Season's Greetings To Fellow E-heads Everywhere

This was meant to be posted as a comment to my friend, Jean's profile but friendster does not seem to allow embedding from YouTube in their comments boxes anymore. WTF.

Anyways, this band deserves more than and, encompasses any kind of box. They are the best thing that has rocked the swill-fest that is Philippine entertainment. Always the lovable losers with their profound poetry and sublime sound, they have proven that substance and masa market value need not be bleached, Belo-ed and brain-fed by the likes of Fermin and Nay Lolit. Quintessentially Pinoy wether it be with their tanzan collection or their childhood-ingrained allegiance to Star Margarine, their work in music, video and even print proved that to be bakya need not be a total belief in the witticism of Boy Abunda, by incorporating pop culture, philosophy, satire and absurd kanto-boy humor.

They shattered expectations and made one proud to be Pinoy, but were always the odd ones in the Flip showbiz freakshow, which made them even more loved because they were one of us. Not better or larger than life, like an FPJ or Ate Guy. No Cinderella sob stories. No Richard Gomez working at McDo getting discovered. Just four dudes from UP with a penchance for Voltes V, rock music and a point of view.

For a very short span of years (way too short) in the 90's, Pinoys have been given credit for having working brains with countless anthems like Ligaya, Pare Ko, Magasin, Ang Huling El Bimbo, Fruitcake, Wag Mo Nang Itanong, and the massive, With a Smile. A personal favorite is Shake Yer Head. They may have gone their separate ways through the years, but their words and music still remains significant for every long-suffering Pinoy scattered among the continents and perhaps, for non-Flips who've been sucked into our tight circles.

They are in memories of LVN and Sampaguita movies in the afternoons of our childhood. They are in every heartbreakers and campus crush ng bayans we busted our asses making their thesis for. In every rainy afternoon coddled with the one you love be it your honey, your boo-boo or your nephew. In every road trip and food trip you make running away from your problems. In every drunken sessions with the Magic Sing. In every prayer meeting with San Miguel while bonding with friends over isaw. In every balikbayan box opened with glee or with an "Ayoko nito!" They still sound so damn good and that is a sign of f---in' greatness, man!

one big reason why john lennon is a genius and a prophet and why we've barely scratched the surface of his divine brilliance

December is the month of John Lennon's death anniversary. Decades after this song came out, the words & music of this great man has never been more painfully true.

"A very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,

We hope it's a good one..."

Thank you Sir John. So much.

september ends II

THANK YOU, FLEA
Originally uploaded by cjbando

Last September of 2006, I had the two most surreal extremes in one week. On September 23 I got to witness the Chili Peppers and the Who in the first ever US Virgin Fest. On the 24th, I flew to Toronto to watch, along with my sister, my most beloved band in concert on the 25th. The day after, one of the happiest nights of my life became one of the saddest. On September 26 I found out my dear friend, Puppy had passed away in most tragic circumstances.

Finally after a year of respect for the memory of a friend, I have finally had the gall and the time to post that one hot minute of sheer happiness before I come tumbling down into a bawling, mourning heap. This post is a loving tribute to love, to a band I love so much it hurts and to a friend I love like family.

Once upon a time in this girl's life, in a Dragon Mansion in the Spottiswoodes of the Lion City, a Puppy named Maribel sees me off, along with our friend Christine, to my first rock show at the Hard Rock with the best advice for a rock fan ever: bring a handkerchief for an Eraserhead to wipe his sweat with. The hankie is still tucked away in my journal at my childhood bedroom, still permeating with Ely Buendia's cologne. Thank you and I love you, Pup. It still hurts.

reflections on a backwater pearl part 2: Penny Lane likes my country

So there she was, in the midst of Manila's signature smog, looking over the taxi queues and the gladiatorial jeepneys, and the endless throng of people moving through dust, smoke and the garbage punctuating the streets- a smiling, laid-back ideal, all comfy and cozy. Behind her a thunderstorm condenses into a certainty of turning everything below her into muck in a good half hour.

My sister told me Natalie Portman endorsed Ba-yo last year. Either Padme Amidala had gone slumming or was being charitable. 

The clothes are really cute though.

reflections on a backwater pearl part 1, the rants

They may seem rearranged
In the backwater swirling, there is
Something that'll never change.

-Meat Puppets, Backwater, from the album Backwater, 1993.

Upon arrival at the NAIA, I realize, I have boarded a plane (my third in a series of connecting flights) in Nagoya to my final destination, Manila, and stepped out of a time machine.

There are about ten open cubicles at the fully packed Customs. Two are asssigned solely for OFWs and balikbayans. All the rest, including the closed ones are for the Anglos, the Euros, the snotty, noisy fellow Asians and a Midwestern family of Children of the Corn whom I shared a plane with since Detroit. The Flips outnumber the foreigners 5:1.

