Though the settings and circumstances are worlds apart – and, let’s not forget, one is make-believe, while the other is extreme reality – both life-saving missions depicted on film and being acted out in Fukushima require courage and self-sacrifice.

Bruce Willis’ 1998 sci-fi, action movie involved a disparate group of blue-collar deep-core drillers sent out by NASA to blast a huge asteroid that was on collision course with planet Earth. The film boasted star power. Ben Affleck, Liv Tyler, Owen Wilson, Billy Bob Thornton and the brilliant Steve Buscemi comprised Willis’s supporting cast. No surprise Armageddon became a worldwide hit, helped along by its theme I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing, performed by Aerosmith, whose vocalist happens to be Liv’s real-life rock-star dad.

In Fukushima, what we have is an army of faceless people trying to do a professional job under the most trying conditions in no man’s land.

The threat to their personal safety notwithstanding, these men have been working tirelessly in a bid to stem the meltdown and radioactive fallout from the nuclear power plants damaged by last week’s devastating earthquake and tsunami. Most of these men undoubtedly have families who themselves have been displaced by this calamity, but the top-priority work at the nuclear plants means they are unable to be with their loved ones at their moment of distress.

Mission impossible? Hopefully, it does not turn out that way, though signs are not encouraging.

The people tasked to save Japan from this nuclear armageddon have been hanging on. Combining Japanese creativity and technology, they have been devising ways to minimize the damage, if not totally put things right.

Amid the grief, danger and uncertainty, the Japanese admirably are showing an inner strength from which the rest of the human race can learn.

Towards the end of Armageddon, after the threat from the giant asteroid had been repelled and the survivors from the mission had touched down from space without the heroic Willis, one scene shows an officer trying to comfort Liv Tyler, who plays the actor’s daughter in the movie.

“You’re father is the bravest man I’ve ever met,’’ he said.

The same could be said of the Fukushima nuclear plant workers.

During one of my hikes in Hong Kong, I chanced upon several trees from which  these star-shaped, orange-red objects hang. Couldn’t make up my mind whether they’re fruits or flowers.  They start out like huge green peas. In time they turn bright orange and open up, revealing black seeds the size of a Peanut M&M. Birds and ants feast on the seeds, so they must taste sweet. Can anybody tell me what they are?

She’s awesome on the court, yes, but once she’s done with a match that’s when the show gets truly interesting. Li’s candor, wit and sunny disposition are refreshing. You could give her matchpoint for her quips during courtside interviews. It’s like when she plays tennis: she takes the ball early and goes for winner after winner.

Just this morning, after beating German girl Andrea Petkovic in straight sets to reach the semi-finals of the Australian Open for the second successive year, Li was asked by the courtside interviewer why at one time in her career she decided to stop playing altogether and attend the university.

“You were so good, why did you leave?’’ the lady added.

“In university, I was also good,’’ the Chinese star shot back, smiling, drawing approving laughs from the crowd.

Li revealed that she enjoyed university life with her husband, who is now also her coach, but after two years decided that she just had to go back to tennis.

 Two days earlier, Li and the interviewer had a similar chat at courtside while fans watched.

 The interviewer complimented Li on her strong play against Victoria Azarenka and recalled that the Chinese star reached the semi-finals last year in Melbourne, where she lost to eventual champion Serena Williams.

 Then she asked Li if she is a better player this year.

 “I’m a better person,’’ Li quipped. “I’m not just a better player.’’

 A lovely answer. Just like a well-struck volley. Better than a lecture on how her forehand is better or how her physical conditioning has improved or that she was better prepared for this Grand Slam than at any other time in her life.

Li spoke about how her love match with her husband-coach is doing wonders for her game.

And she also joked that the best motivation from him was financial. “The credit card,” she said, giggling. “Anytime I play well, I can buy anything I want.”

Li was also asked if she was going to watch the match between Petkovic and Maria Sharapova later that day to decide who will be her next opponent.

“That’s my husband’s job,’’ she replied, without skipping a beat. “I just lie down in the bed. Enjoy, watch TV. That’s all.”

The crowd just loved her.

