first impressions (with apologies to jane austen) and new year's resolutions

CAN'T CHANGE ME
By Chris Cornell, Euphoria Morning

She can do anything at all
Have anything she pleases
The power to change what she thinks is wrong
So what could she want in me? Yeah
But wait just one minute here
I can see that she's trying to read me
Suddenly I know
She's going to change the world
She's going to change the world
But she can't change me
No she can't change me
She has the daylight at her command
She gives the night it's dreams, yeah
She can uncover your darkest fear
And make you forget that you feel it
But wait just one minute more
I can see that she's trying to free me
Suddenly I know
She's going to change the world
She's going to change the world
She's going to change the world
But she can't change me
No she can't change me
And suddenly I can see everything that's wrong with
me, yeah
But what can I do
I'm the only thing I really have, at all
But wait just one minute here
I can see that she's trying to need me
Suddenly I know

Dearest Shivaun,

I should probably just post a comment on your blog for the golden-prosed praise for my quasi-intellectual efforts at being literary.

You are indeed a true friend, one need not elaborate. My pants stil smells of piss from the thrill of being in the same sentence as Zafra. But being the closet narcissist, I have to shout out my appreciation through my own blog. Or, maybe then I again, you as always, propel me from my stupor and make me want to write. Kisses. Hugs. Merci beau coup. Domo aregato. Er, teri makasi?

I received the card you sent a few days before the b-day and you were the first of the few that matter who gave me the greeting. Close second was the tele-associate at the claims department of Bank of America whom I reported to the loss of my credit card and the fraudulent use of my checkcard after my wallet got yoinked. I am now officially on my last year in that infernal proverbial Pinoy "kalendaryo".

First of all, I wish you, albeit late, the HAPPIEST of Christmas and of the New Year.

This blog was a long time coming. The Holidays were just a blur of fatigue & burnout. My days were merely classed into the days I am working, and days I'm not working. There had been no weekends, no dates, no Mondays and alarmingly, no Sundays, no hours, no food. There was just the circadian rhythm of very deep slumber and the Sisyphean task of getting up as though from a coma, away from my prison of pillows, down comforters, and the vortex of the E! Channel.

The beginnings of this blog (including the title) has been hatched in late November after Thanksgiving. Now it's post-New Year'07. Go figure. I have created a mongrel. An overdue one at that.

This was intended to be a diatribe on people and (borrowing from Bill Clinton) their boxes, but this could be a levigation of several intended blogs in incubation inside my puny procrastinating brain. Bear with me.

Once and for all, I do not subscribe to the idea of suburban fairy tale endings. I am a work in progress and do not wish to define myself by anyone may he be Joe Blow or Di Caprio. I may be a mess but I am my own crutch. Save the saving for those who are starved or near extinction. The world is a vast place with plenty of concerns other than living vicariously through one neurotic singleton. Save it for the Anistons, the La Lohans and what have you. I am and always shall be a gypsy until I and The Powers That Be will it to be or not to be. I shall always not be people's expectation not out of spite but borne of a drive to grow a backbone.



I think this should be the year to finally start running my life in the tangent I want it to be in and not let outside persons and circumstance do it for me. Cease pleasing and appeasing everyone. Be honest and unmerciful, specially to myself. Let the drums I march to beat a little louder as it is different, defiant and definitely right. It should be the year to let the punk out in me- the Clash had they lived long enough to be Bono. Audrey Hepburn meets Nancy Vicious. Carrie Bradshaw and Mother Theresa. Jane Austen on (mycophenolic) acid. My own Brangelina. (Please don't hate me for the Brangelina bit).

Now, must desist from the I's& me's and on with the how are you's. How's your dad? How's your mom? Ill health in the family is a pisser. We love 'em. We leave 'em to serf to higher currency. The bittersweet part is being able to provide for their rainy days as we wring our hands with worry across oceans, connected only by faceless sound through wiry telecommunication. Chin up love. Do I need to say this? You've always been stronger than you give yourself credit for. Hang on. Hang on tighter.

My best regards to Ant as always (does he mind being called Ant? It's a Kiedis reference not as in Ant & Dec). BTW how did the mister find the idiosynchrasies of our tropical islands?

Thank you for getting me.

Much, much love.

John-john Love

7 songs

I'm probably the world's greatest procrastinator. I have an assignment to turn in. My coloreds are still to be laundered. My books need to be unpacked, my bookshelves organized. I need to sleep but because of the caffeine I'm blogging away. Hey, when the blogging muse calls you gotta give in, man. Anyway here are my seven songs.




1. Blister In the Sun- Violent Femmes. I wake up to this ala of course, Angela Chase. The CD is in my clock radio/boom box.

2. My Friends- Red Hot Chili Peppers circa Dave Navarro. See blog.

3. Time of Your Life (Good Riddance)- Greenday. See blog.

4. I'm So Bored in the USA- The Clash. I play this in my car stereo when I'm pissed at Americans.

5. Especially in Michigan- Red Hot Chili Peppers.From Stadium Arcadium. Listening to it now in my i-tunes. Intend to drive with it but I don't have an i-pod yet. hehehe. I like the title.

6. Dance, Dance- Fall-Out Boy. Strangely calms me while I'm driving. Probably because the band's hit "Sugar We're Going Down" last year while I was risking driving to the city with a learner's permit played on the radio almost everytime I get behind the wheel to go to work (I could have sworn it was following me) . Sheer happenstance but it was reasuring.