The average Flip man has no trepidation to openly stare and leer at any exposed female flesh even in the year 2007. The lighter the skin, the more lecherous the overtures.


It is some form of social buttress to rub in the have and have-nots. A freebie Lacoste tote and a hack-job Louis can supersede but easily cower in the face of true substance and character in most concourses.


To quote the great Jessica Zafra, "It is easy to be mistaken for an intellectual in this country." Peppering one's sentences with English words or phrases and random TV trivia is like accesorizing an outfit or brandishing a cell phone.


The horizons of Metro Manila are riddled with billboards of fair-skinned and celebs endorsing skin-whitening products and cosmetic surgery centers, conveying to the ordinary, hardworking joe who aspire for their lives: If you are brown and your features are less than aquiline, you are not good enough.


Beneath these 50-foot images of misled perfection are shanty towns, perpetually constructed roads, decaying structures, the hustling and the hustled jousting for space on streets & in malls and then, there is the world's worst traffic.

In the face of dust and heat and an unfortunate lack of A/C during one's commute, thoughts form that Manila is a hellhole where hellholes come to die.

"Senator, love your suit!!" (written October 28, 2007 BWI pre-departure area)

"Haul his ass back to Baltimore!"-US Senator pertaining to Hannibal Lecter.
I'm loosely quoting from one of my favorite films EVER, Silence of the Lambs, which I managed to catch on the eve of of my departure from Charm City, Murrryland, Home of the Brave. Nothing except for the V-fest could make me prouder for ending up in this tiny historic state. The very words came back and bit me (pun intended) when I was informed my flight yesterday was unceremoniously rescheduled without any due notice from my travel agent. My bony ass was hence hauled back to Baltimore County and I have managed to catch the last few scenes of the Lambs repeat. Yes, that part where Starling found herself in Jamie Gumm's lair. Jodie Foster was just utter perfection in this, combining intelligence prevailing through white trashiness.

The rest of the day, I just drowned my sorrows with the Top Model Marathon and the very hilarious America's Most Smartest Model in either VH1 or MTV (couldn't tell the diff). My trip may had been derailed for a day but my IQ did get a vacation.

Now I'm here in BWI waiting for my flight to Detroit then Nagoya then Manila. After a very short few weeks, I'll be hauling my ass back to share the same air with Hannibal Lecter and Edgar Allan Poe (he's a couple of blocks from where I work. Really). Life is alright as long as you know how to grab it by the face and match it with the right bottle of wine.

Elderly Woman Behind The Counter In A Small Town

Aah, this song, this song. What earthly word of utter love can you use to describe this masterwork by Eddie Vedder? Jesus Himself must have come down and grabbed this man's arm on the night he scribbled this miracle of a song. By God if this ever gets more beautiful one can explode and create a small planet from one's dust. You may not remember exactly when and where you first heard this song, but you know it's always been there. In the warm fuzzies of your soul along with your first Christmas..lullabies in the safe nest of your mom's arms... your grandma's smile...

Been in a download frenzy lately for music from the 90's. Must be the influence of the Pumpkins at the Pimlico... or my usual angst having been propelled time & again into the reality that my choices are rather unusual by suburbia's standards wether pinoy or otherwise..or it may be just another homecoming anxiety. Shite! I'm so excited yet so dread to go home. HOME. Only to say good-bye all over again.

Hope to sing this to Jeremy and Jethro as I rock them to sleep...

i seem to recognize your face
haunting, familiar, yet i can't seem to place it
cannot find the candle of thought to light your name
lifetimes are catching up with me
all these changes taking place, i wish i'd seen the place
but no one's ever taken me
hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away...
hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away...
i swear i recognize your breath
memories like fingerprints are slowly raising
me, you wouldn't recall, for i'm not my former
it's hard when, you're stuck upon the shelf
i changed by not changing at all, small town predicts my fate
perhaps that's what no one wants to see
i just want to scream...hello...
my god its been so long, never dreamed you'd return
but now here you are, and here i am
hearts and thoughts they fade...away...
hearts and thoughts they fade...away...
hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away...
hearts and thoughts they fade away.

-"Elderly Woman Behind The Counter In A SmallTown",
Pearl Jam, Vs.,1991

LET'S PLAY A GAME

Not a Nickelback fan but this video is just too adorable to pass up on. Maybe it's the afterglow of another Virgin summer. Or maybe it's my horoscope. Aw hell, I just love rock 'n roll period.

Anyway, on to the game. How many celebrity cameos can you name in this music video? How many friends, neighbours, and relatives in it can you claim to know? How many cities/places can you recognize here? Participate. participate, participate. Turn up your noses some other time.

I'll give you a free pass. That Nelly Furtado is showing some support for her fellow Canucks, eh? Now I leave the others to you. Enjoy the shallows. The water's fine.

SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A VIRGIN (Year 2): Post-its From Two Days of Crab Cakes, Southern Comfort, and Rock Fests

Amidst the 100-degree heat, losing the Anne twins to the half-naked sunburnt throng in between acts, Wu-Tang and Velvet Revolver; the dust clouds of All-American red dirt; my trampled trusty Ikea mat that has managed to remain pristine after last year's fest; stark tanlines left by my torqouise hommage bra to Amy Winehouse; the Southern Hurricanes rendered watery by the heat and popularity; being shaded by a Walmart-bought Rolling Stones towel; snuggled, comfy, and in raptures wrapped in a recyclable garbage bag watching Pumpkins; picking empty bottles of water to earn the protection of that garbage bag from a summer storm; coming close to a public orgasm at the sight of Sting mouthing Don't Stand So Close To Me; hearing an incredulous "Mmm-hmmm," from a Pimlico gate mama jaded by years of Preaknesses, when I pointed out that the dainty tin of lavender-chamomile tea inside my backpack is INDEED lavender-chamomile tea (she let me through anyway); warding off advances from Hollister-clad jailbaits (just a couple) and; catching the eye of a rebel billionaire causing a huffed moment of panic and mental blabberings about fears of being a querida, nunhood and breaking my father's heart, I've said this before and I say this again and to infinitude (pause for breath): VIRGIN FESTIVAL 2007 WAS A MOTHERFRIGGIN' BLAST!!!!!!! The proof is in the crab cakes.

Click here for more, more, more, more, more, more, and more.

To the twins Lou-lou and Row-row thank you for sharing this year's bacchanalia with me. What a summer! Mini-me, shove your Incubus pics up your ex's arse. Lou, thank-you barely encompasses my gratitude for your selfless persuasive talents over pimp-daddy, Beckham-wannabe trash-collector guy. Here's to looking forward to next year.

I'm saving my grungy Ikea mat and the garbage bag for next year.

of homecomings, random anxiety & mad men

Just my luck to happen into an AMC marathon for Mad Men. It has had a slew of good reviews for its spot-on depiction of the corporate world in the early 60s on the cusp of the Beatles, the sexual revolution, women's lib, and the surgeon general. Back then, Dylan was just another beatnik unknown from Minneapolis yet to sing his way to the Gaslight. America was still replete of poodle skirts, segregation, picket fences and girdles. It was an era where career women are secretaries and called dollfaces to impunity. The men stared at you until they have their fill as if sexual harassment never existed because it didn't. When the new girl Peggy revealed insight reputedly uncharacteristic of her gender, it's likened to witnessing "a dog playing the piano".

The blogs have been buzzing about it but I don't find it it that shocking at all although I like it. Maybe it's just me or I just find the supposedly period & surreal scenes all too eeriely familiar. That life, glimpses of it, is just a 20+-hour plane ride away or in the next pinoy party...

Shudder.

2Pac reconnection

Once again in an insomniac state and glued to VH1, I come across the Rock Doc, Tupac Resurrection.

Back in the day, I had gotten wind of Tupac Shakur through a TV feature on Poetic Justice, some US Billboard video show or, a some sneak peek show on movies showing in the States that would likely end up in either limited distribution in my shores or, straight to pirated VHS or Betamax after losing out to Sharon Cuneta commerce. Some time later I found out through my aunt's padala of People Magazine, his performance was better-received by critics than Janet Jackson's debut, and I gathered that he was also a rapper and a post-Rodney King era icon.

Now, I do not claim to be well-versed with his discography. The only song of his that I am truly familiar with and, happens to be a favorite, is California Love which I first heard though Rick Dees Weekly Top 40. Very edgy.

The cool kids of La Salle talked about him on rotation along with all the other MTV idols of that era because they can afford cable TV. I could only get to watch cable then while waiting for my take-out of inasal chitlins (bul-o & tina-e) and 2-peso serving of rice at Nonoy's Barbecue outside the old Era Theater. I did sense he was a figure of reckoning, spinning out of control towards immortality, a fact that escaped most of the Giordano-clad whose hero-worship of him and of Vedder, Cobain et. al. were wielded like Benetton bags. Along with irony.

I learned he spent a good part of his childhood in Baltimore and was classmates with Jada Pinkett in a local performing arts school. He thought Madonna was a nice person and so was Tony Danza. Janet Jackson's people asked him to get an AIDS test before a big love scene. He liked Don Mclean. Like any self-respecting art-school geek, he read Shakespeare. The late Gene Siskel was a fan of his.

As I was choosing a picture for this blog, I could not help but choose the image above though, I was spoiled with choices of him shirtless, ripped, and in deep thought. I'd seen it before maybe from People (of course) and it stayed in my psyche. He just seemed so calm here yet his eyes look like he was about to explode and not to mention, so young.

