power and a good imagination.

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Test

Scylla and Charybdis

12 April 2006
Metrica, Manila


With four blogs I’ve vowed to maintain, I’m steeled in my resolve that from now on, weeks would never pass without any entry or at least fillers to them. There’s no heart-splintering to me than seeing my blogs in state of vacuity. Panic and paranoia it has been causing me; it is as if I’m bowing to the challenge of Stephen King who stated in his “On Writing” that “If God gives you something you can do, why in God’s name wouldn’t you do it?”

However, seldom can I finish articles. Most of them remain incomplete, already mottling with age in my frayed notebook. Although lots of ideas have been constantly playing in my head, I can hardly take up writing them again as I’m afraid I might not be able to put heart and soul and justice to them. Reading these unfinished writings is like watching Lorna Tolentino, they’re good yet they’re lacking of emotion.

Gone are the days when I’d just clack my keyboard and the words would fire off like wayward missiles. A cup of coffee or two, a pack of Marlboro and Nirvana or GnR or Indigo Girls on the background were all I needed before to weave words, enabling me to carry out a thousand-word article in three hours. Today, I have to pass through the ritual of plugging socket in my nose, wringing my brain until it bleeds and trickling buckets of sweat before I can produce a paragraph that can’t even make a single strand of hair raise.

As to what has caused my impasse is still a conundrum. Oftentimes, I point my finger at my overindulgence on coffee, coke and cigarette. Yet this could be because of the age, or dementia or anything that I could easily cite as a convincing alibi.

There are a lot of possibilities. Yet, while mulling over, words are just strutting in front of me, waiting to be picked up. They’re freely floating, waiting to be of service to make a story, a poem or an article ennoble the beauty and madness of life. That is the irony of it: they’re free but remain dormant unless you have the guts to use them. Your fear is that they would become less magical, less powerful or totally futile as soon as you employ them. You’re terrified at the thought of failing them. Because according to the British novelist Samuel Butler, the rule is “we have got to live with them and must make the best and not the worst of them.”

But no matter what, we have to live with the words. That is why, I’m firm that I would keep my four blogs. At least, through them, I’m in no doubt I’d be a good neighbor with words. The only thing is that I’ve to make use of them properly. Otherwise, I would produce nothing but a trash.

E-mode

07 april 2007
makati city




If Jessica Zafra has Synchronicity of The Police as her riposte to the corny surveys “What’s the album that has changed/shaped your life?”, I would definitely single out the Eraserheads. I’m sure everybody in my generation would do anyway, but for an angst-ridden, zits-filled youth who thought that locking himself in his bedroom for a week because Kurt Cobain pulled the trigger of shotgun in his mouth was the ultimate expression of being cool, everything abruptly changed when the Ultraelectromagneticpop surfaced.

I was among those who dared to skip classes to catch videos of Kurt Cobain smashing his guitar into smithereens or Axle Rose doing somersault in his concert with his white skimpy cycling shorts. For us, wearing torn jeans, black shirt with black nail polish was the “in” thing. Failure to do so would mean you’re not cool, or worse, hip-hop, a brand which all of us tried to steer clear of. I was in my “I-hate-myself-I-wanna-die” attitude when Tindahan ni Aling Nena, Toyang, Pare Ko and Ligaya knocked superficial pop from the airwaves and the charts. Instantly, I fell in love with the band and their songs.

Almost spontaneously, I erased the nail polish, unearthed my white and colored shirts, put my old tired boots back into my shoe rack and bought my chucks. I was in complete metamorphosis.

But beyond my makeover, I was spared from learning by rote the entire lines of Estranged, November Rain, and Metal Militia. Nothing’s more mortifying than being pulled up when you’re in top form shrieking the songs of Nirvana, Metallica, Guns & Roses, etc.

Being cool wasn’t measured; I wouldn’t effort to fit in to any crowd or group anymore. There’s no requirement whatsoever, you just had to appreciate the music. I developed the “I-Don’t-Care” stance, as long as I was enjoying what I was doing. Just like Eheads, they never cared nor bothered how some people, even a senator, critiqued and demeaned their songs. For them, these were all for pure, clean fun.


And so Eheads had been my constant companion. Never was I bored listening to them as their music was of great diversity. They worked both in the underground and mainstream with a mix of alternative, pop, rock, reggae, synth rock and other genres. From the first thing in the morning up to the last minute of the day, my ears were all glued to their songs.