7. I Write Sins Not Tragedies- Panic! At The Disco. Not a big emo fan but this plays in DC 101 a LOT!!! The part with the wedding and the bride being a whore, cracks me up. And, (it's a tie)
The Wrong Way- Sublime. My favorite Sublime song. Funny, misogynistic, poignant, and endearing. Don't know wether to laugh or be offended. Another DC 101 staple.

I don't know who to tag. Perhaps I should try my Friendster list.

Driving One Rainy Autumn Evening (with John-John, Billie Joe, and God)

This song, since its introduction to me via the saccharine MTV Asia during late '97-early'98, has been a recurring anthem throughout my Gen-X jaunt. I think it's safe to say this also applies to most of the alphabet generations. I remember it striking me as an unusual turn for the famously rambunctious punk band. But like every great song it resonates through time and the lives of those who have listened to it and loved it.

I was just a wide-eyed new grad raring to work her first real job in a foriegn country, with glamorous notions of living the MTV high life. But as always, actual existence is far from wishful thinking. The video initially beyond me, haunted me in my rudest awakenings and in the bittersweetests of memories, now only contained in photographs and recollections. I was one of those kids with the menial jobs who would look wistfully into space, reflecting past, present and questioning what's in store beyond and fighting the fear of being in a rut. But with the friends I made, the little life truths gradually revealed, and yeah, the truly happy times that seamleslly interweave with the bad in a complex tapestry that you won't have one without the other, it was all worth it.

And now here I am in the land of my dreams teethering between despair and realization, caught in sluggish gridlock at I-695 at a crawl of 20 mph. As another classic video by another great band has once deduced, there is nothing like bad traffic when it comes to forcing to look at one's life. I ruminate my struggles, my pains, the loved ones that I lost in series, the lives of those that I still have, my past, my present, and yes my future, my dreams, my fate. Then, this song plays over on my favorite DC rock station. The lyrics are as true as ever, perhaps even more so. This life is excruciatingly painful and unpredictable to go through but in quiter times when you think back, its right. Let the song speak for itself. Thank you Billie Joe Armstrong. Thank God for Greenday.

Good Riddance
(Time of Your Life)

Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road.
Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go.
So make the best of this test, and don't ask why.
It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time.

It's something unpredictable, but in the end is right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

So take the photographs, and still frames in your mind.
Hang it on a shelf of good health and good time.
Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial.
For what it's worth, it was worth all the while.
I hope you had the time of your life.

I hope you had the time of your life.

-Greenday from the album, Nimrod, 1997

For My Ashton

This may be a foray into the superficial, but fuck it, I dare say.

To my knight in shining armour and loyal steed, you had protected me and served me well. To my friend and confidant, you had been the quite spectator to my madness, my goofs and my guffaws, my rage and my tears. When I was not welcome in my own hearth and home you were my refuge during the winter chill, so valiantly trying not to let dissipate too quickly your waning heat. My co-conspirator, you had taken me to haunts of my longings, encouraged my obsession with independence. You had seen me stumble through naivete to thriving street smarts. Throughout all these you never judged even when I crashed and slammed you and forgotten where I last left you. You just kept driving on, dings, scratches and gashes and all. And when I called for you to know where you were, you said, "I'm right here, mama," You had far more character in your clunky metal heart than any of my fair-weather friends.Through sun & rain & snow you plodded and pulled through at my behest. You shared my journey with me complete with a soundtrack provided by you, and what a trip it had been my dear friend.




Now, I must give you up. I am not rejecting you and trading you for a newer model. I am setting you free. May my new John-john be as half as wonderful as you are. I shall always look for you when I am on the road. I will always wonder where you are. With a prayer, I wish you will have another who will treat you with as much care as you have of me and will treat you for the beautiful thing that you are, my baby, my blessing. Thank you, thank you, thank you, a thousand times, THANK YOU.


Always remember, that no one ever forgets their first.

September Ends

Numb. I try not too feel too much for fear I might spontaneously combust. I drown myself in the tides of the everyday, yet find myself skimming the surface adrift, lifeless but awake and moving, functioning like a wind-up drone. Can I crawl into a ball in a corner? Can I cry my eyes out? Can I scream my head off? Can I mourn?

Can I mourn the loss of yet another uncle? Can I reach out to yet another of my own blood for the loss of their father? Can I comfort yet another parent for the loss of her brother. Can I myself lament the loss of more than a relative, but a kindred spirit in the love of books and the arcane as much as the first loss was a kindred in love of laughter and child-like irreverence and beyond that-- a primal recognition and an innate understanding that these are one of your own? Can I cry that the world seems a little bit lonelier place for those very losses? Can I cry for the dwindling of childhood and care-free times? or how about for fathers who will never be able to see the fruition of their dreams for their offspring?