The documentary, featured him as how both his adoring and detractors remember him. Young, charismatic, arrogant, volatile and fiercely beautiful. His ideals, his passion, his liasons, his rawest emotion, were not merely worn on his sleeve. It was tattooed, pierced and cocked like a loaded gun. Like every cursed and tragic spokesperson of a generation, he shall never grow old--an heirloom of youthful rebellion to be passed on to the next in line. Hard to imagine him beyond 25. No great comebacks. No tour de force at Madison Square. No Oscars. No T-Mobile endorsements. No collaborations with 50 or Kanye or JT. No Live-Aid reconciliations with the former Puff Daddy and and Biggie. Even turning 30 or 40. 

He shall and always will be Tupac.

For my friend Shivaun.

GO, GO, GO....PLEASE!!!

VERY worrying news of late about the incomparable Amy Winehouse.

Amy, you may not know me or any of the numerous nameless who are in awe of your gifts but are pulling for you to live through this hell. You were party to one of the most singularly felicitous hour of my life when you performed at the V-fest at the Pimlico as you have been to thousands of others that hot memorable summer day. There is no doubt to your brilliance and we are all praying for your spirit to get past your delicate heart’s failings.

Please hang around with your anonymous adoring longer not for our own happiness but for your own good. Take care of yourself, love. Help yourself.

TELL ME SOMETHING I DON'T KNOW

Browsing my Friendster bulletins, I saw this post by my mini-me Row-row which filled me both with self-pride and contemplation. Hmmm, turns out everything I need to know about the boy-meets-girl world I've learned through Samantha Jones and co. all in the comforts of my bedroom nestled with my cat, Rodman, a good book, and a cable connection. So it is on to the next rock fest for me rather than playing the field. Or getting played.

FEELS SO BITCHIN' TO BE RIGHT.

Lessons that must be Learned in Relationships

1. If a man wants you, nothing can keep him away. If he doesn't want you, nothing can make him stay.

2. Stop making excuses for a man and his behavior.

3. If you have any doubt in your mind about a man's character, leave him alone.

4. Allow your intuition (or spirit) to save you from heartache.

5. Stop trying to change your self for a relationship that's not meant to be.

6. Don't force an attraction.

7. Slower is better.

8. Never live your life for a man before you find what makes you truly happy.

9. If a relationship ends because the man was not treating you as you deserve then heck no you CAN'T "be friend". A friend wouldn't mistreat a friend.

10.Have Faith in GOD regarding your relationship, but don't let faith make you stupid. God does things decent and in order.


11. DON'T SETTLE.

12. If you feel like he is stringing you along, then he probably is.

13. If he keeps changing his mind about the relationship-- take that as a BIG sign that he is unstable. Do you really want to be with a man like that?

14. Don't stay because you think "it will get better". You'll be mad at yourself a year later for staying when things are not better.

15.Honorable men take care of their business and aren't involved in a whole lot of mess.

16. The only person you can control in a relationship is YOU.

17. There's only one reason why a man dumps you; he doesn't want you.

18. Avoid a men who've got a bunch of children by a bunch of different women. He didn't marry them when he got them pregnant, why would he treat you differently?

19. You really have to kiss a few frogs before finding the prince.

20. Always put yourself and your happiness first.


21. Always have your own set of friends separate from his.

22. Maintain boundaries in how a guy treats you. If something bothers you, speak up.

23. Like from the Sex and the City, if he doesn't call he just isn't that interested.

24. Be honest and upfront.

25. Know when to cut the cord, don't be strung along.

26. Don't fall for the "I'm confused role".Remove yourself from the situation to let him figure things out (but don't wait for him, move on).

27. If you want to have a clue as to how he will treat you, watch how he treats the WOMEN in his family (not just mom).

28. There's more than physical abuse,
there's emotional,
and mental abuse. If he causes any
of them.... flee.

29. You cannot change a man's behaviors.
Change comes from within

30. Don't let him place rules on you that he is not willing to follow himself.---- double-standard.

31. Don't EVER make him feel he is more important than you are.... even if he has more education or in a better job.

32. Do not make him into a quasi-God. He is a man, nothing more nothing less.

33. Demand respect and if he can't give it, he can't have you.

34. Don't compete with other woman, but be aware that men are attracted to what they see.

35. If you think he is cheating, then he probably is. Confront right away and if you feel he's lying
let him go.

36. Actions speak louder than words.

37. Never let a man define who you are.

38. Never rely on a man for compliments, look to yourself for that.

39. Never borrow someone else's man.

40. If he cheated with you, he'll cheat on you.

41. Just because he says he loves you, doesn't mean that he won't hurt you and it doesn't mean that you are meant to be with him.

42. To use the painful hard-won wisdom --
"get it right" the next time.

43. Know that you deserve to be the number one person in the life of the #1 person in your
life.

44. Love is a verb...

45. Learn to give up your life long task of trying to make someone unavailable-available, someone ungiving-giving, and someone unloving-loving.