Clearly, this is not an athlete who would serve up those string of platitudes that your ears tend to block out now: I was just lucky, I don’t mind who my next opponent is because they are both good players, I just train more and try to do my best . . . blah, blah, blah.

Whether she gets that Grand Slam or not, in my book, Li Na is a winner.

With nothing to do during my dayoff last Friday, I decided to give my legs a little jolt and take a hike up Mount Parker. It takes some effort to hit the summit, but nothing superhuman is required; I’ve encountered people much older than me on my way up. This is no Everest. Mount Parker is just half the size of our very own Mount Arayat.

I’ve been to its peak several times before, usually whenever I want to escape city life for a few hours. Several meters from its base, you no longer hear the sound of vehicular traffic. Yet when I scaled Mount Parker during Buddha’s birthday a few months ago, I could hear at the summit the distinct sound of drums from a dragon boat race at Aldrich Bay in Shau Kei Wan.

Ever wondered how it feels to be atop a mountain shrouded in mist? I tried it once on Mount Parker. It sure didn’t feel scary. But I was disappointed that I did not get rewarded with a view of Victoria Harbour and Tai Tam after all the effort I put in to reach the top.

This time of the year may be a little too soon for hiking, I believe, but it was cloudy on Friday and I had time to kill. A little exercise — and sightseeing — can’t hurt. 

Until Jackie Chan tweeted this message two days ago, hoping it would calm Filipino ‘hate’ fears following the bloody hostage drama that claimed the lives of eight Hong Kong tourists in Manila, I had taken for granted the racial diversity in this city that has been home to me for the past 10 years.

At the workplace and every other aspect of life, I had been embraced thoroughly, treated like everyone else and accorded the same right as anyone living in the city that I had almost forgotten I was a stranger when I first set foot here.

There was never a time I felt I didn’t belong.

And Jackie Chan had hit on a truth I never heard uttered by a native Chinese: Hong Kong is what it is because of the people who inhabit it.

More than just a financial hub and a haven for foreigners looking for greener pastures, it is a place where people of different races, and belonging to different faiths, can live in peace and harmony.

Amazing how so tiny a city can shelter so many nationalities, with few conflicts if at all, that it could be the United Nations reduced to a bonsai.

Just consider some of the people who drive Hong Kong’s engine and consequently benefit from the opportunities it provides: Chinese, Brits, Indians, Aussies, Filipinos, Nepalese, Indonesians, Americans, Canadians, Kiwis, Japanese, Koreans, South Africans, French, Pakistanis, Sri Lankans, Dutch, Malaysians, Thais and Portuguese. Somehow we have all managed to share this little space, without elbowing one another out of the way.

Muslims, Christians and Buddhists can also practice their religion freely and get along even with those who don’t believe in a Supreme Being — ah, paradise, as God may have intended it.

Racial harmony, that’s how Claro Cristobal, consul general at the Philippine Consulate here, calls the phenomenon.

I may disagree with many of our government policies and pronouncements, but in this respect I wholeheartedly agree with our man in Hong Kong.

And, as Jackie Chan had tweeted, we all have helped build this city.

The Brits laid down the foundations of an efficient civil service that is the envy of many nations, not least the Philippines, and the homegrown people made sure they nurtured it even after the 1997 Handover. Pakistanis and Nepalese help build roads and tunnels, Indians do good business in Tsim Sha Tsui and, yes, an army of Filipina helpers keep house for Hong Kong families and take care of the city’s children as if they were their own.

Asia’s World City? I used to think of this as nothing but a shallow tourism slogan. Not anymore.

Those are some of the messages I received from well-meaning friends in Manila who would like to make sure I’m fine in Hong Kong the morning after the hostage crisis back home ended in a bloodbath.

My stock reply: I’m fine, thanks for your concern. There’s nothing to worry about.

Apparently, my friends fear for my safety and those of other Filipinos working here. In their minds, we’re being hunted down by our enraged hosts, perhaps later to be burned at the stake, as retribution for the death of eight Hong Kong tourists held hostage by an ex-policeman.

