Thursday, March 25, 2004
A Chronicle of a 10-second Mass Lip-lock
By Reinerio Alba
THE IDEA FOR the mass-wide kissing event, necessarily, must have germinated in the brain, which processed the image from eyes that have read a googled data that tells of the 4,445 couples in Santiago, Chile, kissing simultaneously for 10 seconds, all for a Guinness record. Either that or the brain took it from Reuters.
The brain then processed all the data and translated it into an instant image of Filipino mouths kissing away to break “the kiss” record that was set only on January 11, 2004. Yes, only a month ago, and a reason enough to consider the brain a Filipino.
And if this brain is a boss in some firm, or if it is a brain that has money to fan itself with, it must have directed its fingers to fast-dial a number on the latest mobile phone to connect to a ready ear, which will then reach a “great-idea-sir” brain that will process the data and translate it anew into an image of Filipino mouths locking together for an entry at the Guinness.
Or, if it is a brain that works for someone, the brain must have directed its vocal chords to verbalize such a data into an ear (or ears) through which the images of more than 4,500 kissing couples are projected back into the moneyed brain who will ultimately decide whether the whole idea is a go or not. And so it goes.
And this must have been how, from the drawing table of some cold advertising firm, Close-up and floral polo man Manila Mayor Lito Atienza, and the whole council of Manila twirled themselves together for “Lovapalooza,” the “kissfest,” the “mass lip-lock,” pucker-armed to ease the unknowing Chileans out of a Guinness record.
And that was how, a full three weeks early, our local viewing hours had been swamped by the advertisement calling support for the country’s mass-wide kissfest (remember the ad that ends with the Mayor’s son Kim and wife Felicia kissing?), and even the LRT stations were suddenly littered with orangey tarpaulins announcing the event that was to happen on February 13 at a 2-km. stretch of Roxas Boulevard, from Pedro Gil St. to Quirino Avenue.
FILIPINOS WERE NEVER really into public kissing, are they? No. And kissing was not really a part of our culture, explains white-haired anthropologist and writer Dr. Jesus Peralta, one early morning when I ventured to ask about it. Not during courtship, not during weddings. It was a foreign import. We are more into smelling, he says. Yes, our country has at least 80 plus ethnolinguistic groups but none of the kissing. Any kissing that happens during copulation is another matter--one which we have to inquire from each household, if we are bold enough, he volunteers. When you think about it, we have yet to read a news item from any of our local tabloid about a man caught stealing a kiss from a woman—mashing of breasts, yes, but no “kissing crimes.” Of course, an inventory of pirated c.ds., at P50 apiece or less, at any local “bangketa” would reveal kissing couples anytime, and if we go back a few decades still, we have the “bomba” films to show for proof. And still, we could always harpoon Hollywood for that.
But we certainly could not be like the Chileans who had to wait a full four years to eclipse the previous Guinness World Records mark set by 1,588 pairs of locked lips in February 2000 in Ontario, Canada. Right? How very Filipino when you think about it.
TWO DAYS PRIOR, there was already a news advisory on the traffic re-routing that would take place to accommodate the event.
Since I was already with some friends in Kalaw, and anticipating a no traffic in the area, we decided to walk all the way to Malate where we were to meet two more friends before heading off to Roxas Boulevard.
Taking the route of southbound jeepneys at M.H. del Pilar street, we soon took a left at U.N. avenue where we were to come upon a number of people standing by the roadside waiting for a ride home, many of whom seemed to be unaware at all of the event at the bay area (or was it an anti-Valentines day statement of some sort to be seen there standing stubbornly like that when, obviously, vehicles had stopped streaming through the area?) We walked, talked, and regurgitated some earlier discussions, keeping off potholes, open manholes, and cold-curled bodies that hugged a sidewalk or two before finally taking a left turn at Malvar and right onwards to Adriatico where the staple Malate crowd was heavier than usual.