46. A man will only treat you the way you ALLOW him to treat you.

I'M SO GONNA HAVE STING'S BABIES

Hello Beasties. Hello Wino. Hello Pumpkins. Hello Wu-Tang. Hello Slash & Scott. Hello Brendan Boyd. Hello Future Gordon Sumner offsprings.

It's that time of year again. It's the VIRGIN MOBILE FESTIVAL 20FUCKIN'-07!!!!!

Wino please don't cancel.

Sting my eggs are are ready.

MY, HAVE YOU GROWN!

Credit it to my advancing years and chronobiology. I am gradually becoming, albeit a wanna-be, Samantha Jones. In less flattering terms a cougar or in Badafski terms, a matrona.

No need to page Doctor Freud. I ate a producer's combo hotdog in the first ten minutes of the new Harry Potter while contemplating the bourgeoning V-shape of Daniel Radcliffe's chest among others (remembering the photos for his play Equus). He had also just turned legal. Oi.

Speaking of hot nerds, that Ron Weasly ain't too shabby either. Would it be incorrect to call him a ginger? How about firecrotch, both of them? Glad, they are both not a fake shade of orange. Embrace that English pallor, governor.

Must be that nippy UK air or default Old Worldliness but I don't seem to find the teens of Hogwarts walking Hollister cliche`s. Perhaps it is osmosis from rubbing thespic elbows with a World Cup-worthy dream team of Brit actors, Ralphe Fiennes, Gary Oldman, Helena Bonham-Carter, David Thewlis, Maggie Smith and Emma Thompson (who is btw underused in this installment and oooh! she & Bonham-Carter, interestingly shared no screentime. CATFIGHT!). Thank your leprechauns London is too cold to have a The Ivy. Or maybe I just not to brush up on my British OK!

Anyway, despite this being deemed the darkest Potter so far in the film series, I find it by far the most enjoyable. The young actors, specially Radcliffe, have grown into their characters so much you actually feel for them and for their journey rather than root for them cause it's cool to read Rowling (puh-leaze).

No disrespect to Lady J.K. I do not own a single Potter book. Perhaps I will one day and I'll read it along with my nephews who already have a religously collected series courtesy of their Aunt Rachel. Probably after everyone else has ceased weilding it like an It bag. In their grungy heights, I did not own a single Pearl Jam record which doesn't mean I loved them any less. So no need to lemming. I already love books.

Angst is rife without being too emo. The head piece on Potter's hoodie remains unmast even in the whitest winter and wizard blizzard. Not even when he is sold out by his girlfriend, played by an actress who is thankfully not Heart Evangelista. And when he breaks down over a tragic loss, you know that Radcliffe has done his homework.

Perhaps it's the theme of belonging and loss that has bought me into this series specially of late having brushed oh-so closely with it in the past few years. Growing pains are a bitch and inevitable as the human condition. Magic or muggle, we all need to belong. We just need to look back, sift through the excruciating details of the struggle and realize we are nevertheless still fortunate.








P.S. Hang on to your balls Potter....


This post is dedicated to my friend, Shivaun. When there's one set of footprints in the sand... you know why. Stay strong.

welcome back, nonie horowitz

Relative to the drunk driving, vehicular manslaughter, drug possesion, spa rehab, and questionable parenting somehow yoinking over-priced sweatshop products from stores for the hoity-toity seem well, boarding school. Somehow the oxycodone mind-freak angle is hard to buy. My work world has not made me a stranger to glazed rationalization. Despite the bitchy comments in the blogworld you shall always be to the common X-er a mere mortal who ascended from pubescent geekdom, androgyny and white bread mediocrity to become hipster poster child deity by apologetic good looks, intellectualism and sheer talent. Who cares if you have slept with 90% of the indie-rock cocks between you and Courtney Love. You have parlayed your cooch in more appropriate venues which is behind closed doors and underwear. You did it cause you like Wilco and you know what a Wilco is. To us you shall always be our beatnik bibliophile, our old- soul fashionista, our vulnerable gamine, the Heather we prefer to reign over us-- our Nonie. Welcome back. Stay sane. Don't blow it this time, hon.
This post is dedicated to my friend, Shivaun. When there's one set of footprints in the sand... you know why. Stay strong.

Ladies and Gents, Introducing...

The titans of music periodicals are--to paraphrase Lester Bangs in Almost Famous pertaining to Jann Wenner-- "wetting themselves" over the first mythic rock prodigy in a decade and it's a woman. Out of the manufactured dung heap of the Britneys, the Simpson sisters, Timberlake and even Lily Allen comes this diamond in a glass of Tanqueray on the rocks, aptly named Amy Winehouse. Rolling Stone beats to the punch putting her on their June cover while Spin features her on their July issue.