Can I bewail the untimely loss of a dear friend? Does it help if she is like family? Would it warrant your sympathy, if I tell you
in one point in our lives we shared an apartment, a room, a journey? or how we laughed away our angsts over work, homesickness and unrequited love and how they are forever encapsulated in photographs, in stories, in memories as vivid as now? So vivid, it's sooo fuckin' hard to believe she's gone. The great ceremony of a home-cooked meal. The passion for the blend of flavors. The singing. In the kitchen. While doing the laundry. Looking out the window awaiting for birthday mail. During innumerable karaoke nights. The mythic birthday parties. The dancing. The tears for missing home and over a Judy Ann flick. The leche flan. The epic debate over Ben vs. Noel. The inebriated nights over Boon Kwe Lew Chew. The quotes worth repeating but shall always be her own. She told me too grow my hair long and that love will come in its own time. And so it did for her in her own terms and in a fashion entirely hers. How she doted on her nephews then. Now we could only imagine how she could have been as the mother that she dreamed to be to her much sought for child. We, your friends could only attempt to replicate your affections for him but we could never be you. Cause there could be only one like you, Puppy. The memories would always be vivid as your soliloquies and for every memory we would mourn.


Finally, can I mourn for every time I'm in a church I light a candle for the people I love, my family and friends, that they may be around to share this life with me a little longer? including these very people? Can I pray that I do not question the designs
of a Higher Power and that there is a reason for everything and just keep on lighting more candles?


Video: My Friends, Red Hot Chili Peppers, One Hot Minute, 1995.

SAVE A HORSE RIDE A VIRGIN: post-its from the fest (drafted 9-24-2006, Detroit International Airport, while waiting for my flight to Toronto)

"Welcome to the tea party!!", and that is how my first true blue, fucking real rock fest got kicked off: by Tom Meighan of Kasabian,whose music reminds of (they probably get this all the time) Oasis and Kula Shaker. And that is how I like my bad boys: skinny (no, wiry), scruffy and British.

A plane flies overhead being tailed by the banner: SAVE A HORSE RIDE A VIRGIN, an odd reference to Barbaro the racehorse who won the Kentucky Derby and most likely shoo-in for the Pimlico's Preakness earlier this year had it not been for such an unfortunate freak accident during the race. It is also a flash of the proverbial middle finger to the rich folks who would normally inhabit the grounds of the historic (refer to Sea Biscuit) Pimlico Race Tracks. I look at the banner as I lay lazily in my most Penny Lane-like outfit, on my Ikea mat that I share with my friend, Amy and thought, "How true."


"They shot some scenes for that movie with Tobey Maguire you know," says Amy. I fight the temptation to kiss the ground Spidey might have walked on, not because he's Spiderman, but because he's Tobey Maguire and looks good shirtless.

VIRGIN FEST

I missed the flagship Lollapalooza in the 90's, the mud of Woodstock '94, and its limp biscuit version off '99 because of sheer distance and dismal finances. And of course the original Woodstock in the age of the Aquarius, I missed simply because I wasn't even born then.

Now I am on my way to the aptly named Virgin Mobile Festival at the Pimlico Racetrack which might as well be in my backyard. God is indeed good and for all the right reasons the greatest Rock Star in my book. Say what you will. This may not be the life most people I know would choose, but the thing is I'm living it. And as my favorite band puts it, "How come everybody wanna keep it like the Kaiser." See you at the fest Ant, Flea, Chad and my love, John.

Written September 23, 2006 , 15 minutes before gates open, while waitng for my pal, Amy.

Guess Who's Coming To The Last Supper, Judas

Dearest Shivaun,

Thank you once again for the ego boost.

My apologies for the title. It is just emblematic of a certain happening lately that was neither sound nor fury yet amounted to nil except a conclusion. Also, the drive to slash & burn in me is still asimmer.

As my sister Melissa puts it, there are just creatures in this earth who derive a sense of accomplishment in wounding others to deter attention from their own inadequacies-- troglodytes with bank accounts in lieu of character. They drivel media fed trivia and spew Hallmark card confuscianism & cliff-noted versions of the Good Book in the hopes these might get mistaken for a brain. They believe in fine dining, labeled finery, polyester cabbage rose chintz and mall tinsel sensibilities as the height of culture yet make criminally odious pasta. "The pasta is the star, bitch," to paraphrase Neil Perry (I added the bitch.) They also think Nickelback is Rock 'n Roll.

I also apologize. I've yet to research Feeder and Muse. Your European rock band IQ may be a little more sophisticated than mine Yank. I've lately been subsisting only on VH1, MTV ( it's not even MTV2) and My Space. I've yet to buy new issues of Raygun, Spin & RS and also per recommendation of one of my patients who used to learn guitar under the tutelage of Hendrix, Paste. The boob tube has been pelting me with the likes of Simpson, Hilton and Blunt.

I truly believe that James Blunt is in liege with the devil and so are those clueless souls who swoon to the strains of "You're Beautiful". Former captain of the British Army my arse (or is it Navy?). Priscilla, Queen of the Desert has more balls than that pussyman.

Anyway in the vein of the plebes, you have all the gifts to strike back with your grammar skills and poetic vocabulary the mediocre can't even begin to grasp. The blog is mightier than the bitch. 

Albino monks all seem more palatable. Paul Bettany has got a hot arse.

Love you and take care. My best regards to Ant.

buttoned out

I have been trying to loose weight since last winter. I've resorted to Budokon, Yoga, Pilates, power walking and yes, dieting like the Gwyneth.

Come June and early July I'd whittled down to 123lbs.-- my thinnest on record since I think sixth grade--sending everybody in my unit into a tizzy that I was anorexic or bulimic. I did not put much energy into dispelling the myth, for people believe what they want to believe and that's that. I felt good energy-wise, ample oxygen was circulating through my system. I felt healthy and just rid of the toxins that riddles American food. Most importantly, I felt really good about myself, a rare occurence in my angst-filled world. Then a death in my family occured and I was shattered.