There was no sign of our friends at Starbucks and seconds later, we received a text message confirming that our other friends had indeed gone off, no longer able to bear the swelling crowd. Unperturbed, we proceeded and realized, as soon as we turned towards Remedios, that the advertisement had indeed succeeded in drawing smacking lips to the area! After the conspicuous absence of cars in parking lots in Metro Manila malls for the first month of the year, the overwhelming presence of teeners of all sorts (and indeed, of not so young people) that night alone was enough to stamp the event as the first official mass-wide “lakad” for the year. And people were definitely out for more than a walk that night--red-faced men with bottles of cold beers in hand, or wives dividing the food among the children, were all out eating, now enveloped in the smoke that bloomed ceaselessly off the grills of instant barbeque haunt: Emil Joy and Jojo’s barbeque “houses.” One passed through that haze across Tia Maria’s and exited with platefuls of hot and spicy tofu, sizzling tuna belly, calamares, and beef salpicao on one’s thoughts.
We moved on in that flux of people crossing over to the plaza across the church of Our Lady of Remedios. In the crowd, a young man in white shirt holding a clipboard and a pen was calling out names, readily met by alert voices that issued from that human mass that had begun to gel into a familiar EDSA Dos tapestry (or Divisoria on a Christmas, even). A few steps further, with more bodies already pressing us from both sides, I spotted a kid helplessly being pushed along the crowd. A woman’s throat-powered voice shot through the clear night air, one of the singers hired for the event, her head of brown hair barely visible on the makeshift stage in front of the new Rajah Sulayman’s statue. Despite that effort though, the female singer drew no applause, or perhaps the crowd was merely reserving its cheers for the appearance later that night of Sarah Geronimo, the “Search for a Star” teener. Entertainment news said that the young Geronimo had sold 200,000 copies of her debut album "Sarah Geronimo: Popstar...A Dream Come True," barely a month after its release—a true feat when you consider the massive music piracy in the country. Geronimo was also said to have already dropped out of her regular schooling because of her busy schedule. Imagine that: to be young, moneyed, and popular. One would be right then to interpret her album sales as the statistics of Filipinos dreaming of such a life, from Batanes to Jolo. But at the moment, without any sign of Geronimo yet, people walked on. Soon, our inch by inch movement came to a halt. With only two directionless heads before us, we had to maneuver forward to where a yellow nylon rope had cordoned off an area. We talked to the nearby officer in green who took us for kissing participants. We clarified that we were, in fact, looking for the Guests Area that was supposedly set up somewhere further down the bay area. It turned out that the officer was clueless, too, about its location and so he allowed us to slip past the cordon and when we recovered our bearings, we realized we were, at that moment, already standing in the area where the kissing participants were. It was a breathing space, thank God, and enough room to drive one’s scooter in. From this vantage though, the crowd at the sidelines (or what was the island of Roxas road) seemed sorrier, backlighted as they were by the tawdry bulbous boulevard lights, each person straining to get a dear foothold, elbowing others out for a look at the kissers, which could easily make one feel like an unwitting entry in a dog show. The participants roamed freely in that 2 km. stretch of road, readily identifiable by the same number tags one sees on relay runners or Tour of Luzon bikers, standing, hands locked with their partners, eyeing other participants, with most of them already wearing the faces of people being appraised for their lip’s worth. Others proudly wore the shirts provided by Close-up (one hoped to kiss for the frigging shirt!). We had hoped to spot couple 069 but there were only couples 1025, 084, 022. We soon bumped into more students in white shirts holding some clipboards and ready with some number tags. They turned out to be volunteer Manila students from the schools of Pamantasan Lungsod ng Maynila, Polytechnic University of the Philippines, and the City Council of Manila. They were serving as marshalls whose job was to get at least 20 couples to register under each one of them and to ensure that the couples do participate at the time appointed for the kissing: 10:55 pm to 11:05 pm. When we asked if they were registering same sex couples, one of them explained that such couples could kiss within the area if they would like to but their names would not be appearing in the list of participants—the guidelines came from Close-up, they said, sounding apologetic. We managed a few nods, fully expecting the explanation, before we said our thank yous. Close by were the representatives from ACNielsen in blue shirts to ensure that the Philippines, indeed, had the statistics of the mass-wide kissing in black and white to show. Representative Agnes Bielsen, a frail woman with a ready smile, said there were 250 of them in the area with two marshalls under each of them. When I asked Agnes what she thought of the event, her lips gave in to a wide smile, covering it before managing to offer a non-reply: “Ok lang.”