Already a star and tabloid darling in her native UK, Europe, Canada and in the I-Pods of musicphiles in the US, the rest of Walmart and Abercrombie America and the Mayer-Blunt listening world has yet to catch up. Her music is a loving nod to every great tradition of music-as-a-rebellion from Frank Sinatra to Snoop Dogg, from The Ronettes and The Supremes to Otis and Marvin to Wu-Tang. Her pipes evoke every great voice that has enthralled and reveberated through the generation from scratchy vinyl to downloads and is not Celine Dion or Mimi and their ilk. Sara Vaughn. Nina Simone. Ella Fitzgerald. Billie Eartha. Martha. Aretha.Janis. Joni. Tori. Lauren Hill. Amy Winehouse. Her lyrics are equal parts raw confessional like Vedder in Ten and equal parts reverential to her idols (Ray Charles and Donny Hathaway) and her addictions reminiscent of Joplin and her Southern Comfort.

Her growing contingency of the adoring wax poetic of her and her songs as if to immortalize her. In the Google era that has seen many VH1 Behind the Music specials and Rollingstone's anniversary issues, they all too knowingly fear for the eventual fates of the gifted, tortured and famous. Perhaps it's because her life mirrors all those before her--working-middle class roots, divorced parents, musical home, teenage outsider, art school drop out. She is some part us. She is all of us magnified in a very skinny Jewish girl from north London. Ah, and her loves or love. In rock 'n roll, the word is both muse and torturer. Sid and Nancy. Cobain and Love. Us, the rapt bystanders of the tabloid world ask in bated breath, is she the next exponent to a self-destructing equation? She is most recently married to Blake Fielder-Civil, the man who inspired, for the lack of a better word, her to write her second album Back to Black.

I have to thank my Torontonite sister for introducing me to her, the treasure trove that is YouTube and yes some good thing do come out it sometimes, Perez Hilton. The Rolling Stone issue is out now. For instant gratification, click here or log on to her website: www.amywinehouse.co.uk.

I've chosen to feature the eponymous song from Back to Black though I have been racked with choices, truly. It starts out like the eerie beginnings of The Supremes' Baby Love. Ironic at first but given a glimpse of her relationship with Fielder-Civil, a portent? So here she is, slathered in Stella Artois, sprinkled with blow, more raw than sushi in wasabi. Get intoxicated by the Amy Winehouse train and be addicted.


And she is only 23 years old.

Dearest Shivaun,

REM. Michael Stipes.

Love always,

Your Friend,

Joy

malaise ballet

I am spending a belated lazy sunday on a Tuesday. Worked last weekend and I'm still recovering. Trying not to think of the probable new crop of veins that might have popped out from the ordeal. My legs have always been a battlefield, a metaphor for my self-esteem. Shallow but true. Come so close to bitch-slapping the cripple in 60 who kind of reminds me of FPJ's "berdugos" in the movies of my childhood. Eke kindness and they pounce on it like vermin on cheese and cling like annelids sucking out every ounce of energy, compassion and sympathy. I'm not being charitable. I'm venting. Nobody appreciates manipulation belying their amiable and idealistic demeanour. Do not insult my intelligence. Oh how I need TEDS! The ages are a-calling.

I should be out watching Knocked Up and Waitress. I'm a prequel to a Judd Apatow flick. Watching movies alone has become a ritual indulgence. I cannot stand talking during movies specially clueless, erroneous blow-by-blows, sorry says the geeky snob. Excruciating. Rather be alone. Never been a big Felicity fan but my friends/Dragon Manse family are. I cannot look at Keri Russel without remembering Puppy. Sigh. Have to find time to hit the UK. Miss all of them. They know who they are.

In one of those days again. I quitely hate that raving brat who's eating my grapes and wiped my emergency yoghourt smoothies. Shut the fuck up retard or I'll lace your milk with Ritalin! Will be ok by moon shift. Right now I cannot stand you. And stop meddling with my bookshelves! I'm so not maternal. Have to find my own place. I'm so un-domesticated. Suburbia sucks. Wal-marts are evil. My writers desk has become a receptacle for dollar store giveaways and plastic forks. One day. One day I shall truly relish my gypsy ways. Practicality blows. Have to find my DVR remote. I miss my Conan, even E! Thank God Grey's and Heroes seasons are over. Now only down to Entourage. Yummy Adrian Grenier.

Thank god my wireless connection is not on the fucks. Internet radio is wondrous. Have jumped from San Francisco, to Seattle, to Edinburgh, to Nederlands. Beatles music, to grunge, to Jazz (but too many saxophones, yuk), to indies and college radio. Is Morrisey gay or just in touch with the feminine side? Listened to Irish Blood, English Heart. Wonder if he would ever be invited for scones and Earl Grey at Windsor or Kensington.

Maybe should while away with blogs and neuroni-cide. There's champagne left from my nth godson's baptism in the fridge. A barter for yoghourt smoothies.

