Professional Documents
Culture Documents
1. I�����������
Over the past 93 years, the Bulletin changed names twice. First, in 1972
when the martial-law regime closed all newspapers. The Bulletin reopened
three months later but with a more politically acceptable name personally
approved by President Marcos. The second was in 1986 when it tried to rid
itself of Marcos’ ghost. Different names are also associated with different
owners. The first with Carson Taylor, the second with Hans Menzi, and
the third, with Emilio Yap. But to a number of its long-time employees, the
Manila Daily Bulletin, Bulletin Today and Manila Bulletin will always be one
and the same newspaper.
But all through this period of being second-best, the Bulletin always
considered itself as number-one. It looked up to the New York Times as a role
model, both in lay-out and in standards. Veteran reporters will all recall the
gruff editor in the Sixties who threw fits over missing commas and fired
anyone who accepted money from people they were supposed to cover. It
was as if they knew that someday they would earn the top spot and that they
had to deserve it, in all departments.
This paper will look into the history of the Bulletin, from 1957 to 1984,
the years during which it was owned and associated with Hans Menzi. This
was also the period that saw it take its place as the No. 1 newspaper in the
country. It will not be a plain chronology of events, but rather the story of
and by the people behind these events.
The writer interviewed six people, each of whom worked with the
Bulletin for a minimum of 25 years (with one exception) and who had dif-
ferent backgrounds. They were, alphabetically, Vicente Abanilla (worked
in the advertising department from 1966 to 1991), Susie Aunario (librarian
from 1947 to 1979), Jesus Bigornia (columnist, employed in the Bulletin since
1939), Crispulo Icban Jr. (editor, joined the newspaper in 1976), Lourdes
Mendoza (retired as assistant treasurer, 1957 to 1988), Benjamin Pangilinan
(retired circulation manager, 1949 to 1985), and Benjamin Rodriguez (editor,
joined the Bulletin in 1951). These conversations are preserved on magnetic
2 • MARIANO
audio tape.
At first, the paper was distributed free to anyone who would accept
it. He sold advertising space but this was limited mostly to shipping com-
panies. It was not until a year later that Taylor began charging money for
copies of the Bulletin.
Joining the paper as young women in the late ’40s, they recall playing
hooky from the office and going for a stroll on Escolta. Popular destinations
then were the Botica Boie and Oceanica. Once, the publisher’s car happened
by as they emerged from one store, shopping bags in hand. Caught in the act,
they expected a scolding. Instead, out peeped the head of the elderly Taylor,
MANILA DAILY BULLETIN • 3
smiling, “Need a li� back to the office?” In the ride back to work, Taylor was
no truant officer. He even took a look at the stuff the girls had bought and
complimented them on their choice.
Its pre-war competitor was the Manila Times, established on Oct. 11,
1898 by Thomas Gowan. Along with Israel Putnam's Cablenews-American
and R. McCullough Dick’s Philippines Free Press, they made up the American
press in Manila. The Times was sold on March 15, 1930 to Alejandro Roces,
owner of the TVT (Tribune-La Vanguardia-Taliba) chain, who decided to stop
publication in order to boost the Tribune’s circulation. By World War II, the
Tribune was the largest selling newspaper and it was used by the Japanese
for propaganda purposes. A�er the “Liberation,” the Roceses reopened the
Manila Times.
Benne� was editor in 1942 when the Japanese invaded the Philippines.
According to one account, a Japanese consular official, brandishing a pistol,
walked into the newsroom accompanied by soldiers and announced: “You
don’t publish. No more Bulletin.” Benne� and other Americans on the staff
were interned at the University of Santo Tomas where they published, briefly,
a series of mimeographed newspapers known collectively in history books
as the STIC (Santo Tomas Internment Camp) Press.
Bigornia says he was there when the Japanese closed the Bulletin. He
recalls:
We were taking shelter in the bodega of the Bulletin which was lo-
cated at the corner of Evangelista and Raon, just behind the Quiapo
church. It was an old building and the ground floor was the press and
the stacks of paper. We used to stay there while the Japanese were
bombing Manila. We were there about 10 o’clock in the morning.
The Hudubu came in, accompanied by the Kempetai. They closed
4 • MARIANO
the Bulletin. They killed the Bulletin. We were out of jobs that day.