As the kissing was yet to start in an hour, we crossed over to the island of the road and headed for the V.I.P. area, which we learned as the stage with the visible white tent in the distance.
We were received rather tiredly by the staff of the group handling the promotion of the event, obviously overwhelmed themselves by the people. We, in fact, almost missed them, as they were already lost in the throng of people that hugged the stairs to the stage. After having us write down our names on an attendance sheet, my two companions were given two meal stubs, which had to be claimed at the nearby Café Adriatico mini restaurant. “Nearby,” we realized, was relative as we had to weave through the crowd again, losing each other along the way, and wisely congregating at the Café eventually.
We approached the female staff at the cash register, obviously harassed to her teeth with meal orders like the rest of the waiters in red. We showed our meal stubs. She pointed to an area covered by a green tent, her eyes on the cash register. We went pass the area at least twice and could not identify the seat that was allotted for guests, as there were no available tables. After hanging around for five minutes, feet groaning from walking, elbowed here and there by assorted people—there were more kids, this time, for chrissake!—we were able to finally claim a table for ourselves.
We called on at least three waiters who kept excusing themselves away “Sandali sandali lang po” with their two raised open-palm gesture for stop, muttering away with some orders. Thankfully, after puffing away three cigarette sticks, Mhir, a sprightly 5’7”-tall waiter, accommodated our request for food, and took time to explain that the ceiling for the amount of food we could order was P150 per meal stub. Concluding that we had P300 worth of food among ourselves, we ordered for four sticks of pork barbeque, one sisig meal, one chicken meal, one hotdog on stick, an extra rice and three lemonades.
While waiting for our food, two young women whom we thought were merely waiting for a seat near us, offered instead to give us henna tattoo for P50 an image. Wear it for three weeks, they said. Perhaps it was our hunger or because of the crowd, we ended up saying no to them.
When our food came, we were amused that our lemonades were colored pink. And the hotdog was overly dressed in mayo and ketchup. We ate away hungrily anyway, and from time to time would hear a microphone-amplified male voice announcing the time left for the kissfest to commence. “Ten minutes more, ladies and gentlemen!”
And when it was a mere 10 seconds wait, the countdown began. Ten, nine, eight. At that, nearly all our co-eaters left their tables like birds that alertly flew off at an intrusion. Some stayed at their tables but stood up as quickly to strain their necks for some view of the kissing. We did, too, and saw the heads of other people.
Rather than suffer the pains of a stiff neck, we eased back into our chair and tried finishing the sisig, instead. We had to content ourselves with the microphone-amplified male voice euphorically announcing the setting of the record. “We did it! We have set the world record ladies and gentlemen!” The crowd expectedly went wild and was sent to further ecstasy with the sound of fireworks going off and lighting up the sky covering the bay area.
Before the last of the fireworks could be spent, we did a French exit and started walking northwards where the crowd grew thinner.
Looking back at the crowd, it was clear that the happy “usiseros” had done it again, had more than eagerly come out of their houses to become a part of a recordable achievement. Crossing paths with a group of teeners, offsprings of the often unacknowledged parts of the city, clad in overly-large polos, thick gels glinting in their hair, one of them missing a tooth or two, all out for a good time on this nights of nights, one wonders whether, in this country, in their own futures, in their own time, these young souls could, in fact, kiss away dreariness, despair, dreamlessness.
