GUESS WHAT DVD WOULD I WANT TO HAVE THIS CHRISTMAS????

MUSIC IS MY DRUG

.
The traffic lights, they turn, uh, blue tomorrow
And shine their emptiness down on my bed
The tiny island sags down stream
�cause the life that lived is,
Is dead
-from the song THE WIND CRIES MARY by JIMI HENDRIX


Last Sunday...

All of the people in the house (mi tatay, mi nanay & mi utols), they went to mass this morning. I decided to attend mass in the afternoon and left myself at the house with the responsibility of fixing the table and washing the dishes. With the decibel level of the house at my control, I gathered a selection of CDs and cassettes of classic rock n� roll musicians. First was the Juan de la Cruz band, which was Mike Hanopol�s and Pepe Smith�s band in the 70�s. I just skipped their overplayed tracks like �Titser�s Enemy No. 1� and �No Touch�, and got into working mood with �Balong Malalim� and �Project�. The mood was so toxicatingly high that I decided to wash the rest of the other dishes, grabbed the mop and began to clean the house, along with the vibes of old Razorback songs and with Led Zeppelin. There was even one point that I mimicked the wailing guitar solos of Jimi Henrix with my mop as his sound filled the house with psychedelic spirits.

I love hippie-style rock n� roll. And if you ask me, Jimi Hendrix is the one who should be recognized as the King of Rock n� Roll. His music embodies the raw, rebellious, and soulful essence of rock music. On the otherhand, Elvis was too much of a crowd-pleasing, chick-peacock, Ricky-Martin-ancestor of a fop. No offense to the fans.

Like the music of the Pied Piper of Hamlin, music can be like a drug. Some people find the quote �Get high on music, not drugs� to be as cheesy and corny as a Chippy on Disney. But that quote holds true on me. Long before I have ever experienced the delights of irreverent vices, I have already experienced the kind of intoxication that is a cross between spirit possession and THC, through listening to my favorite kinds of music. In my youthful days, I have felt the inexplicable sensation of Hendrix�s �Voodoo Child� and the smashing passion of Metallica�s �One�. It�s like an invisible drug injected through our listening senses, through our brains, seeps through our veins and gets online, instantly hamonizes and comprehends what the soul of the song is projecting. At this point, as one hums along, one knows and understands the passion of the musician�s music.

I may not be as well-versed with the many bands and musicians, as my friends who sometimes give me an out-of-place feeling whenever they talk about obscure bands that never rang a bell on my memory banks. But I do know that I am one who really is a simple, yet passionate patron of the arts. So much so that I notice how good at work I am whenever there is the presence of my loved sounds. At my dayjob at the office, whenever I�d be encountered by a mountain of files to be worked on, I�d try my best to find some cassette player or walkman, so that the music could juice up my work energy. Most especially if I�m empowered by bands like Nine Inch Nails and Fear Factory, I am confident that my horse power is robotic. I become a better, more efficient employee. It reminds me of the Propaganda Towers of Red China that make Chinese laborers work with double stamina, for they are inspired by the sounds and the messages evoked by these Propaganda Towers.

As I was mopping the floor that Sunday morning, I can feel the music like transparent dancing pigeons that scattered inside the living room. And by the time I was done, I relaxed upon a chair outside the house, where I stared at the relaxing chickens while listening to Led Zeppelin�s �You�re Time is Gonna Come�.

What�s best about Music as a drug, is that it has no side effects. Shabu leaves you a damaging hole in your brain and turns you into a mindless zombie. Marijuana gives you a nasty appetite for food (munchies) and renders you too high for a normal sky, plus it can get you hooked on other dangerous drugs. Alcohol makes holes in your internal organs. Smoking turns your lungs into a septic tank of ash and burns. Music, on the otherhand, you can just turn it off. The worst damage and addiction with music can do, is giving you a mildly deaf ear. (If you did notice why may pagka BUNGOL ako, that�s coz of all the Sonic Youth and Atari Teenage Riot music). I am pretty proud of admitting that music is my drug. Yours too perhaps�?

(But as not as addicted as I am with coffee! )

TALES OF IMPRESSIONS & DISCRIMINATIONS

TALES OF IMPRESSIONS & DISCRIMINATIONS
Oftentimes Disturbing
The Guardian, Iloilo City, OCtober 4 & 5, 2003

The sight of some business establishments putting up a sign that says "No Slippers/Sandals Allowed", while tolerating the observation of this same rule when it comes to slipper-wearing foreigners and people who appear filthy rich, is a typical example of discrimination. It very much reminds us of the salesladies at the shopping centers who doubt that we could afford to buy some fancy merchandise, just because we dress up in clothes which are below the one hundred peso price line. It is funny to note that the most simpleton of the salesladies are the ones who usually have the nerve to exercise matapobre attitude in these instances. On the other hand, I am reminded of this books and magazine shop along Delgado Street, where I used to window shop in my teen years. And whenever I did, the lady who appeared to be one of the owners of the shop always gave me an extremely cold suplada treatment whenever I'd visit her store and ask questions about the magazines. It's not as if I was makulit. It was obviously because in her eyes, I probably appeared to be the kind of person who could not afford to buy the magazines she sells. Or maybe I was just too damn indio-brown for her store. Maybe if I appeared to be mestizo-kastila or mestizo-intsik, I would most certainly pass the upstanding five-star class that her store has to offer.