Of all the Eheads songs, it has been “Wag Kang Matakot” I’ve enjoyed immensely. I’m sure the hopeless romantic organisms can identify with me. Just hearing the first strum was enough to make my innards coil, no kidding. There were nights I’d just turn off the lights, and listen to the song until I dozed off. This went on for months that it became my lullaby. Until my mom saw our electric bill.

Summer was of particular kick. I bugged my mom to let me spend my vacation in Manila so as to witness Eheads demonstrate their greatness on stage. We squashed our carcass into the thickness of the crowd, rubbing elbows with the other members of the cult the Eheads successfully yet unintentionally established. We religiously parked ourselves along the flowerbox of Shakey’s in front of UST just to catch a glimpse of the band regularly performing at Mayric’s.

That’s how I got attached to Ely, Raimund, Buddy and Marcus. They became my life, the center of my universe. Just imagine how shattered I was when the news of their breakup reached me in mid-March 2002. The reasons were unknown by then, and we had nothing but mere speculations. But one thing is clear for me, that life would never be the same again.

In deed, life was never be the same again. Until now, I cannot identify a band that can be on a par with Eheads. I really miss the Eheads.

***Lesson: it is not advisable to play Eheads in the morning of Black Saturday.

Things that we should know by heart

08 april 2007
makati

Choosing for something to write about is never been an easy for me. As a feelingerong-writer, I can’t just jot down my rambling thoughts, organize them, and presto, I’ve a magnum opus I can proudly display. Unlike before, I’ve to make my brain bleed to be able to cook up something that is somewhat within acceptable limits.

While thinking of a topic, I stumbled upon Jessica Zafra’s entry in her blog regarding the relationship in the office, work-related, that is. This is of particular significance as it tries to shed light to the tricky situations in the office.

Anyway, here’s the entire article. Please make sure to know these points by heart so that the next time we make excuses, they would be flawed-free.


Tough at the top


Overworked, mistreated and underappreciated? Think you're the only one with a right to complain? Think again. Mira Katbamna reveals 10 things your boss hates about you

Monday April 2, 2007
The Guardian

Go on, admit it: you hate your boss. You do. The way they accost you with: "It'll just take five minutes" as you're trying to leave. The way they smile patronisingly when they read your appraisal request for more training. Just them having power over you for eight hours every day is enough to make you spit with fury.

But at least we're not alone in our angst. It seems bosses are also a bit cross: they hate us, too. All of us. Even when we bring them coffee. And, according to Sandi Mann, senior lecturer in occupational psychology at the University of Central Lancashire, they may have a point. "A generation ago, people worked their way up the ladder, hierarchy was based on age and experience, and it was more respected," she says.

"Now, people may be brought in [as bosses] who are seen as the 'young whippersnappers' or 'from outside' so there is much more resentment than there used to be - which makes it much difficult to manage effectively."
And that's not all. In the days before open-plan offices and team-bonding days, managers were better protected from us oiks. "Managers used to be more remote, with their own staffrooms and canteens, and there used to be more middle management," Mann says.

"But now, they are expected to be the authority figure and 'one of the lads' as it were, and it's not always easy to get that balance right."
The result of all this is that while your boss might look like she's fine, inside she's seething. You think you hate your boss? Here are the top 10 things your boss hates about YOU.

1. Lateness
Everyone has days when the bus breaks down, the washing machine packs up, or the alarm doesn't go off. The problem is that some people have those days Monday through Friday. But what really cheeses off your boss is your lame excuse. "It shows you don't care," says Louis Halpern, CEO at advertising agency Halpern Cowan. "Why they can't just tell you that they find it hard to get out of bed and be done with it I don't know. It really makes me furious."

2. Lack of initiative
"Don't ask me if you should buy lunch for the client, if the client is coming at noon," said one infuriated manager. "Call up the client and ask if they want lunch." Actually that's not quite what he said: there was a lot more swearing in the original version. Managers absolutely hate being bothered by stuff that really, if you thought about it for even a second, you could work out for yourself. They also hate constant updates and being CCd in on everything. They pay you to do a job - get on with it...

3. Too much initiative
... unless you're an idiot. A marketing manager for a large educational charity reports that if there's one thing worse than lack of initiative, it's completely ignoring instructions to go off and do something else instead. She recently found herself on stage, ready to announce the winner of an award. When the person responsible for counting the votes turned up, he showed off a new, whizzy and completely redundant colour-coded method for counting the votes. Unfortunately, devising the new programme meant he hadn't actually had time to ... count the votes.