In between bouts of crying and wallowing, I am just huddled in my cubby hole tying to seek solace in simple sugars. By then, I have fallen off the wagon compensating with some intervals of starvation and deprivation as the pounds start creeping up again.

I am desperately trying get off my butt and start firming it up again. Attempts at finding motivation through pop culture seem more detrimental as I just watch in awe, envy then the eventual downcast mood. Between the Victoria's Secret catalogs I keep in my bathroom near where my I place my weighing scale and the Pussy Cat Dolls' Buttons video I am tempted to switch my own off button. Somehow the cubby hole seems to cozy to leave from.

Felicitous

I have always been in love with with New York City. I  cannot ascertain the exact place and time where it all started nor can I, the exact event or specifically, the movie that started it all. It has always been one of those things that just is. Scorsese? Coppola? Spike Lee? Death Wish? Travolta in Staying Alive? Perhaps. Violent and gritty (or cheesy mediocre sequel) as they are, they have never seemed to repulse me from the city of my dreams. I know about the strippers in Times Square, the muggers and the infamous windshield washers. McCluskey's death scene in the Godfather just makes me want to eat authentic Italian pasta--you know none of that sorry swill of ketchup and hotdogs (tamis-sarap my arse). The moonshiners of those Charles Bronson flicks my beloved Tatay loves to watch made me long even more to stroll down Central Park. Woody Allen? Maybe. He is something that has gradually been ingratiated to me by my sisters, time and my maturing neurosis. My introd to him has been through his reputedly, relatively less stellar films, New York Stories and Everyone Says I Love You. The former in the Coppola ep made me & my sister want to name our unborn daughters, Zoe and the latter reminded me of my family- have we been living in New York, rich & Jewish and breaking out into song when left to our thoughts.







I have been too young for Annie Hall although I have no doubt I have unwittingly or not morphed myself into her over the years allargando. I've always been deluded enough to identify with, and mayhap moulded myself into the immortal New York heroines of celluloid & TV: Alex Owens, for the longest time as a kid ; Parker Posey's Mary in Party Girl, while in college raring to get out;

 Felicity Porter as a new grad biting reality in Singapore wistful of college days; Holly Golightly as a growing film buff in a quasi-intellectual escapist phase AND;
of course, as Carrie Bradshaw, as a wanna-be writer & closet celibate

. Hmmm? In a nutshell, so far in a span of three decades, I have been a potty-mouthed welder/stripper with lofty aspirations, a falafel loving librarian/raver who's a master at layering in cold weather, an intellectual virgin/stalker who loves coffee and writing letters to her therapist friend, a fashionably iconic waif/whore with a cat and a promiscous columnist with great friends. All these and an eccentric, androgynous dresser with a penchance for nerds and baggy clothes.

Going to New York feels less like a trip and more a homecoming. I feel a kinship with the so-called weird, rude New Yawker. As my Baltimore friend Bruce the Cabbie with the PhD puts it, I may have been one in another life. I've been there three times before and each experience leaves me wanting to roam its streets less the cheesy tourist and more its denizen--caffeine and commuting and all. My time. My leisure. My pace. My terms. My self.


As the Fates would have it, I live across the street from Baltimore's cushiest tour bus line to NYC. On one of my extended days off, I hatch a plan to run away alone as I've always fantasized. I gather up the courage to dial myself a seat reservation. On the day, as I cross the street to the huge Shoppers parking lot where the bus is at and took my seat inside, I feel like falling into the great unknown, a familiar recurring sensation when I embark from my comfort zones to acknowledge my gypsy tendencies. The tour guide tells us there are going be no stops in other parts of the county to pick up any other passengers. He tells us our drop off point is at the Rockefeller in 51st and 5th and of the importance of being prompt on the time of departure and that we are on our own once we are there. YES!

I expect for us to arrive there at around 10AM but because of uneventful traffic and the expert maneuverings of our driver also named, Bruce, inside the Lincoln Tunnel, we arrive at 9:15AM. Stepping off the bus and I get welcomed by the sight of the adorable Al Roker doing a segment of the Today Show. After taking his picture and inadvertently getting caught on camera myself, I dodge towards Dean & Deluca only to find waif-like Campbell Brown crossing the street in the same direction as I am as she gaily gets greeted by an NYPD officer directing traffic, only she heads for her next segment. I order a cuppa joe and a spinach & cheddar muffin that draws notices from the neighbouring tables. Ah NYC! One of the only places I know where conversations spark without unease, subtle or otherwise. A tasty-looking muffin is a tasty-looking muffin. Like everyone else cares to admit inside that cafe, I surreptitiously glance around for Matt Lauer but to no avail. I have my itinerary which is to roam the halls of the Guggenheim and the Met.

Outside, everyone is armed in tanks and wifebeaters for the probably the hottest day of the year. Bottled water in hand I step out of the air-conditioning secure in my years of training under El Nino at the mother country. After lighting a candle at St. Patrick's, I walk 2 to 3 blocks or so to the station at Lexington & 53rd to catch the 6 train Uptown. Yes, in my J-Lo hat that makes me look more like a Maoist than Jenny from the Block-- stopping only at yet another cafe to realize bathrooms can be hard to come by in the Big Apple.