While I am touched by their concern for my well-being, I’d like to ask them, and many other kababayan, to calm down. Rather than let their imagination run wild, could they instead utter a prayer for the victims of the tragedy.

As far as I know, there have been no reports of Filipinos beaten up, persecuted or harmed by Hong Kong people as a result of the bloody incident. Respect for law and order is deeply ingrained here, which makes the violent standoff at the Rizal Park all the more shocking and incomprehensible for this city and its people.

My Chinese neighbors and acquaintances still greet me when we cross paths. Nobody has stopped me and chewed me out for the inability of our officials to protect their people. Suggestions that Filipino domestic helpers are being terminated by their employers in the wake of the tragedy don’t reflect reality. I have yet to hear about a spike in layoffs since August 23. Besides, dozens of workers, even professionals like us, expats or homegrown, get fired everyday for any number of reasons.

True, there is anger and bitterness here, as one would expect, at the way things have been handled and continue to be handled by our officials. That Hong Kong people could only watch the horror on TV, powerless to save their own from the gunman’s trigger when Manila is but a two-hour flight away, must have added to their distress.

In the most powerful expression yet of the city’s anger, groups dressed in black staged a protest at the Philippine Consulate in Admiralty the day after the carnage. Angry words were shouted, but that was it. No rioting, no burning of effigies. By all accounts, the protest was peaceful and orderly.

Hong Kong people are too busy mourning their dead to be kicking all of us out of here for one moment of insanity. That dark episode at the Luneta certainly does not reflect the loyalty and exemplary service shown by generations of Filipinos who have helped rear their children and their children’s children into responsible, law-abiding and peace-loving people.

Passions run high at moments like this, and our hosts must be given credit for their restraint and for being sensible not to resort to violence in seeking redress for the gruesome deaths of Hong Kong tourists in our country.

The least we can do is show respect for their grief and the dead. Perhaps offer flowers and light candles on the very spot where innocent lives were ended by a gunman’s bullets. Images of students taking pictures of themselves near the bus that had carried the ill-fated tourists are most insensitive and disrespectful. It’s like dancing on the victims’ graves. That place is not a tourist attraction; it is a crime scene.      

Insinuations that Hong Kong people would suddenly go ballistic and wish us harm when violence in our own shores in the first place was the cause of their loved ones’ deaths is not just the height of irony. That’s rubbing salt into their wounds.

Whether you’re a serious writer with aspirations of turning out the next bestseller or a blogger for whom writing is either recreational or therapeutic, you likely are careful with your choice of words and tone and adapt a certain style when telling a story. But finding your own voice is not as easy as punching the keys of your computer or reciting A-B-C.

So how do you start?

A lot of us start by trying to sound like (admit it, imitate is the operative word here) the great writers whose works had touched us and inspired us to write in the first place. Of course, eventually we give up doing so. Because we realize Hemingway or Updike or Proulx are a tough act to follow and we only end up sounding phony or becoming — to quote the walang-kamatayang  dialogue of a Tagalog movie –  “second-rate, trying-hard copycats.” Complicating matters is the fact that most of us have more than one great writer/novelist that we look up to. Combining their influences – and all their competing voices – in one “masterpiece’’ might only create a dysfunction or, worse, our own Tower of Babel.

But once you’re comfortable in your own writing skin, wouldn’t it be nice to hear others compare your style to this or that writer’s, especially if this or that writer happens to be one of your favorites?

Wouldn’t you want to find out how you measure up to the likes of Anne Rice or Charles Dickens – even just for the fun of it?

Well, there’s this site called I Write Like (www.iwl.me), which claims to have formulated “a statistical analysis tool, which analyzes your word choice and writing style and compares them with those of the famous writers’’.

You must have gone there already and know how it works.

You paste some texts from your blog or composition and then click a button to get them “analyzed”. In a flash, the famous writer whose style and wording your work supposedly resembles, pops out on the screen.

This is by no means an ideal way of grading your work, but it can be flattering (if you happen to be compared to somebody like J.D. Salinger) or deflating (if your match happens to be somebody who is famous but not critically acclaimed).

Nonetheless it’s fun, and while some of the matches are surprising, you can always agree or disagree with the result.