By Reinerio Alba
THE IDEA FOR the mass-wide kissing event, necessarily, must have germinated in the brain, which processed the image from eyes that have read a googled data that tells of the 4,445 couples in Santiago, Chile, kissing simultaneously for 10 seconds, all for a Guinness record. Either that or the brain took it from Reuters.
The brain then processed all the data and translated it into an instant image of Filipino mouths kissing away to break “the kiss” record that was set only on January 11, 2004. Yes, only a month ago, and a reason enough to consider the brain a Filipino.
And if this brain is a boss in some firm, or if it is a brain that has money to fan itself with, it must have directed its fingers to fast-dial a number on the latest mobile phone to connect to a ready ear, which will then reach a “great-idea-sir” brain that will process the data and translate it anew into an image of Filipino mouths locking together for an entry at the Guinness.
Or, if it is a brain that works for someone, the brain must have directed its vocal chords to verbalize such a data into an ear (or ears) through which the images of more than 4,500 kissing couples are projected back into the moneyed brain who will ultimately decide whether the whole idea is a go or not. And so it goes.
And this must have been how, from the drawing table of some cold advertising firm, Close-up and floral polo man Manila Mayor Lito Atienza, and the whole council of Manila twirled themselves together for “Lovapalooza,” the “kissfest,” the “mass lip-lock,” pucker-armed to ease the unknowing Chileans out of a Guinness record.
And that was how, a full three weeks early, our local viewing hours had been swamped by the advertisement calling support for the country’s mass-wide kissfest (remember the ad that ends with the Mayor’s son Kim and wife Felicia kissing?), and even the LRT stations were suddenly littered with orangey tarpaulins announcing the event that was to happen on February 13 at a 2-km. stretch of Roxas Boulevard, from Pedro Gil St. to Quirino Avenue.
FILIPINOS WERE NEVER really into public kissing, are they? No. And kissing was not really a part of our culture, explains white-haired anthropologist and writer Dr. Jesus Peralta, one early morning when I ventured to ask about it. Not during courtship, not during weddings. It was a foreign import. We are more into smelling, he says. Yes, our country has at least 80 plus ethnolinguistic groups but none of the kissing. Any kissing that happens during copulation is another matter--one which we have to inquire from each household, if we are bold enough, he volunteers. When you think about it, we have yet to read a news item from any of our local tabloid about a man caught stealing a kiss from a woman—mashing of breasts, yes, but no “kissing crimes.” Of course, an inventory of pirated c.ds., at P50 apiece or less, at any local “bangketa” would reveal kissing couples anytime, and if we go back a few decades still, we have the “bomba” films to show for proof. And still, we could always harpoon Hollywood for that.
But we certainly could not be like the Chileans who had to wait a full four years to eclipse the previous Guinness World Records mark set by 1,588 pairs of locked lips in February 2000 in Ontario, Canada. Right? How very Filipino when you think about it.
TWO DAYS PRIOR, there was already a news advisory on the traffic re-routing that would take place to accommodate the event.
Since I was already with some friends in Kalaw, and anticipating a no traffic in the area, we decided to walk all the way to Malate where we were to meet two more friends before heading off to Roxas Boulevard.
Taking the route of southbound jeepneys at M.H. del Pilar street, we soon took a left at U.N. avenue where we were to come upon a number of people standing by the roadside waiting for a ride home, many of whom seemed to be unaware at all of the event at the bay area (or was it an anti-Valentines day statement of some sort to be seen there standing stubbornly like that when, obviously, vehicles had stopped streaming through the area?) We walked, talked, and regurgitated some earlier discussions, keeping off potholes, open manholes, and cold-curled bodies that hugged a sidewalk or two before finally taking a left turn at Malvar and right onwards to Adriatico where the staple Malate crowd was heavier than usual.
