JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

There is a spate of new books on “overparenting” or “helicopter parenting”—spoiling one’s child (buying him too many toys) while subjecting him to “achievement pressure” (sending him to kindergartens with advanced math, forcing him into extracurricular activities that would look good on his college application, zealously monitoring his test scores). Most of the authors agree that overparenting is bad and may result in the children being so dependent on their elders that they may never move out of the house. All I can say is: Ha!

Arguably I am not qualified to give an opinion on parenting, having neither children to raise nor any intention of spawning. That is true, but I happen to be an authority on childhood: Mine. Owing to my staunch refusal to grow up (which is my own choice and not a consequence of overparenting), I have managed to extend my childhood for decades. In fact I have made a career of warding off adulthood; I would recommend it as a lifestyle, except that few of us are allowed by society to remain in a state of happy immaturity, and all the slots are taken. In any case, don’t be like me: if there are too many of us, civilization would grind to a halt.

As I read the review of the literature on overparenting, I recalled my early experience as a latchkey child. A latchkey child, for the benefit of you spoiled and overprotected types, is a child who goes home to an empty house after school because her parents are still at work. When I was growing up we were frequently without a maid, so I simply let myself into the house and looked after myself until my parents arrived three or four hours later. 

Continue reading Emotional Weather Report in the Star.

The band had just started playing “Ligaya” when the guy in front of me started sending out text messages. Whoever you are, I’m sorry I read your messages but I couldn’t help it, your phone was in my face. His message read, “Pare nasa Fort kami ang galing galing ng Eheads concert the best!” (We’re at the Fort the Eheads concert is great!) This is not how he spelled it, I just can’t remember txt. Then he sent it to everyone in his directory—I know because the names appeared on the screen one by one, in alphabetical order, as the message was sent. He even sent it to his mom, which was sweet, although I don’t know how she’d like being called “Pare”.

Our indefatigable texter then received a reply on his phone. It said: “Hus dis?” Ow! I wish I hadn’t seen that—it’s embarrassing to get a “Who’s this?” reply, especially when you’re sharing your feelings of great joy and one-ness with the world. Yes, names vanish from phonebooks and systems get glitchy, but nobody wants an existential crisis via text. Fortunately our new non-acquaintance was made of stern stuff. He immediately fired off this reply: “Ex-boyfriend ni xxxxx.” Again, that’s kind of sweet, staying in touch with the friends of your ex. Or creepy. In the information age, privacy is virtually impossible: you can’t hide anything, and you can’t avoid anything.

Emotional Weather Report, Fridays and Sundays in the Star.

Question from a reader: “Sarah Palin and the fundamentalists make me think that “The Handmaid’s Tale” is now shifting from speculative fiction to fact. I read it when I was in my early teens and I remember being seriously freaked out. . .

“Some years after the book was published, a film version with Faye Dunaway and Elizabeth McGovern came out, and I clearly remember that it was distributed in the Philippines under the title “Slave Girls”. (Chalk one up for subtlety). I remember seeing the trailer – the usual technically polished Hollywood trailer – suddenly being spliced with its new title, a crudely designed sign that read “Slave Girls” in a faux handpainted logo. Can anyone among your readers or your circle of friends confirm or refute this? Did my brain just make that up? I would dearly like to know.”

I remember that The Handmaid’s Tale was retitled for the Philippine market. This is a common practice among the local distributors, presumably to increase the movie’s box-office appeal. Who can forget how Jude, the film adaptation of Thomas Hardy’s gloomy Victorian masterpiece, suddenly acquired the new title, “Bare”? Now there’s a bit of sexy stuff in Thomas Hardy—check out the character of Eustacia Vye in The Return of the Native. Or the eponymous heroine of Tess of the d’Urbervilles, whose film adaptation directed by Roman Polanski somehow avoided being retitled “Disgrasyada!” The print ad for Bare prominently featured an apparently naked Kate Winslet, fresh from the box-office bonanza of Titanic. The distributors managed to restrain themselves from throwing in a photo of Leonardo DiCaprio.

Adel has just reminded me that Hal Ashby’s Being There, starring Peter Sellers as the gardener whose babbling is mistaken for brilliance, was shown in Manila theatres as Supergenius.

The X-Files 2: I Want To Believe is not nearly as horrendous as the reviews say it is. If you were an X-phile, it’s a pleasant way to pass two hours in the company of old friends—even if somebody onscreen has to say “I want to believe” every 15 minutes to remind us of the characters’ issues. There’s a brilliant moment early on, when Mulder and Scully visit the FBI building and stop in front of a picture of US President George W. Bush. As the grinning president’s photo appears on the screen, we hear the portentous notes of  the X-Files theme. Labyrinthine government conspiracies and unfathomable secrets: The X-Files has taken over reality.

A review of The X-Files 2: I Want To Believe in Emotional Weather Report, today in the Star. 

A study shows that being normal is actually extraordinary. I, for one, don’t know any normal people. I wouldn’t know what to do if I met one. 

“Normal people may be nicer than average, but they also have character traits that aren’t universally appealing. They’re not adventurous. They’re not above average in intelligence, nor are they outgoing. Truth be told, a lot of our best qualities are unusual. A sense for music like Mozart’s is certainly exceptional. So is the ability to speak six languages, or the courage to leap onto the subway tracks to save a stranger’s life. . .” 

Typically Twisted in Psychology Today. 

For years my friend Bernard-Henri Not Levy has been railing that Occam’s Razor–the principle that the simplest explanation is probably the best–does not work in the Philippines. He is terribly disappointed that no one disagrees with him. Now he goes around railing that we fail the Turing Test, and if no one has disagreed with him it may be because no one is sure what the Turing Test is.

Occam’s Razor Does Not Cut Here in Emotional Weather Report, today in the Star.