4. Bitching and whining
So Julie from third floor might not have said hello to you this morning, and that might well be because she's an unfriendly cow, but in the context of say, the war in Iraq, does it really merit a four-hour disquisition? Your boss doesn't think so. On the other hand, while bitching is bad, whining is worse. "What really annoys me is when we buy new equipment or take everyone out, and all I hear the next day is 'We should have bought a bigger TV' or 'We could have gone to a nicer restaurant'" says Halpern. "And that's when we've spent £5,000."

5. Disloyalty
Although none of the managers came out and said that they hated their staff for talking over them in meetings, pointing out their errors in public, or preventing the bonus-related project coming in on time, Mann says it's a major issue. "People used to close ranks, but it doesn't happen quite as much as it used to," she says. "Managers usually feel obliged to look after their staff, but if their staff don't feel the same way, the lack of loyalty is always a problem for the boss."

6. Lack of passion. Or interest
It might come as a surprise to you, but your boss has a life outside work. They too find it hard to get up in the morning. And they find the managing director's speeches as boring as you do. But they have to stay motivated, because they are the boss. So, when you fall asleep in meetings, can't remember the names of your accounts and tell them it doesn't matter whether the email goes today or tomorrow, it reminds them that they don't really give a toss either, but that it's their job to make themselves, and you, care. Then they get really, really irritated.

7. Trying to be their best friend
They don't want to go down the pub with you, they don't want to hear about what you really think of their boss, and they most certainly don't want to know what happened between you and Andy in the loos last Friday. They like you, but they know from bitter experience that if they show too much interest, you'll start treating them like a friend and refuse to take orders.

8. Petty lying
Saying that you missed the call because your mobile has run out of power. That you didn't get the email. That you've sent the report but there must be a technical glitch. That the meeting has run over and it's not worth you coming back to the office. That you've lost two big taxi receipts. That you're working from home today. That you have to go to a funeral, the dentist, the doctor, your mum's house, your best friend's cousin's wedding. Whatever. The biggest insult is that you think they believe you.

9. Childishness
I'm paraphrasing, but the key message here is: "I'm not your mum. Don't email me about the brand of toilet paper in the loo. Don't leave the kitchen in a mess. Don't ask me for a new biro. I'm not going to clean up after you and I don't care about this crap." You get the idea.

10. Wanting their job
They spend all their time and energy trying to protect you from the higher-uppers, you spend all your energy complaining about them. And then, on top of that, you want their job? Unforgivable.

The Pseudo-Quasi-Semi Insomniac Slash Nocturnal Slash Catatonic

16 march 2007
metrica, manila



Kuya Boy’s voice was already reverberating around the house. Twisting, turning, coiling and spinning, my mind was still stirring. Allende, Garcia-Marquez and Kundera were of no help. After reading and re-reading them, their powerful words and metaphors turned into mere ants parading before my tired eyes. Sleeping pills were all expired, the Nido can was already empty, Kukay was having forty winks at the doorsteps, and my eyes were still alive and kicking.



For the past days, I’ve been struggling to sleep. Every inch of my nerves has all worn out after several days of pressure from the office, particularly from our PM. Stress has been killing me I have been restless. The last time I had a sound sleep was so long a time I’ve forgotten it. Good thing there’s Marlboro and Coke that somewhat put me at ease.



Times like these bring me back to assessing my life. Which I hate, not only because I feel guilty for the things that I’ve done and whatnot, but I’d be consumed in trying to figure out my status right now and my future, if there is. This I find insufferable because I’m afraid that that would make me down in the dumps, especially with the current condition of my work.



Sometimes, I just think that I’m just overreacting, that I’m seeing things larger than life. I’m just trying to believe that life is as simple as what it had been during our younger years, when all our problems revolve around the zits and JS prom and our crushes. But however I strive to view things in rose-colored glass, this is my life now. And in spite of all the efforts that I’ve been doing to make it look optimistic and upbeat, well, it is as exciting as opening of an umbrella.



Too much for this as I know I’m not making any sense anymore. The sun was in its full vividness and Luningning was now executing her signature steps. Still, catching a doze was far from reality, even though my eyes were already puffed-up. Wait, Maricel Soriano was up next.

Justice for Satur, Justice for All

By Conrado de Quiros
Inquirer
Last updated 01:55am (Mla time) 03/26/2007


MANILA, Philippines – The gall of these people!