There was no sign of our friends at Starbucks and seconds later, we received a text message confirming that our other friends had indeed gone off, no longer able to bear the swelling crowd. Unperturbed, we proceeded and realized, as soon as we turned towards Remedios, that the advertisement had indeed succeeded in drawing smacking lips to the area! After the conspicuous absence of cars in parking lots in Metro Manila malls for the first month of the year, the overwhelming presence of teeners of all sorts (and indeed, of not so young people) that night alone was enough to stamp the event as the first official mass-wide “lakad” for the year. And people were definitely out for more than a walk that night--red-faced men with bottles of cold beers in hand, or wives dividing the food among the children, were all out eating, now enveloped in the smoke that bloomed ceaselessly off the grills of instant barbeque haunt: Emil Joy and Jojo’s barbeque “houses.” One passed through that haze across Tia Maria’s and exited with platefuls of hot and spicy tofu, sizzling tuna belly, calamares, and beef salpicao on one’s thoughts.
We moved on in that flux of people crossing over to the plaza across the church of Our Lady of Remedios. In the crowd, a young man in white shirt holding a clipboard and a pen was calling out names, readily met by alert voices that issued from that human mass that had begun to gel into a familiar EDSA Dos tapestry (or Divisoria on a Christmas, even). A few steps further, with more bodies already pressing us from both sides, I spotted a kid helplessly being pushed along the crowd. A woman’s throat-powered voice shot through the clear night air, one of the singers hired for the event, her head of brown hair barely visible on the makeshift stage in front of the new Rajah Sulayman’s statue. Despite that effort though, the female singer drew no applause, or perhaps the crowd was merely reserving its cheers for the appearance later that night of Sarah Geronimo, the “Search for a Star” teener. Entertainment news said that the young Geronimo had sold 200,000 copies of her debut album "Sarah Geronimo: Popstar...A Dream Come True," barely a month after its release—a true feat when you consider the massive music piracy in the country. Geronimo was also said to have already dropped out of her regular schooling because of her busy schedule. Imagine that: to be young, moneyed, and popular. One would be right then to interpret her album sales as the statistics of Filipinos dreaming of such a life, from Batanes to Jolo. But at the moment, without any sign of Geronimo yet, people walked on. Soon, our inch by inch movement came to a halt. With only two directionless heads before us, we had to maneuver forward to where a yellow nylon rope had cordoned off an area. We talked to the nearby officer in green who took us for kissing participants. We clarified that we were, in fact, looking for the Guests Area that was supposedly set up somewhere further down the bay area. It turned out that the officer was clueless, too, about its location and so he allowed us to slip past the cordon and when we recovered our bearings, we realized we were, at that moment, already standing in the area where the kissing participants were. It was a breathing space, thank God, and enough room to drive one’s scooter in. From this vantage though, the crowd at the sidelines (or what was the island of Roxas road) seemed sorrier, backlighted as they were by the tawdry bulbous boulevard lights, each person straining to get a dear foothold, elbowing others out for a look at the kissers, which could easily make one feel like an unwitting entry in a dog show. The participants roamed freely in that 2 km. stretch of road, readily identifiable by the same number tags one sees on relay runners or Tour of Luzon bikers, standing, hands locked with their partners, eyeing other participants, with most of them already wearing the faces of people being appraised for their lip’s worth. Others proudly wore the shirts provided by Close-up (one hoped to kiss for the frigging shirt!). We had hoped to spot couple 069 but there were only couples 1025, 084, 022. We soon bumped into more students in white shirts holding some clipboards and ready with some number tags. They turned out to be volunteer Manila students from the schools of Pamantasan Lungsod ng Maynila, Polytechnic University of the Philippines, and the City Council of Manila. They were serving as marshalls whose job was to get at least 20 couples to register under each one of them and to ensure that the couples do participate at the time appointed for the kissing: 10:55 pm to 11:05 pm. When we asked if they were registering same sex couples, one of them explained that such couples could kiss within the area if they would like to but their names would not be appearing in the list of participants—the guidelines came from Close-up, they said, sounding apologetic. We managed a few nods, fully expecting the explanation, before we said our thank yous. Close by were the representatives from ACNielsen in blue shirts to ensure that the Philippines, indeed, had the statistics of the mass-wide kissing in black and white to show. Representative Agnes Bielsen, a frail woman with a ready smile, said there were 250 of them in the area with two marshalls under each of them. When I asked Agnes what she thought of the event, her lips gave in to a wide smile, covering it before managing to offer a non-reply: “Ok lang.”