Nobody can tell his age at that time, but when he put the newspaper
up for sale, Taylor must have been in his 80s. He said it was his old age, but
it is suspected that the establishment of a labor union, nonexistent (and un-
necessary) for more than half a century, was his cue to retirement. He was
afraid of losing his paper to organized labor. Susie Aunario quotes him as
always saying, “I don’t know whether my paper will still be here or not.”
On July 13, 1957 Taylor announced the sale of the Bulletin to Menzi
& Co.
When Menzi took over, he wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. The Bul-
letin was occupying the ground and second floors of the brand-new Shurdut
building, which today houses the Department of Labor and Employment.
But everything was not as neat.
One of the first things Menzi had to do was to put things in order.
He hired Mariano Quimson Jr., who held an M.B.A. from Northwestern.
Quimson was a salesman of NCR business machines and had just made a
sale to the Bulletin. Menzi made him Secretary-Treasurer. In fact, that posi-
tion was the equivalent to that of the President, General Manager or Chief
Executive Officer.
Also hired, in 1959, was Pangilinan, a C.P.A. who had some years in
his family’s pharmaceutical and construction companies. His job: to boost
provincial circulation. He set up branches in Cebu, Iloilo, Bacolod, Davao,
Dagupan, San Fernando (Pampanga) and Baguio. The next year he was made
6 • MARIANO
In the early Sixties, he engaged about 800 newsboys and 100 solici-
tors in the city to perk up street sales, in addition to direct subscribers. The
newsboys were paid half the minimum wage. He also organized contests
for agents and newsboys as incentives. The object was not only to get the
Bulletin printed on time and delivered ahead of the others. More important,
agents, newsstands and newsboys had to carry it.
4. D���-��-D��� A����������
A modest circulation also means modest advertising. That would be
unbelievable now as the Bulletin in 1992 made P870,964,434 in advertising.
Vic Abanilla, who was with the advertising department from 1966 until
1991, recalls the lean years. His first task was as a statistician, monitoring
the frequency of ad insertions in newspapers, particularly the Manila Times,
and noting their corresponding sizes. He also marked those ads which did
not appear in the Bulletin but appeared in other newspapers. Based on these
figures, ad-takers were sent out to solicit business. The next year, Abanilla
became a classified-ads solicitor.
It was not that difficult ge�ing ads, Abanilla says. The main problem
was that of perception. Advertisers thought the Bulletin took only shipping
ads. All he had to do was convince potential clients that it also welcomed
general advertising. The rewards were small, though, since the Bulletin could
not command higher rates. But agents like Abanilla were given 15 percent of
the ads they brought in, even if it meant only 50 centavos a day.
Yellow Pages, then they’d start calling them to persuade them to advertize in
the Bulletin.
5. T�� ‘J����’
If there was a most unforge�able character from that period in the
history of the Bulletin, it was “Judge.” You either feared (or hated) the man
or loved him. Most reporters belonged to the former but a few employees
spoke glowingly of him.
Judge was Felix Gonzales Gonzalez and reporters had be�er spell
his name right. He was neither a judge nor a lawyer. In fact, he never even
finished college at San Sebastian. But he was “always right,” says Ben Rod-
riguez, now editor in chief. Rodriguez was a young reporter when Gonzalez
edited the paper. He was a walking encyclopedia, dictionary, and grammar
book in one. He had a fantastic memory but a “cantankerous temper,” recalls
Jess Bigornia.
Maybe it was because he was a drop-out, but Judge was reputed never
to have liked college graduates, whom he regarded with “jaundiced eyes.”
According to Rodriguez, he believed rightly that not all college graduates
make good newspapermen. He remembers when he and Teddy Owen, who
later became news editor, came to the Bulletin a�er graduation from UST:
Says Rodriguez:
Bigornia adds:
For sure, reporters learned from Judge, the hard way. “He embarrassed
you. That’s why you learned,” says Rodriguez. “He called him [Bigornia]
once then started to lecture to him. Bigornia just keeled over and fainted in
front of him. Judge himself panicked and called for the nurse. I learned a
lot from the guy out of fear and I’m glad I had him as editor because I was
forced to learn. He taught you how to excel, always to be be�er than the
other fellow. How can you be be�er unless you read and read and read and
try to improve?”
