MANGKOKOLUM!

In a passing conversation in Masbate, years back, I was told that a head of cattle-- fetched a live-weight price of P30,000 then-- is allocated a hectare of pasture to graze on as that area replenishes its growth of grass every 40 days or so. Minimum hectarage that Masbate cattle raisers have is 100 hectares for raising beef livestock.   The numbers had the weight of a rock conked on my head-- a hectare per cattle each worth P30K, chewing cud for 18 hours a day to gain semblance of weight. The pastures I've been taken to a hundred or so kilometers beyond Masbate city limits were a howling expanse of cogon. Cogon, whose blades are nearly entirely cellulose, or that which goes into cellophane wrappers for candies and cigarettes, or cellulose tape.   Cogon, infused in the proverbial "ningas-cogon" attitude of Filipinos for starting every endeavor like a house on fire, then, dying quickly into ashes.   So, I wondered aloud why it hasn't occurred to the provincial agricult

  The local arm of a global environment watch group cites the top three corporations it has tabbed as culprits in the mounting plastic garbage woes that bedevil the Philippines and the world at large. Yeah, statistics show the Philippines hogs the third spot in the world's worst nations in mindless scattering of plastic waste-- plastic that takes over 100 years to biodegrade, but they don't rot at all.   Citations were awarded to (1) manufacturer of cornmeal-based snacks and non-carbonated drinks; (2,3) manufacturers of personal hygiene and beauty care products retailed cheap to consumers in plastic sachets.   Watchdog insists that these outfits ought to retrieve-- nationwide, if you please-- those empty plastic packaging and sachets that end-users and consumers have strewn about the nation's every inch of landscape. If natural historian Dr. Loren Eiseley could sneak a word edgewise, he'd likely just repeat himself: "Man is an expression of his landscape."   A

  NOT one of the frat brods in a nearby huddle ever had an inkling what young Jemil did for over eight hours any given day. All they knew was that comely coeds hang out with him, basking in adulation, maybe, adoration of the lanky guy whose presence teased their nether parts. In mindless rage, a dozen or so of those brods rushed at Jemil with intent to give him a thorough body overhaul. Kith and kin of the aggrieved dozen were roaring bloody murder at the police station after the scuffle, cadging a bewildered desk officer to throw the malefactor into the calaboose. Jemil's father let out a polite taunt, explaining that no sane court would even indict the young man for inflicting grave injuries-- unless he drove a bulldozer, a fork lift, or steamroller and tore chunks of skin and flesh off the bodies of awe-struck fratmen. The attackers pounced on an unlikely victim, and emerged with worrisome problems that may take more than dermatology or surgery to patch up. It took years of forg