THE HORROR, THE HORROR

Thanks to my sister, the ad and blog whiz for bringing this to my attention. I am just a mere music fan-just another nameless fanatic in a stadium filled with my ilk, a pedestrian engrossed in her own little earbud world, a face in a car among America's many listening to the music of her liking while in traffic, a mere digit in the record company's demographic. I may be minuscule but I take great pains in respecting the individuals who leave me in awe when they transmogrify theirs and life's innards into music. I cringe when I hear bastardized versions of "Hey Jude" in elevators and in hackneyed renditions from best-of medley albums and noon-time variety shows. My music is a personal thing, a statement, a credo.
The people who make them are my idols, my heroes, my loves and my cautionary tales. As love goes as love does, I am protective of their art, their legacy, their memory, of them. I certainly do not wish to get them fucked in the ass from their graves by pretentious yuppie scum. Which is what the ad monster, Saatchi and Saatchi have done with the images of these four grand gentlemen of rock. Although they have fired the offending agency, for Doc Martens to have approved this to run in the first place behooves me. Perhaps the memory of those trademark steel toes digging into the sides of Jewish youth while being worn by Neo Nazi's singing "Oi! Oi! Oi!" does not suffice? Nothing like the pock mark of controversy to Lohan-in pop culture attention. To emphasize the durability of the product my arse. I'm from an inconsequential small town from the third world and I know all about the iconical Docs. I do not need to have this abomination rubbed in for good measure, thank you.
Finally, for a generation who still has not gotten over the loss of Kurt Cobain and may never will.... what can one say?
The legacy of these gentlemen is always there. For those of us left behind, we live on and live through. And hope people like Kurt can finally find the peace they have not quite found in this world.
Rest in Peace, Gentlemen. DIE YUPPIE SCUM.


Link

SAVE A HORSE RIDE A VIRGIN: MORE post-its from the fest (RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS)

"They don't know what it's like to love some silly little piece of music or some band SO much, that it hurts." --Sapphira the Band-Aid (Fairuza Balk), Almost Famous.



A few years ago, in another world, for the first time in my life, guilt-filled and choked up, I begged my dad to succomb to a rare ostentatious frivolity. Until that time I had never cooed, cajoled nor manipulated my parental units into spending beyond their means for my sake despite my reputation as the spoiled youngest. Needless to say it was to no avail. Ironically it was one of the most emotional moments between me and my father. With my mom away in Cebu to tend to my sister and her new-born, it was just me and him talking quietly in our living room, the tv off, my tearful sobs and my dad’s heart breaking as he comforted a pained offspring. I had begged him to ask his sister, my aunt, for a loan to finance a trip back to Singapore to watch the Chili Peppers in concert, a whim, with our finances, not too far-fetched but nevertheless, a whim. My sister just gave birth; my grandmother was of ailing health and; I, the nurse in the family, was practically jobless and awaiting my fate to go to the land of oppurtunity. A whim.

So I waited and languished a few years more for my rock ‘n roll dream to reach fruition. On September 23, 2006, that dream came true ten times over: at the first ever Virgin Fest in the US at the Pimlico Racetrack. A spit-throw away from my rented enclave and a literal part of my route to and from work, one could imagine the screaming thrill of seeing the gradual rise of the main stage before my eyes while I drove by, as the THE date drew closer.


On the day itself, I restrained myself from imbibing too much alcohol for I had wanted to savor every moment unsmashed. When the beginnings of "Can't Stop" emanated through the cool Baltimore air, what else could a girl do but go ape shit?

The rest of this blog is going to be mostly clips from the fest courtesy of fellow V-festers in You Tube. Words cannot even begin to describe...


The moment John started singing this, my knees buckled and I crashed on my friend Amy's shoulders sobbing uncontrollably as echoes of every dream I had ever had finally lead me to this night.


Dani California. This was exactly how I pictured this song played live in my head.


The encore. My anthem. And as Flea walked off the stage on his head with his hands, I thought, "It is indeed much sweeter, Tay. SO much sweeter."

tooclosetomoi-phobia

My idol, mother-figure, transcendant super mega nurse aptly named Divine lets it out in one of our extended sublime conversations at the UMMC lobby that a McDreamy I carry a torch for likes me. She also lets it slip quoting him, "J__ is not that good-looking but I've seen her dress up once and she looks good". This comes from a man who just broke up from a long-term relationship with an equally exotic Meredith Grey.

Ah, the delight of being in the consolation box. I am not blessed with the earth-shattering physical perfection of Giselle Bundchen or Adriana Lima. Nor am I blessed with the sharp wit of Dorothy Parker or Jessica Zafra. My confidence naught that of a Paltrow nor am I of atrociuos moolah on par with a Hilton. I do not have the wardrobe and bank account of an Olsen. I do not have the fierce edgy animal appeal of a Jolie to match my fierce independence and my ideals. I am smack dab in the middle teethering between borderline gorgeous and not-so depending on yes, the (kindness of the) eye of the beholder. I am some kind of a complete package or often times a will-do burger-and-fries combo.