Bigornia says Gonzalez was very strict, but acknowledges his fair-
ness. “If he thought you contributed something then he commended you for
promotion. But be careful that you didn’t absent a single day!”
Says Bigornia:
He went around and he knew most of the people. Now all of these
people were high government officials. They were on a first-name
basis. He would go there asking silly questions to these officials and
probably somebody would blurt out that he gave you some pocket
money. You’re dead!
We had a very strong union but the union was helpless when he was
sure this fellow was a crook. You’re out!
small talk. Then he would spring the bait, “According to my reporter you’re
the stingiest congressman,” as if it was a ma�er of pride to the congressman.
“That’s not true,” the lawmaker would protest. “In fact I had just given him
money.”
Bigornia would tell people in his beat not to send gi�s to the office,
even at Christmas. “If you do, Mr. Gonzalez would be the one to return them
to you.” For Judge did return gi�s.
His principles also cost him his job. In the ’50s, he had a tiff with a
Mr. Abundo, who was secretary-treasurer at that time, who wanted to place
a press release which Judge refused. Instead of yielding to the man, he re-
signed and worked with the Philippines Herald. He returned to the Bulletin
only when Menzi came in.
Bigornia narrates:
In reality, Judge had a so� heart and the women employees suspected
his ferocity was a disguise. If he barked and growled at reporters, he was a
10 • MARIANO
doting lolo to his grandchildren and a chevalier with the ladies. Susie Aunario
(who is the daughter-in-law of La Vanguardia columnist Pedro Aunario) and
Tessie Mariano only heard tales about the Judge. They swear they never actu-
ally heard him cursing in front of them. In fact he was godfather of Aunario’s
son and the friendship continued up to his death.
When he retired in 1970 and went to the United States, he gave former
librarian Teresita Mariano a special power of a�orney to a�end to his af-
fairs. He also le� most of his books, precious possessions of every writer,
with her. When her brother (a lawyer who never worked with the Bulletin)
emigrated to America, Judge offered his home, helped him get a job, buy a
second-hand car and find a nearby apartment. Of course, the closeness is
an extension of the friendship he shared with the elder Getulio Abanilla, a
long-time colleague and buddy at the Bulletin.
One thing the reporters never knew was that Judge was indeed con-
cerned about their financial state. A newspaperman’s newspaperman, he
himself was always broke and he was aware that because of their low pay
the temptation to accept bribe money was strong. He gave Mariano a secret
fund of P2,000 (this was the ’60s) from which reporters could borrow. There
were the likes of Francisco Tatad, who would arrive in the newsroom huff-
ing and puffing, trying to find money to pay the taxi driver, and others who
needed cash for tuition, medicines, groceries, anything. Finally Mariano had
to tell Gonzalez that the fund was almost dry because most of the reporters
did not pay back what they borrowed. Judge simply looked the other way.
It was his gi� to his boys, the victim of his frequent newsroom tantrums.
The kind of reporting Judge and the other editors demanded of their
news gatherers was much, much different from what is practiced today, says
Bigornia “You could be my best friend, but by golly, if I had to scoop you,
I would. Even if I had to steal your notes. We were that competitive. Today
reporters organize press associations and share notes.”
was ge�ing irked by reports that challenged the government’s position. A�er
the EDSA event of 1986, Gonzales became publisher of The Philippine Tribune
which he co-founded with his best friend and erstwhile Philippines Daily
Express editor Neal Cruz (now with the Philippine Daily Inquirer).
But all his life, Gonzales had wanted to work with the Bulletin. He
almost never did. The son of a laundrywoman from Pasay, Pat was said to
have borrowed a pair of ill-fi�ing, odd-colored pants for his high-school
graduation. He was class valedictorian. He studied journalism at UST on a
scholarship courtesy of a patron who wished to remain anonymous.
A�er ge�ing his degree, he applied with the Bulletin and was rejected
outright by Menzi, who was no less outspoken than Judge. “This is too much,”
said the General. “I already sent you to school and now you still want my
money. Go find another job.” It was only then that Gonzales learned that he
was a Menzi scholar in college.
Judge: Ask him if he’s crazy. He has a wife and a kid. He’s bet-
ter off in his job. We can’t afford to pay him what he’s
ge�ing there.