Secretly referring to the map inside my messenger bag, I weave through strange new streets that are somehow achingly familiar towards 86th & 5th to the Museum Mile.

In the Guggenheim, I wander through its meandearing curves, gaping at the Picassos, the Pollocks, and the Kandinskys-- fighting back tears and voices that say, "You've once only seen this in books,"-- wishing one of my sister were there with their two cents' worth--two of the five people in my vast circle who truly get me and my geeky preoccupations. And oh, upon entry of the first galleries I get welcomed by a gi-normous nude (upon initial glance and by popular expectations) of a female. Realizing it of a male and according to the audio tour head piece, it turns out to be a nude of actor Sal Mineo. Then I realize Sal Mineo is not circumcised. Needless to say, it's my favorite piece.

I eat a snotty lunch of asparagus & smoked salmon salad, write a couple of postcards to my friend, Shivaun and to my sister Melissa and realize I have enough time to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Once there, I get artfully overloaded more. I move through the ancient Egyptian collections in disbelief. I harken back to the days where I used to marvel at these pieces on a calendar from the 70's, while already a good way into the 80's. If only my mom is here. By the time, I get to the Cezannes, the Monets, the Renoirs and the Van Gogh, the VAN GOGHS, I am about ready to be on my knees. Van Gogh's Wheat Fields and Cypresses, I have always thought as a happy scene. Looking closely, I realize the extent of his torture as the idyll contrasts with the violence of his brush strokes, as if he wants to drown whatever it is that racked him with paint. His more popular portraits of flowers like Irises and Sunflowers have been done while he was in an asylum. I see his self portrait, yet another that I used to just gaze in an outdated calendar our Aunt sent us. It has used to spook me a tad bit as a child but looking at it close enought to see the steam of my breath on its glass case, defying that art be admired at a distance, he seemed more like a sad grizzled man, no different from the characters I come across with on the streets or on the job.

The Met still begs for more exploration. I have to go back to Maryland. Seeing there is still some time to get lost, I risk a bus to Midtown Manhattan, trusting instinct and common sense and get duly dropped off in front of the Rock with more than enough time for one more stop: The Soupman at 6th Ave. better known to Seinfeld fans as the Soup Nazi. Eventhough I'm  the only customer at that point crazy enough to chug hot soup in 100 degree weather, I still expect to be screamed at, "Back in line!" "No soup for you!!" To my chagrin, the two fellas who man the cash register are awfully nice. I relish my chicken & corn chowder in quiet as some more customers filter into to the store but not before the servers snuck me a berry smoothie on the house. Wow! Not what I expect from the infamous soup nazi. Finishing my early dinner and waving good-bye to my buddies from my new haunt, I arrive perfectly on time for my bus-- a rarity for me. Smoothie in hand, I gaily say hi to our kindly silver-haired tour guide.

Once again, Bruce our driver gallantly slices our chariot through New York traffic. I look out the window unto the Manhattan skyline, silently I say to it, "Good-bye for now my lover, my New York," and promptly nod off into a deep restful slumber the moment we hit Jersey. I wake weaving in the familiar roads of Greenspring. We applaud our driver, our tour guide as I smile contentedly for the world is now alright again on this perfect day. Alone.

stoned

Dear Shivaun,

I am feeling the need to slash and burn. Don't mean you dearie. Your blog on Mel has fired me up to throw a little piece of my mind into the ether.

I've always liked Mel Gibson but affinity has little (that I'm fully aware of) to do with me being a little too opinionated than my little Rabbit self allows me to be. Perhaps, it is just the current state of my physiology, being befuddled by the lack of sleep and my counter attack by all forms caffeine.

Lately, everyone with access to any form of popular media, has relished jumping into the bandwagon of judging Mr. Gibson (sparing any parallelism to Gibson's Passion of the Christ, and may this be my last mention of said matter), Hollywood power player, and citizen of a world of BILLION other people and BILLION other issues bigger than a Disney flick and an eccentric drunk with issues.

I just ponder, how many of us echo Mad Mel's innebriated sentiments in our varied forms of biases, within or out of earshot and beyond political correctness? in the privacy of our homes? in the company of our spouses and our children? in whispers among confidants? in mutterings over mundane aggravations? in muffled expletives over traffic inside our cars? or squealed out with the windows rolled down? or succinctly with a mere finger? in split-second looks as a strange face enters familiar territory to do groceries or get to the 5th floor? in the dark silence of our thoughts? and YES, over our beers?

I surmise it is just universally easier to sit back and toss our two cents at an easy target-- our latent barbarities and medieval prejudices in check by being PC and appropriately channeled through Fox and E!. Henceforth we can finish flipping through our People magazines, turn off our tellys and be on our merry way feeling better about ourselves, our little world alright, our insignificance a little lesser.

Love you, babe. Take it easy. Thank you for never failing to inspire me to write. God Bless you and your sensitive writer's heart always.

from the big apple, with love

August 2, 2006
10:00 am
Rockefeller Plaza Dean & Deluca
50th & 5th, NYC

Dearest Shivaun,

Sorry.