As the kissing was yet to start in an hour, we crossed over to the island of the road and headed for the V.I.P. area, which we learned as the stage with the visible white tent in the distance.
We were received rather tiredly by the staff of the group handling the promotion of the event, obviously overwhelmed themselves by the people. We, in fact, almost missed them, as they were already lost in the throng of people that hugged the stairs to the stage. After having us write down our names on an attendance sheet, my two companions were given two meal stubs, which had to be claimed at the nearby Café Adriatico mini restaurant. “Nearby,” we realized, was relative as we had to weave through the crowd again, losing each other along the way, and wisely congregating at the Café eventually.
We approached the female staff at the cash register, obviously harassed to her teeth with meal orders like the rest of the waiters in red. We showed our meal stubs. She pointed to an area covered by a green tent, her eyes on the cash register. We went pass the area at least twice and could not identify the seat that was allotted for guests, as there were no available tables. After hanging around for five minutes, feet groaning from walking, elbowed here and there by assorted people—there were more kids, this time, for chrissake!—we were able to finally claim a table for ourselves.
We called on at least three waiters who kept excusing themselves away “Sandali sandali lang po” with their two raised open-palm gesture for stop, muttering away with some orders. Thankfully, after puffing away three cigarette sticks, Mhir, a sprightly 5’7”-tall waiter, accommodated our request for food, and took time to explain that the ceiling for the amount of food we could order was P150 per meal stub. Concluding that we had P300 worth of food among ourselves, we ordered for four sticks of pork barbeque, one sisig meal, one chicken meal, one hotdog on stick, an extra rice and three lemonades.
While waiting for our food, two young women whom we thought were merely waiting for a seat near us, offered instead to give us henna tattoo for P50 an image. Wear it for three weeks, they said. Perhaps it was our hunger or because of the crowd, we ended up saying no to them.
When our food came, we were amused that our lemonades were colored pink. And the hotdog was overly dressed in mayo and ketchup. We ate away hungrily anyway, and from time to time would hear a microphone-amplified male voice announcing the time left for the kissfest to commence. “Ten minutes more, ladies and gentlemen!”
And when it was a mere 10 seconds wait, the countdown began. Ten, nine, eight. At that, nearly all our co-eaters left their tables like birds that alertly flew off at an intrusion. Some stayed at their tables but stood up as quickly to strain their necks for some view of the kissing. We did, too, and saw the heads of other people.
Rather than suffer the pains of a stiff neck, we eased back into our chair and tried finishing the sisig, instead. We had to content ourselves with the microphone-amplified male voice euphorically announcing the setting of the record. “We did it! We have set the world record ladies and gentlemen!” The crowd expectedly went wild and was sent to further ecstasy with the sound of fireworks going off and lighting up the sky covering the bay area.
Before the last of the fireworks could be spent, we did a French exit and started walking northwards where the crowd grew thinner.
Looking back at the crowd, it was clear that the happy “usiseros” had done it again, had more than eagerly come out of their houses to become a part of a recordable achievement. Crossing paths with a group of teeners, offsprings of the often unacknowledged parts of the city, clad in overly-large polos, thick gels glinting in their hair, one of them missing a tooth or two, all out for a good time on this nights of nights, one wonders whether, in this country, in their own futures, in their own time, these young souls could, in fact, kiss away dreariness, despair, dreamlessness.
