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."