I didn’t mean to ignore you. Somehow in between the printing and mailing of my reply, life over took and ran me over. July has been such a cruel month. I’m reeling over my uncle’s death, my father’s baby brother, by liver cancer. My cousin on my mom’s side just got married and she was walked down the aisle by her brother but closing in on the altar, by her dad, my mom’s eldest brother, who is also ailing of lung cancer. They both just got diagnosed this year. But, the sudden loss of Tito Jenny, devastated me. I’ve barely even come to grips with the fact that I might not be able to see two dear faces next year when I come home.

I’ve run away to New York to be alone. I need to be. I’ve done nothing but wallow last month that I feel like a hypocrite for all the soapbox preaching I typed unto my previous (unmailed) letter. Solace in the the gritty concrete arms of a lover and his urine perfume -- the city of my dreams. My Big Apple.

As everyone braces for the hottest day of the year, I shall commiserate with the voices inside my head over a defiantly hot cup of Felicity’s coffee and Javier’s spinach and cheddar muffin, both overpriced. I’ve already taken snapshot of Al Roker. I think I might have been seen on camera. My fifteen minutes on the Today Show: I slowly and surely am transforming into a Yank. Saw skinny Campbell Brown crossing the street. Now, where in the Rock is Matt Lauer?

I’m going to light a candle across the street at St Patrick’s then, walk three or four blocks to the 6 train station heading Uptown and the Bronx to 86th Street, and walk a couple more blocks to the Museum Mile near Central Park. I shall escape the brutal UVs of summer holed in the Guggenheim and then the Met. I am going to be in my quasi-intellectual elements and feel like I’ve come home and surely along the way, I am going to wish you, or one of my sisters, or my mom & dad are there to share the experience with-- just somebody whose hand I can grasp as I get overwhelmed by all that magnifiicent art.

I’ll be sending you a postcard from one of the museums. Please come and visit me one day. Miss you.

BTW, I’m glad Italia won, but I was rooting for a third world country, maybe Ghana cause they'd beaten the US. Nobody really cares about “soccer” in this country. I used to not care much about the sport but I tend to rebel against the inclination of whatever majority I’m amongst. Thank you for making sports poetic instead of an overrated celebration of dim-witted jocks by the hoi poloi.


Love,

cjb

Driving One Sunny Spring Evening (05-03-2006 at 11:30 AM)

My whole being just can't wait for summer. Summer is in my blood. My blood demands it much as the night owl in me shuns the sunlight. I hate wearing socks. (I've been wearing flipflops since March). I yearn to be barefoot in the sun unhampered by a dozen layers. Much as I hate to sweat (that's what anti-perspirants are for), I would gladly have it over my skin not being able to breathe. Summer is childhood, about discoveries and misadventures. Summer is about being stripped down to the essentials, flimsy clothing, and the promise of cooling waters and you're out the door.

There is something about a Janis Joplin song that just invokes the summer dieties. Is it that lazy raspy voice that constantly seems to wake up at high noon? Southern Comfort on ice? the reminder of the Summer of Love? the age of the Aquarius? or is it just stating the obvious, with her rendition of Summertime? Is it the harkening of longer days spent reading under a tree beside a clear stream? hot bare skin baking in UV rays and chill into either chlorinated or salty waters? or just the site of young lesser-clothed flesh? Or am I just hell-bent on enjoying this summer because last year's realities have obfuscated me from basking in last years's sun?

After taking a much deserved, longed-for trip to Toronto to reunite with my eldest sister (whom I haven't seen for ten years,), my aunt (eleven years,), and my best friend-since-birth (eight years), I have come to rethink of what I stand for. The values instilled in me by my roots, my family. Money has never been at the forefront of our priorities. Character is. Substance is. Money may bring you status but not respect nor bring some semblance of dignity ....or happiness. Being able to sleep with a clear conscience is greater than any glossy SUV. A shelter that provides peace, respite, satisfaction and laughter is a home not a sprawling manse or an unwitting clone of Wisteria Lane or Twin Peaks. No amount of fancy clothes or fancy electronics can steal the fact wether you have bought them with your own hard-earned, honest money. I've also realized that fate despite its many twists and turns, albeit random and painful, comes with good reason and often with interesting comeuppances. Sir Isaac Newton comes to mind.

As I look forward to baring my toes (among other things) and soaking up the sun, while driving to meet my roommate and her family for some chinese food and furniture shopping, I happened upon this song. If you haven't figured out by now I consider rock 'n roll as the voice of God. The Powers That Be seem to be telling me from the stereo of my Honda Civic, "You're doing well kid, hang in there." And I say, "Thank you Lord, I needed that."


Mercedes Benz
by Janis Joplin


Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz ?
My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends.
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends,
So Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz ?

Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a color TV ?
Dialing For Dollars is trying to find me.
I wait for delivery each day until three,
So oh Lord, won’t you buy me a color TV ?

Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a night on the town ?
I’m counting on you, Lord, please don’t let me down.
Prove that you love me and buy the next round,
Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a night on the town ?

Everybody!
Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz ?
My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends,
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends,
So oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz ?

That’s it!