Just for fun, I tried to have some paragraphs from my previous blog entries “analyzed”.

Not that I have much faith in surveys, but any little hint that the richest man in the race needs to work just a bit harder to win the vote gives me comfort that though money talks, not everyone is listening.

I write like: Margaret Atwood

A friend once told me one of the supposed secrets to good health and vitality. On your birthday, she said, wake up at dawn and look for a sturdy tree. Hold its trunk, embrace it. Feel your body being reinvigorated with the tree’s natural energy. Do this every time you turn a year older, she said.

 I write like: James Joyce

And so I went to see the proud, old banyan at Lam Tsuen. I never got close enough to touch it. Making its acquaintance though, seemed enough to lift my spirits.

I write like: Raymond Chandler

We shook hands, two people in the middle of a crowded airport lounge, delighted to find — and recognize — each other after, what, 27 years since we last saw each other.

I write like: Arthur Clarke

Of course, I did not tell her that I suspect Charice (Pempengco) was being included (in ‘Glee’) to fill in the part of an Asian protagonist that has now become requisite in US films and TV series to widen their appeal. Among the notable example are Masi Oka on ‘Heroes’, Daniel Dae Kim and Yunjin Kim on ‘Lost’ and Rex Lee, who plays Lloyd on ‘Entourage’.

I write like: H.P. Lovecraft

Since when did it become necessary for us to label our President by a name other than that which he has been known for all his life – or as recently as when the people voted for him?

I write like: George Orwell

And then you wonder how this “analyst” would react if you threw in works written in Tagalog. Being an American website for, presumably, North American writers, I didn’t think it was programmed to read Tagalog works. Doubtful too if it has  a list of prominent Filipino writers – say Ricky Lee, Butch Dalisay, Rogelio Sicat, Edgardo Reyes, Jessica Zafra or, God help us, Carlo J. Caparas – to compare us with. So I decided to take the fun experiment further.

But instead of lifting makabagbag-damdaming texts from our baul of Tagalog literature for specimen, I decided to key in one memorable paragraph from President Noynoy Aquino’s well-applauded inauguration speech last June. And, whoa, what do you think did I learn?

Kayo ba ay minsan ring nalimutan ng pamahalaang inyong iniluklok sa puwesto? Ako rin. Kayo ba ay nagtiis na sa trapiko para lamang masingitan ng isang naghahari-hariang de-wangwang sa kalsada? Ako rin. Kayo ba ay sawang-sawa na sa pamahalaang sa halip na magsilbi sa taumbayan ay kailangan pa nila itong pagpasensiyahan at tiisin? Ako rin.

I write like: James Joyce

If PNoy’s no-frills Tagalog sounded like it originated from the pen of James Joyce, would the English translation of those powerful words reveal the same result? No way will we find out until we cue the words in.

Have you ever been ignored by the very government you helped put in power? I have. Have you had to endure being rudely shoved aside by the siren-blaring escorts of those who love to display their position and power over you? I have, too. Have you experienced exasperation and anger at a government that instead of serving you, needs to be endured by you? So have I.

I write like: Margaret Mitchell

And get the people to go to the polls again.

No, we won’t be electing a new President. Noynoy does not need to worry. His job is safe – for now. People are still getting to know him as Chief Executive. So far, they like what they see. He’s a breath of fresh air to the polluted political landscape.

What we need now, hold your breath, is a referendum.

Don’t be scared. This is not about Charter Change. It’s still easier to address our leader as Mr. President than Mr. Prime Minister.

If only it was as easy for our media friends to find a way to shorten President Benigno Simeon ‘Noynoy’ Aquino III, make it punchy and catchy enough to fit into their headlines.

Back when he was still a candidate for the country’s highest office, Noynoy, or Noy, had been adequate. Voters found it affectionate; anybody with an unfashionable name like that surely would have been as jologs as the rest of them. Maybe it’s one reason they voted for him.

Now that he’s President, Noynoy, or Noy, has suddenly become plain — at least for news people.

Does his lifelong name lack formality? Doesn’t it convey authority? Doesn’t it sound presidential?