Eduardo Ermita says sori na lang: Satur Ocampo would have been spared the attentions the authorities are showering him now if he had merely availed of the amnesty offered by Presidents Aquino and Ramos during their time. Raul Gonzalez choruses, tsk, tsk, Ocampo is not covered by the amnesty given by the two past presidents simply because he did not apply for it. “If the President grants amnesty,” he says philosophically, “you must apply.”

What arrant nonsense.

At the very least, what’s wrong with it is what Ocampo himself has to say about it. He never applied for the amnesty because he never committed the crimes he was accused of. Why on earth, or hell, should he ask to be pardoned for a crime he did not commit? Indeed, why on earth, or on any other planet, should he admit to a crime he did not commit?

It’s the third time now, says Ocampo, that he has been accused of these crimes—during Marcos’ time when he was in detention; during Cory’s time when he was again in detention; and now during Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo’s time, for which he has been put in detention. And each time, the case against him failed. I thought we proscribed double jeopardy? I thought we observed the principle that a man may not be tried for the same case twice? This isn’t double jeopardy, this is triple jeopardy!

What makes Ermita’s and Gonzalez’s statements doubly stupid is that they openly suggest that Ocampo is not being accused of an ordinary crime but of a political one. One committed in the course of pursuing a political cause and, therefore, deserving of amnesty. If Ocampo were truly guilty of murder in the sense that we normally understand it, in the sense of the spectacle we are being regaled with today (journalists and political activists are being routinely gunned down by assassins), why should he be pardoned whether there is amnesty or not? The killers of James Rowe were not. If Ocampo fell in the same category, then he should rot in hell, or in jail. Ermita and Gonzalez themselves suggest he does not belong in either.

What makes their statements galling is more than the smugness with which they say them. What makes them so is the way they or the government they represent presume to sit in judgment over Ocampo. They should not be judging, they should be judged.

I do know someone who has committed a monumental crime, a crime far worse than the murder of a person, or even the wholesale slaughter of an entire tribe. That is the murder of a nation, that is the murder of a people. Or what is but the same thing, that is the murder of democracy, that is the murder of freedom. I do know someone who admitted that crime, albeit with every effort to mislead the public about it. I do know someone who applied for pardon for it, saying robotically “I…am…sorry…”, notwithstanding that the ultimate rulers of this country, who are the People, have not issued a proclamation of amnesty and who certainly would not have included that crime among those pardonable by God or man even if they had done so.

I do know someone who has not been or will ever be covered by any amnesty. I do know someone who has asked to be pardoned for the mother of all crimes, but has not been pardoned for it or can ever be pardoned for it.

But she has not been prosecuted or harassed like Satur Ocampo. She has been installed in office and, like Marcos, praised by her fawners. She does not have a tiny cell in Muntinlupa, she has an office that dwarfs her in Malacañang.

But far more than any of these, the spectacle of GMA, Ermita, Gonzalez and ilk presuming to sit in judgment over Satur Ocampo is not unlike Imelda Marcos, Fabian Ver, Juan Ponce Enrile and ilk presuming to sit in judgment over Corazon Aquino. The fact that Ocampo is being accused of crimes he apparently committed during martial law only calls attention to who Ocampo and his accusers were during martial law and what contributions they’ve made to this country.

Ocampo was a journalist who, finding that the sword could be an ally of the pen, risked life and limb to join a group that was fighting to liberate this country from dictatorship. For which pains he was caught, tortured and detained for a good many years of his life, while trumped-up charges were filed against him as they were against everyone who tried to cut down the barbed wire strung across this country. By all rights, Ocampo should be hailed a hero for fighting and helping to restore this country’s freedoms, along with all those who died or were scarred for life for doing the same thing—Left, Right, or Center, it doesn’t matter. And by all rights, all those self-proclaimed heroes that sprouted after the bells pealed victory should be dragged to Bagumbayan and made to share Rizal’s fate minus the reverence.

What contributions Ermita, Gonzalez and ilk made during that time only they know. Indeed, what they were doing at that time, other than scratching the globules dangling down their apparent manhood, only they know. It’s criminal enough that we’ve never given people like Ocampo their due for what they’ve done to end a tyranny. It’s an absolute atrocity that they should be pilloried for it by people who may not hold up a cigarette lighter—never mind candle—to them.

During those dark years of martial law, we had a phrase that perfectly captured our common plight of oppression and our perception that a humongous injustice done to one person—Left, Right, or Center, it did not matter—was a humongous injustice done to us all. That phrase was, “Justice for Ninoy, justice for all.” In these dark years of de facto martial law, we have a phrase that does the same thing:

“Justice for Satur, justice for all.”