Yet Another Sountrack to the Mean Reds

Doesn't Remind Me Lyrics



I walk the streets of Japan till I get lost
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
With a graveyard tan n'carrying a cross
It doesn't remind me of anything
I like studying faces in a parking lot
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like travelin' backwards in the fog
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

The things that I've loved, things that I've lost
Things I've held sacred that I've dropped
I won't lie no more you can bet
I don't want to learn what I'll need to forget

I like gypsy moths and radio talk
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like gospel music and canned applause
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like colorful clothing in the sun
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like hammering nails, and speaking in tongues
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

The things that I've loved, things that I've lost
Things I've held sacred that I've dropped
I won't lie no more you can bet
I don't want to learn what I'll need

Bend and shape me
I love the way you are
Slow and sweetly
Like never before
Calm and sleeping
We won't stir up the past
So discreetly
We won't look back

The things that I've loved, things that I've lost
Things I've held sacred that I've dropped
I won't lie no more you can bet
I don't want to learn what I'll need

I like throwing my voice and breaking guitars
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like playing in the sand what's mine is ours
If it doesn't remind me of anything

Epiphany in the Bathtub, 01-30-2006 at 08:19 AM

After another grueling night at the Transplant Unit, I longed to soak in my precious bathtub. Like any other, exhaustingly bad working day lately, I tended to wallow in self-pity and mull over the series of unsavory developments in my life the past year. How I long to exorcise these forces that dog me, to soak out all that anger, regret, all that wasted time and flush them and walk away leaving nothing but a lavender cloud. And after an hour or so, I DID with help from unlikely sources of wisdom: supermodels and the former lead singer of Wham!

As the hot water soothed my tired bones, a memory of George Michael's hit, Freedom '90 and its equally popular video came to mind. Having a penchance for always paralleling aspects of my everyday to pop culture, I found that both unsurprising and a bit unnerving.

Perhaps it was the lyrics that bespoke George Michael's frame of mind then when he wrote the song and the circumstances that led him into such that my head found that I emphatized with. Or was it the imagery of the video aided by supermodels, (the First Name Wonders: Linda, Naomi, Cindy, Christy), for which one of a half-covered Christy crouching in the shadows and (or was it Cindy?) writhing in a bath tub lipsynching to the lyrics that I Identified with?

Wether I just am too fixated on supermodel perfection and perpetually insecure or just plain deluded, it doesn't matter because a light bulb has been turned on inside my head. As Oprah would call it, I had an Aha! moment.

Amidst the thick steam, eureka! The title, the words, the video, the song speaks for itself. Thank you George Michael. Wish you could have a more positive experience in bathrooms as I have. Respect.

I AM FREE.


Freedom '90



I won't let you down
I will not give you up
Gotta have some faith in the sound
It's the one good thing that I've got
I won't let you down
So please don't give me up
Because I would really, really love to stick around

Heaven knows I was just a young boy
Didn't know what I wanted to be
I was every little hungry schoolgirl's pride and joy
And I guess it was enough for me
To win the race? A prettier face!
Brand new clothes and a big fat place
On your rock and roll TV
But today the way I play the game is not the same
No way
Think I'm gonna get me some happy

I think there's something you should know
I think it's time I told you so
There's something deep inside of me
There's someone else I've got to be
Take back your picture in a frame
Take back your singing in the rain
I just hope you understand
Sometimes the clothes do not make the man

All we have to do now
Is take these lies and make them true somehow
All we have to see
Is that I don't belong to you
And you don't belong to me
Freedom
You've gotta give for what you take
Freedom
You've gotta give for what you take

Heaven knows we sure had some fun boy
What a kick just a buddy and me
We had every big shot good-time band on the run boy
We were living in a fantasy
We won the race
Got out of the place
I went back home got a brand new face
For the boys on MTV
But today the way I play the game has got to change
Oh yeah
Now I'm gonna get myself happy

I think there's something you should know
I think it's time I stopped the show
There's something deep inside of me
There's someone I forgot to be
Take back your picture in a frame
Don't think that I'll be back again
I just hope you understand
Sometimes the clothes do not make the man

All we have to do now
Is take these lies and make them true somehow
All we have to see
Is that I don't belong to you
And you don't belong to me
Freedom
You've gotta give for what you take
Freedom
You've gotta give for what you take

Well it looks like the road to heaven
But it feels like the road to hell
When I knew which side my bread was buttered
I took the knife as well
Posing for another picture
Everybody's got to sell
But when you shake your ass
They notice fast
And some mistakes were built to last

That's what you get

I say that's what you get

That's what you get for changing your mind

And after all this time
I just hope you understand
Sometimes the clothes
Do not make the man

I'll hold on to my freedom
May not be what you want from me
Just the way it's got to be
Lose the face now
I've got to live



Freedom '90 by George Michael, Listen Without Prejudice

The Return of the Club Kid, Transmogrified, 01-27-2006 at 01:41 AM

After being rendered inutile by the rough and tumble of the last few months, with its cosmic and physical shifts, plus the toils of  the everyday, for which I considered myself blessed to have survived through with most of my dignity and my ideals still intact, I was  percolating to  give my karma a major revamp. Or perhaps on some plain my  karma didn't  need the makeover. I just needed to rev it up by taking back something I've never really taken full possession of for a hefty while-- ME.

   So with a chunk of a year's worth of my life still in boxes- feng shui crammed into my hapless new closet, I set to make a vortex of nothing but good vibrations. The warzone that is called Transplant as always, has been my biggest, most unexpected solace from the chaos outside the ultramodern atriums of UMMC. Making like a character of Gray's Anatomy or ER is not difficult for the ample supply of young georgous specimens in scrubs. And the affection of friends, friends, friends coming out of the woodwork of the unit who call me their girl, their crazy girl but nevertheless their girl- their comrade-in-arms. In relation to that, but more importantly, to finally start feeling that I have gradually earned the respect of my colleagues and the doctors; to be made to feel that my opinion matters; to take part in some difficult yet important undertaking and actually contribute; to take pride out of one's work; AND for the longest time in this friggin' awful year, to finally start believing in myself. What a motherfuckin' year it has been!