Our media friends are now working on varieties of P-Noy or PNoy or P.Noy — which is the President’s idea himself, when asked how he would like to be known.

A brilliant marketer’s idea. Only it seems a little bit contrived.

Since when did it become necessary for us to label our President by a name other than that which he has been known for all his life – or as recently as when the people voted for him?

Is the practice of calling him by his initials written in the Constitution?

Did the practice start in the US with JFK (John Fitzgerald Kennedy)?

But JFK’s predecessor was simply known as Ike. When JFK was assassinated in 1963, his successor was one LBJ. He served one term and was then succeeded by a Dick.

Jimmy Carter was never JC, as far as I can remember. Nor was Gerald Ford known as GF. Or Ronald Reagan RR.

Bill Clinton, of course, has always been either Clinton or Bill and George W. Bush has been simply Bush or Dubya or many other names besides depending if you’re a friend or foe.

Our political system is patterned closely after the Americans’ so perhaps some of that infatuation about giving the President a name, even just for headline purposes, has rubbed off on us too.

The late Ferdinand Marcos was FM and his wife Imelda was FL, for First Lady, and somehow both initials seemed a natural fit. Or, maybe, it only seemed that way because the conjugal dictatorship had reigned far too long, and their names had been drummed into our collective consciousness by a manipulated media.

Then came Noynoy’s mom, who was alternately called Cory, Tita Cory or Aquino. She was succeeded by Gen. Fidel V. Ramos, who became FVR when elected although he has always been Eddie. Joseph Ejercito Estrada came next. Erap was too popular to be called by another name although there must have been some media experiments with JE.

The ascent of Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo to power necessitated initialing, for obvious reasons. Hence, they settled on GMA or PGMA, for President GMA, or the more formal Arroyo. Forget Ate Glo, it never caught on.

And now we’re stuck with P-Noy or Pnoy or P.Noy or P’Noy.

It’s folksy indeed, but some people have accused Noynoy of hijacking the term commonly – not to mention proudly – used by Filipinos all over the world to identify themselves. Siya na lang ba ngayon ang Pinoy? How do you curse or vent your anger on the President in the future if the voters become disenchanted with him, his policies, the people around him or all of the above? This could be a dilemma. You could be casting aspersion on every Pinoy if you dared to ridicule or shout invectives at P-Noy or Pnoy or whatever during a street protest. Hopefully, for our country’s sake, that does not happen.

So what do we do? Shouldn’t the very people who elected the President also have a say on what to call him?

Now, who’ll cast the first vote?

”Did you know that Charice Pempengco has joined ‘Glee’?”

“That’s not true,” my daughter answered. “They denied the story in the papers a few weeks ago.”

“It’s official now,” I told her. “She has signed on for a recurring guest role in the series. You can look it up on the internet.”

“I will,” she said.

I knew she could not wait to hang up and find out the truth for herself, but I decided to tease her further.

I have probably watched just one full episode of ’Glee’ but I know my daughter couldn’t get enough of it. She is part of that massive global community whose members proudly call themselves ‘Gleeks’. 

As a parent, I try to learn about my kids’ interests. Maybe I’d get hooked on them too. At the very least, we can have something to talk about. Especially since we don’t have plenty of time to do things together because my work keeps me from home.

So fortysomething me has graduated from ‘High School Musical’ to the ‘Twilight’ series, listened to Justin Bieber, Lady Gaga, David Cook, the Jonas Brothers, Akon and whoever happens to be the hottest thing in music, and been mesmerized by the magic of that brooding illusionist my kids are so crazy about, Criss Angel.

And then, of course, there’s ‘Glee’ — so cool, my kids tell me, that I get the feeling it must be the equivalent of our ‘Happy Days’.

My daughter does not consider herself a fan of Charice, though. Nothing personal. Maybe Charice isn’t cool enough for her. Or perhaps my daughter is just not into the vocals-busting Celine Dion songs which Charice had sang on her way to fame.

Whatever the reason is, she did not sound enthusiastic about Charice joining ‘Glee’. ‘Gleek’ she is, but gleeful she’s not. Though she admitted that would not stop her from tuning in regularly.  