The nitelife has some nasty discrimination stories to offer as well. There's this bar (let's not be rude on naming it, but let me impishly reveal that the name of this bar starts with the letter "F"), wherein most of the people that visit it are the rich and the popular brats of the city. It is where flashy, prominent family names come face-to-face with hundred peso beers, an annoying sense of coño R & B, braggart loudmouths, and the coldest of matapobre atmospheres. I was able to visit the place when it first opened and I absolutely loved this nice bar, which had a classy feel and cozy warmth. But after a while when this place got famous, things changed. Understandably, if a bar gets too famous, it attracts the brats, coños, and wannabes, in an attempt to make their presence be felt in the hippest spots of the nightlife scene. And when this bar got famous, it instantly became the favorite of the coño brat species. These are the species which are best defined by their prominent last names, their reckless use of credit cards and daddy-mommy allowances, and their famous familiar faces which never fail to grace every decent "hip" event. Going back to the bar story, my second and third time that I visited "F", I was confronted by the kind of sensation that must be familiar with the way kryptonite weakened Superman. I stepped in the bar, and everybody seemed to turn their heads and began to stare at me and my friends like we were not wanted. It was excruciating that we wanted to shout out "Hey! We're human beings too!" The rationale for this cold discrimination: we did not look rich. Honestly, it was like the way Charlton Heston felt in Planet of the Apes. In fact, it was MUCH like it. Imagine being the only human in rags, surrounded by apes that wore beautiful gowns and shimmering armor. Well, "F" them all to hell.

Speaking of the nitelife, I have noticed (and I hope that I wont sound like I'm generalizing) that more than half of the women who avidly observe the "gimik at weekends" attitude are the ones who are shallow enough to measure a man's goodness by his wallet, his thousand peso cologne, and his car. What is it about women and cars anyway? I may not understand this because I grew up not loving ball games and toy cars, but adored toy soldiers and hideous action figures. Anyway, some women, who I refer to as the "Bambi Chicks" (I have once written about this foul, yet tremendously attractive breed of sultry female species) often makes it a point to date a guy whose car must not have an inch of rust, must not have a window that needs manual pulling in order to close or open it, and the kind of car that looks sporty with a glimmer that appears to make it look wet and shiny all year round. It's like point system: a decent flashy car can get you their attention, celfone number, and home phone number, while a car that spells millions gives you a higher chance to score in bed. It makes sense why some jologs turn their car speakers way up and let their hip-hop make their car look like a mobile reminder of Dinagyang. It is their way to call the attention of the next Bambi chick who deludes herself to have a boyfriend who owns a James Bond car. Typical indios like us should be wary of these women who daydream their lives to be somehow connected with "The Fast and the Furious" movie franchise. To them, we who pride ourselves with just taking a cab, a jeepney, or a tricycle home, are worth sentimos. But in a vindictive sense of fate, these bambi chicks are usually the ones who end up living in a desperate "I'm still glamorous" state of mind by the time they near the age that falls off the calendar.

Impressions are tricky, they can extract out the best and the worst of every person. In fairness to the bambi chicks, I was proven wrong by a previous love who I used to horrendously misjudge. She seemed to be your typical bambi chick, or so I thought. Apparently, there was more to her than meets the eye. I could not see that there was depth in that brain of hers. I used to think her DNA was greatly adulterated by the Beverly Hills 90210 saga of the 90's. I didn't realize, until later on, that she was also a geek who delved into the aspects of sci-fi and myth. In a mushy sense of honesty, I would even confess that it was a very sweet episode of my life. But let's not get deep into that, it's a closed chapter anyway. Impressions…you'll never know.

It understandably seems normal to generalize that people from the simple classes of society go for the masa sense of musical appreciation. The April Boys, the Spaghetti pataas-pababa, the Aegis, the chiqui-chiqui, and the CHIHUAHUA! This is the musical choice of the working class, so we say. But there was one instance that made me think otherwise. Two years ago, some carpenters came to our house to work on the large aparador. On the CD stereo, played a selection of random alternative songs from bands like Smashing Pumpkins, Sonic Youth, the Lemonheads, Dinosaur Jr., etc… I was surprised when one of these carpenters started a conversation about alternative music. It seems like he was cool dude who was quite familiar with Pearl Jam, Weezer, and Dizturbed. And you must remember that two years ago, NU107 hasn't gone back on air, so this guy must have really honestly loved alternative music, amidst the pop fever of boyband and britney fad. He was even familiar with the band Guano Apes, when at that time I wasn't familiar with their music. Who would think that this simple carpenter dude would have a far better musical taste than the wannabes and coños who merely base their taste for music upon what is on the billboard charts and the musical numbers on the Sunday noontime variety shows? Sheesh! Impressions. You never know.

hard2tinkdatut

Willow is a pissed off witch in the season ender of BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER season 6

damn. yesterday, the whole day i was cracking my head to get in mood to write. i wanted to submit a write-up for a friday column. but my head was in such a block.

it was THURSDAY, and for me, it is a holy day. i had to be home early for my thursday nite tv shows: there's batman on cartoon network & studio 23, batman beyond, just shoot me, buffy the vampire slayer, and angel. if i could watch 2 channels at the same time, i would watch 24 on axn. but there's a replay every saturday,and i could borrow eugene's complete season 1 dvds of 24.

i fell into slumber by 10 pm. later, we had our family rosary. after it, i fell asleep on the couch while watching thundercats, i remained there on the couch asleep till round 130 am. twas then when i grabed a mug of caffeine and got in the mood to write. here i am: 435 am and wide awake. i just emailed my column for the weekend paper.

know when & where else do i also get in the mood for writing? when im on da Trono. sheeesh!