And so, Gonzalez made Gonzales a reporter for the sports page, work-
ing under Lito Fernandez, who is sports editor to this day. But that was not
the end of it. One day, Menzi came to see Judge.
“So where’s the new guy? Let’s see him,” said the General. Told that
the “new guy” was Patricio Gonzales, he kept mumbling to himself, “I’ve
heard that name somewhere.” Then Gonzales walked in.
12 • MARIANO
Gonzalez spoke for Pat and, like a dedicated defense a�orney (which
was totally out of character for a man like Judge), delivered a glowing recom-
mendation for the new kid. Menzi relented, telling his editor, “I trust your
judgment. If he’s good enough for you, he’s good enough for me.”
Pat Gonzales kept his job, moved to more important assignments, sat
at the desk as city editor and was a two-term National Press Club president.
During his term as editor in chief, he put out the Bulletin Today Stylebook, the
first and only such manual for that paper. It was only regre�able that when
he died of a heart a�ack, he had severed ties with his dear, old Bulletin.
There was uncertainty for the men and women of the Bulletin, but Menzi
continued paying their salaries. Unlike other newspapers, the Bulletin did
not suffer as many arrests. Amont those who were detained were Doronila
and Abaya, although at that time they were no longer Bulletin employees.
And Amelita Reysio-Cruz.
Amelita was a society columnist who did not hide her contempt for
the First Lady, whom she called “Imeldita” in her columns. In turn, Mrs.
Marcos labeled her “Animalita.” She was held at Camp Crame but was later
released due to an illness. Menzi was given strict instructions not to reinstate
her in the Bulletin, but because of her friendship with the General she was
retained as his biographer.
The Bulletin’s casualty list, however, would pile up during the martial-
law regime, in which one reporter a�er another would be harassed, fired
or, in the case of Tempo correspondent Tim Olivarez, even “salvaged.” But
that is jumping the gun. It is interesting to look into how the newspaper was
allowed to operate again.
it, especially during that time that it considered the Marcos imprimatur as
its authority to publish.
It is said that it was during the three-month hiatus that Marcos ironed
out his entry into the Bulletin. According to Lourdes Mendoza, former treas-
urer, Marcos became majority stockholder when the newspaper resumed
operation. Three cronies — Eduardo “Danding” Cojuangco, Cesar Zalamea
and Jose Campos — were allo�ed 17 percent each although it was likely, she
said, that they never actually put any money in. “Umiyak pa nga si Quimson
dahil parang hindi na majority, dahil the three big stockholders were those
three,” she said.
She adds:
Of course, the Bulletin was only able to declare cash dividends because
by that time, it had become the country’s most profitable newspaper. What
was its turning point?
The Bulletin hired Crispulo Icban Jr., then a desk man at the Times,
as a “consultant” but he did the work of a desk man. At this time, the Bul-
letin, trying to look very much like the New York Times, still employed the
Cheltenham face for its headlines. One of Icban’s suggestions to make the
paper more visually a�ractive was to adopt the full-bodied Bodoni type that
is still in use today.
The editors also wanted to make the Bulletin the people’s newspaper.
One tactic they used was accommodating press releases. It began running
anuncios on kindergarten, elementary, high-school and college graduates, new
doctors, new lawyers, new CPAs, corporate appointments, Rotary (or Jaycee,
Lion, Toastmaster) meetings. If one’s press release came out in the Bulletin
even once, they reasoned out, that person would forever be loyal to the paper.
As a footnote, this practice resulted in a negative side effect. An unscrupu-
lous few would take advantage of the unsuspecting public and resorted to
prostituting editorial space, for a fee, much to Menzi’s constertation.
The Manila Times did not actually hand down the advertising and
circulation title to the Bulletin, which was not in circulation for the first three
months of martial law. It was the Daily Express. Vic Abanilla remembers that
during the time the Bulletin was in the freezer called uncertainty, the Benedicto
paper carried more advertising than the Times ever did during its best years.
This record, he says, has not yet been surpassed today even by the Bulletin.
Ben Pangilinan also says that the Express posted a a record daily circulation
of 650,000 and he doubts if the Bulletin, or the Inquirer for that ma�er, could
top that distinction.
So what did the Bulletin do right? Abanilla says that in the first few
days of their return, advertising agencies began placing orders with the Bul-
16 • MARIANO
letin. They said they were taking their business away from the competition.