I tried to let her see the positive side of Charice’s addition to her favorite TV comedy-musical-drama program.

First, I reasoned with her from the perspective of an OFW.

“Look at it this way,” I said. “She is a talented Filipina who happened to be given a job and the opportunity to earn money abroad doing something she really likes.”

Uhm. Was she really buying this?

I switched to being a ‘nationalist’ and mouthed a spiel about how Filipino artists are among the best in the world.

“Charice is a Pinoy in a top-rated American TV series with a huge following worldwide,” I told her. “We all should be proud of her.”

Of course, I did not tell her that I suspect Charice was being included to fill in the part of an Asian protagonist that has now become requisite in US films and TV series to widen their appeal. Among the notable example are Masi Oka on ‘Heroes’, Daniel Dae Kim and Yunjin Kim on ‘Lost’, and Rex Lee who plays Lloyd on ‘Entourage’.

Still, it’s good to find a Filipina on ‘Glee’ when the producers could have easily picked another Asian, probably Sandara Park of the Korean pop all-girl band 2NE1 or Olympic figure skating champion Kim Yu-Na who is also a pop singer.

Uhm. Am I getting through to my daughter, I wondered.

“At least, makikita natin kung paano umarte si Charice,” she said, finally.

I’m now hoping that Charice would surprise us all with her acting chops — or get a role that my daughter can relate to.

Good luck to her. Maybe she can win over a new fan.

They call it volunteerism; I prefer to call it bayanihan.

Unmindful of the snaking queues and the bothersome May heat, not to mention the occasional breakdowns of PCOS machines, people wait for hours in polling precincts all over the country to cast their vote.

They call that elections; I prefer to call it people power.

Never considered presidential material before her mom’s death on August 1, Noynoy Aquino rises to become the country’s President-elect, by a landslide — long before Tita Cory’s babang-luksa.

They call that destiny; I prefer to call it democracy.

Manny Villar concedes defeat to Noynoy the morning after the vote, followed by other rival candidates like Gibo Teodoro and Richard Gordon.

They call it novelty; forget sipag at tiyaga, galing at talino, I prefer to call that maginoo.

Election results are known early, helped along by the PCOS machines which only days earlier had to be rid of defective memory cards and were the objects of ridicule and doubt, in the country’s first automated polls.

They call that quick count; I prefer to call it progress.

Prospero Nograles, Jocjoc Bolante and Raul Gonzalez — all of them known president’s men — are headed for sound defeats in elections for local seats.

They call it repudiation; I prefer to call it karma.

Bongbong Marcos is going to the Senate, his mother Imelda sings her way to Congress and sister Imee is elected governor of Ilocos Norte in a genuine democratic exercise. Forgotten was the time of the late Ferdinand’s dictatorship, when elections were nothing but “mock polls”.

Supporters may call it a comeback; detractors may dismiss it as naivety on the part of the electorate; just politics, I say.

Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo is proclaimed Congresswoman of the Second District of Pampanga, after almost 10 years of a troubled Presidency forever remembered for ‘Hello Garci’.

They call that power-hungry; some nightmares just won’t go away, I say.

Actors Bong Revilla, Jinggoy Estrada, Tito Sotto and Lito Lapid are all headed back for the Senate. Maybe they don’t need a Senate President now. A director who would yell ‘Cut!’ might be more appropriate.

They call that star power; showbiz talaga, I say.

Enrile, Recto, Osmena and Guingona. On name recall alone, these Senatorial hopefuls are hard to ignore. Of course, Aquino, Marcos, Macapagal, Roxas and countless others are no different.

Old names in an era clamoring for change, they say. That’s why we need the likes of Rissa Hontiveros, I counter.

Erap Estrada refuses to concede to Noynoy against overwhelming evidence that the former Malacanang occupant has lost in the elections. The poll numbers notwithstanding, it could be one of Erap’s greatest performances, undreamt of for someone who has been discredited and whose glory days are thought to be long gone.

Give others a chance, they tell him; leave him be, I counter.

Credible, clean, generally peaceful and orderly elections.

A miracle, they exclaim.

Amen, I say.