You know what they say about all work no play. Determined not to crash and burn, my dear friend ZR, along with her son, and husband make our way to Towson. It wasn't exactly a beeline 'cause I went into the wrong exit at first but with brand spanking new bumpers for the new year, me and my car Ashe (my pet name for my Civic, as in Corbin of The Crow II and most times as in Kutcher 'cause who wouldn't want to ride him? Anyway,) managed to find our way after 14mile or so. ZR and I head straight to the salon and call for what is to me a leap of faith.

 
 

A dear friend once implored to me not to transmogrify my trademark long locks into J.Lo lightness fearing perhaps that the chemicals would affect my gray matter as bouncy hair is directly related to brain damage (borrowing from Daria). Long story short, I lopped it off and YES my dearest Shivaun, dyed it blonde. HAH!


 

Psyche. Nah, it's not that short but it's a long way from the small of my back. I just got sick of the length, the combing, the detangling, the me-love-you-long-time vibe long asian hair inadvertently puts across. It's back to some Angela Chase-like lenghts but retained some hippie-ish layers and rock n' roll shag. It's just highlights but it's the color of my gypsy tendencies and the call of the surfs of Bali and the all of the world's white sand beaches. It's just hair and it'll grow back but for now, shit! I FEEL DAMN GOOD!

So with my new locks, I marched off with my friend ZZ into the the chill Baltimore night to Ram's Head Live at the Powerplant in Market Street, to watch Have a Nice Gig, a battle of top local bands to be Bon Jovi's front act for their D.C. concert. THIS was upon invite of one by one of the bands, Fools and Horses. YES BITCHES, an invite. Dressed like a bar room wench/ dominatrix/Nebucchadnezar spy/supernerd in my black corset top and long black trench coat, ZZ and I weave our way past the college kids, the bands' moms (and some grandfathers) and their bourgoening hardcore fans dressed in allegiance to their camps, to the bar. Like a good designated chick driver I ordered non-alcoholic beers (bummer). We just people watched from our seats from the bar. ZZ points out that we just might be the only ones who do not have the words, school night and curfew floating over our heads.

I ponder for a moment, wether I am getting old for this, but then I have partied with models, superstars, celebs, MTV VJ's and drag queens in clubs, ballrooms, a chinese junk and the ubiquitous pinoy birthday parties, raved in the floors that have vibrated to the Chemical Brothers and Moby while UK undergrounders The Dub Pistols played. I have been a band's muse for the night at the Hard Rock Cafe as the whole establishment sang to me, Happy Birthday on my 24th. I have been to my first big rock concert, a girl alone armed only with her Pentax, sang Happy Birthday en masse to the lead guitars and waited at the backdoor as the band toasted us from the windows, only to find out a few month later Richard, the lead guitarist/prodigy had a nervous breakdown after we helped usher him into being 21 (not our fault, of course). All that, with the pictures to prove it, and I still excell in holding my liquor with minimum hangovers and nil morning-after nor nine-months-after regrets.

Feeling so wussified from all that non-alcohol, I managed to swindle from ZZ some of his real booze, then coolly shrugged off the early stages of a come-on from a jock in the intermediate stages of being shit-faced drunk. I was starting to be in my element.

My band played last. By that time, we were already perched on top of what I surmised as the VIP ledge. YES BITCHES, the VIP ledge. And by then I was already banging my head. Fools and Horses sounded like pros- surprising for a band so young and SOO easy to look at. There is already a certain intelligence to their catchy lyrics, a wink-wink humor to their act, and a polish and for every hook, riff, Converse stomp, and primal falsetto, an ease to their sound and its layers as they tip their tousled hair to every great rock 'n roll tradition that sublimely formed them . And did I mention they're all HOT? Plus,their bassist Kent has the most perfect blond bob I had ever seen on both man and woman.

Of course, they won hands down. I know my bands. And a good one if I hear them, BITCHES.

I came into Ram's Head, as the band had put it, their "newly befriended friend" and came out a fan. For fuck's sake you are never to old to rock 'n roll!!

Breathing in the 20-degree F air, we both realized we were hungry. We ducked into McDonald's like any self respecting club denizen. As I and ZZ, wolf our Spicy Chicken Sandwiches, we lay witness to the sight of underaged girls in flimsy embellished cotton-polyyester halters and gauchos risking frostbite and pneumonia to impress boys who don't know any better.

One blond girl puked her liquor and what-not through chattering teeth as her equally blond friends held her hair back. They ducked into McDo as well, but earned the ire of the eagle-eyed security guard when they put the vomiting blonde's high heels (her Mom's) on the table.

The cold wind whiffed into McDo as the disparaged blondes went out again to brave the elements. My mind drifted back to the girl who haunted the clubs of Singapore on her first taste of real independence, the same girl who had been sent into hibernation by life's little realities, mundanities, inanities and insanities. "Novices!" I mocked the blondes as ZZ and I laughed quitely . I smiled into my Diet Coke as I heard the voice of my club kid past, whisper "I'm back."