Curious, he asked why. “Most of our advertisers that had business with the
Express said that people there are quite arrogant and made them suffer just
to publish one or two [classfied] ads,” he said. “So when the Bulletin was
reopened, they again tried us and found out that we were more accommo-
dating than the former. And a�er trying us, they never did leave us. And
that started the whole thing, being No. 1.”
True, there were reporters and columnists who dared test Marcos’
patience. And very few survived. Le�y Jimenez-Magsanoc, who started her
career with the Bulletin, was fired for repeatedly offending the Marcoses. The
MANILA DAILY BULLETIN • 17
last straw for her was running a popularity poll in the Panorama that had
Benigno Aquino Jr. ahead of Marcos. All copies of that issue were recalled
and Magsanoc was out of a job.
Menzi’s logic was simple: if Marcos got real mad, all of them would
be out of work. Journalists had to sacrifice their ideals. Yet, it was the “con-
servative” Bulletin. Menzi’s concern was valid. The Bulletin was so liquid
that it was able to pay for the construction of its present building in cash
and without incurring any debts. He didn’t want to lose that becaue of some
hotshot columnist. But the editors were careful not to do any bootlicking.
“Tapos nung final burial na, we were looking for beautiful photos
since we could not run crowd photos. so while they were lowering
the casket down from the truck, mga kamay, naka-ganyan lahat. Ang
dami-dami. Pero few people lang. Siguro 30 people. It was a very beau-
tiful photo. That was what I mean. You work within the guidelines,
within the limitations.. The next instruction was, ‘Don’t run photos
that arouse sympathy.’”
18 • MARIANO
He recalls the time Ninoy appeared, four months a�er his death, on
Page 1. It was Rizal Day, 1983, and Marcos was raising the flag at Rizal Park.
Luis Garcia, then chief photographer, snapped the picture.
“You know, that is something very strange. You see, there wre many
photos in front of me. I was the one who selected these photos as the
news editor. And I selected one. Kinrap kong ganyan. I ran it. It came
out the next day. Still, nobody noticed it. Two days later, people began
to call up. There is a face on the flag! And that is when I looked at
it. Oo nga ’no? So we looked at the original. Oo nga, meron nga. We
looked at the negative, it’s there. Malacañang, I think, sent people to
look at the negative also, baka minajik ng mga photographers. Hindi
naman. It’s real. It’s just a play of shadows.
Icban says he can only imagine what could’ve happened to them had
Garcia, or anybody else for that ma�er, actually retouched the negative.
The biggest casualty, it turned out, was the editor in chief himself.
And it happened months a�er martial law had been li�ed, though Marcos
remained in absolute power. A correspondent, Isidoro Chammag, filed a
report that claimed communist terrorists had infiltrated Abra province. Ro-
driguez placed it on Page 1. That very day, in the morning, Menzi told him
he was being retired.
Recounts Rodriguez:
The hay which broke the camel’s back was the story on page 1 say-
ing that terrorists had already infiltrated Abra. [Gen. Fidel] Ramos,
who was then Chief of Staff, went to Marcos and said, “It’s not true.
There are no terrorists.” Uminit ang ulo ni Marcos at that time so he
called up. Gen. Menzi sa Bulletin. Sabi niya, “Gen. Menzi, that story
there on page 1.” When they saw it, it was wri�en by one of our cor-
respondents, Sid Chammag. “No, that’s not true. Gen. Ramos said
that is not true. Are you willing to fight me?” That is what Marcos
told him. “Well, I’ll take care of that, Mr. President,” sabi ni Gen.
Menzi. So, one hour ’yon sa office... to fire me.”
Rank has its privilege. Rodriguez packed up his things and, the next
day, Pat Gonzales was listed in the staff box as editor in chief.
One retired employee says that Rodriguez resented the fact that
Menzi did not defend him before Marcos and wondered why he had to be
fired so hastily. Because Marcos might change his mind, said another, and
so�en his stand “Menzi was looking for a way to get rid of Rodriguez and
that was his chance.”
9. L����-M��������� R��������
Overworked and underpaid, it is a wonder why people like Bigornia,
whose starting pay in 1939 was a mere 75 pesos a month, ever stayed for so
long. The informants for this paper were one in their reply: the camaraderie.
They were one happy family. Rules were meant for people, not the other way
around. Everyone knew everybody else, regardless of position. Reporters
mingled with the drivers, and even executives like Mariano Quimson regu-
larly played basketball with ink-smeared pressmen. But that did not mean
all went perfectly well.
Quimson, Menzi’s top executive, was o�en the object of their ire.
Abanilla remembers one strike:
“Now all the strikers had a placard pero most of the placards you will
see na they’re only a�er the neck of one guy, the late Mr. M. Quimson
B. Quimson Jr., saying all bad things against him. Maraming tao ang
dumadaan nakikita yung mga placards saying bad things about Mr.
Quimson. And then nuong hindi na nakatiis yung isang tao he asked
the question, ‘Sino ba yang Quimson na ’yan? Mabagsik pala ’yan, ano?’
Then one guy answered, ‘Ako ho ’yon.’ That guy was seated right in
the middle of the strikers and they were holding hands. Even if there
was a strike, walang violence. Hindi violente, in fact, nanduoon pa yung
taong kinaiinisan nila, kumakain duon sa strike line.”
20 • MARIANO
Abanilla remembers how a�er one such pick-up game, Quimson told
his playmates to have refreshments in the company cafeteria, on him. Sweaty,
smelly and the lowest-ranking in the company, they were refused admission
by James Roberson, the concessionaire. When Quimson heard about this, he
blew his top. “Never turn away anyone just because he is poor,” he berated
the concessionaire. The Big Boss, normally hated for his strictness, forever
earned their respect.
In only one strike during Menzi’s time did things get close to being
violent. Workers blocked access to the building. So Menzi ordered those
who wanted to work to be flown in aboard helicopters. Strikers released
balloons, but later stopped when they they were jeopardizing the lives of
their co-workers and friends. Inside the compound, executives worked the
typese�ing machines while the editors prepared the paste-up. Later that
evening, although later than the usual, they began rolling the presses. Also
that evening, Quimson was resolving areas of dispute with the union lead-
ers. The strike was over.
“But we were always behind in our work,” she complains. And that
was because, since she first came in, people got used to treating the librarians
as all-purpose people. To them, the library was more than just a morgue for
old stories and photos.
This included ge�ing passports, visas and plane tickets for newsmen
who were to cover an international event. (Some of them never came back
and put up their own Filipino-American newspapers.) They would meet
with college deans and professors so that a publisher’s activist son would not
be expelled for staging a “subversive” rally on campus; or with university
admissions officers when an editor’s kid had trouble ge�ing in. And even
doing bank transactions for their editors.
The library was also some sort of a half-way house for tired, worried,
frustrated, broke, or hungry newsmen. “People would always come in look-
ing for something to eat,” recalls Mariano. “And they would be disappointed
22 • MARIANO
if there was none. So we had to make sure there was always a sandwich or
a cookie somewhere.” Quite naturally, whenever someone sent over a cake
it went to the library and everybody in the newsroom was called in. It was
also a popular venue for small birthday parties.
Maybe it was because the library was the nearest place where editors
and reporters could go. It was between their offices and the elevator. They
would go there and talk with the librarians before meeting with Menzi, or
a�er a long telephone conversation with an angry Minister Cendaña or some
other Marcos official. Apolonio Batalla, Ben Rodriguez and Pat Gonzales
were among the regulars.
They would go there if they needed money to pay the cab driver or
for their children’s tuition. They would go there if they needed advice. They
would go there on the pretext of looking up some back issue but would end
up unloading their anxieties.
He was forever the sportsman, an avid polo player. No fall was too
bad for him. He would be back on his favorite horse as soon as the broken
bone healed. Until age took the be�er of him and the body was no longer
MANILA DAILY BULLETIN • 23
11. C���������
The Bulletin in the years 1957 to 1984 saw a transformation from a
forge�able newspaper to the newspaper with which to reckon. It survived a
brutal Japanese occupation before that. It also survived Marcos’ martial rule.
Menzi’s being a Marcos “crony” did not assure him of the top spot as the
other crony papers were owned by people with closer ties to Malacañang.
A��������� �������
Bulletin Publishing Corp. 1992 Annual Report.
An oral history
of the
Manila Daily Bulletin
1957 to 1984
By Gerardo A. Mariano
Department of Communication
January 1995