I have learned to be comfortably ensconced in my little nook. I never wish to be someone's consolation prize nor be one's trophy. I rather be in my little corner carving my own place in the world and decorate it with Ikea furniture, middle finger up in the air for a world who pooh-pooh on how I run my Guggenheim.

Intimacy issues? Claustrophobia? I rather attribute it to... I don't know, a love of boots?

Then, Thanatos

I found a two-inch lump two finger breadths below my left breast. That was of all times, last December-- birthmonth, Yuletide and all. Being of Samurai stock I just festered in my neurosis and delayed the reality of a doctor's appointment which I had managed to dodge for the past two years or so in the land of Westerns. I droned through work and rapid eye movement and in the quite of my half-waking hours I obsessed over the disturbing piece of bulging flesh.

To those whom I had allowed to glimpse my proverbial innards, I had never truly been Little Miss Sunshine. The name I go by could be at most times well, ironic. The Miss Grade One always had an epic battle with the Goth Girl on a monthly basis. I was the Cheerleader with the wooden stake and the medieval arsenal and had always preferred myself to be. To the chagrin of my favorite writer friend (my ONLY writer friend), Shivaun, I aligned with Team Jolie.

My favorite pieces of lit were by Neil Gaiman's Death: The High Cost of Living and Piers "there's no such thing as a writer's block" Anthony's On A Pale Horse from The Incarnations of Immortality series.

There was a time I would practice signing my name as Mrs. Eric Draven or Mrs. Ashe Corbin.

At certain phases of the moon I play Black Hole Sun and ovulate to Chris Cornell in Burden In My Hand over and over and over and over and ad infinitum.

When you're faced by the infallibility of one's mortality wether it's of the people you love or yours, there's no better spark to light the fuse that sends a whistle bomb into a tailspin of a downward spiral (that's about five cliches right there btw). I embodied that whistle bomb very well: the mental screams of why me, the planning of my own funeral, the incapacitaing fear of just losing one's dignity and being a burden. And yes, there's the question, "Who's gonna take care of my family?"

Suddenly, death itself seems easier but the ones that you leave behind becomes the shittiest aspect of it all.

You know you need to get a life when the people you work with in 12-hour shifts three to four time a week are the people you share a life and death crisis with BUT you know you have snapples from the Man Upstairs when the very same people rally to pray for you and then kick your ass to a clinic to have your neoplasm probed and ruled out. My friend the Mickster forces herself out of bed early in the morning to pull me out of the chaos that is the C8 Gudelsky during shift change and drag me across the street to University Physicians. A friend in need indeed. Thank you doesn't even begin to encompass it, Mickey.

So, as the patient table gets turned on me after ten years of my youth catering to sick people, I fidgetingly await the doctor's verdict as she works through my family history and palpate me agonizingly.

As I step out onto the waiting area where Mickey sat anxiously, "Which one is not lethal lymphoma or lipoma?" I ask not caring about sounding stupid granting I should know the difference between the two.

"Please lang Juy-juy LIPOma hindi LYMPHOma. Don't confuse the two ha? Makurot kita sa singit!" scolds the Mickster as we walk down Paca St., just before we go our separate ways, just before I give her a HUG while mulling over what has happened. In hindsight, one may come out like an overaged drama queen but despite black days and morbid ideations one can be surrounded by angels.

SAVE A HORSE RIDE A VIRGIN: MORE post-its from the fest (THE WHO)

(click for larger image, photo taken by Mikael Vojinovic for www.virginfest.com)

A portly, rubicund older man in a pleasant state of innebriation sits with his friends in front of my and Amy's spot which has remained unclaimed after our bathroom break during The Killers. As I started to lay my trusty Ikea mat he turns away from his dissertation about the kids today having no idea about the next act, to remark on how I came prepared.

He says, "Do you know which of the band is going on next?"

"The Who?" I say as he searches my expression for a second. I laugh as I catch up on to the joke.

"You're the first one all day who got it. Tried it on of those kids over there. They just looked at me like I was crazy."

The Who comes on playing I Can't Explain and from everyone's reaction I realize the definition of APE SHIT. There is just something overwhelming about seeing Pete Townshend doing the windmill several feet away in real life being magnified ten times twice on the two jumbotrons against a backdrop montage of the band young and hungry in the era that spawned them and a revolution.

The iconic strains of Baba O'Riley emanate the fading summer air of September amidst the cheers of the kids of the Baby Boom and their kids of the alphabet generation, the X, Y, & Zs and some of their kids of a generation that has yet to find itself a name or alphanumeric.

My friend Amy turns to me and says, "Thank you so much for asking me to come. Seriously, thank you."

As the music pauses for the chorus, three generations or so sing the immortal words en masse:

Teenage wasteland
It's only teenage wasteland
Teenage wasteland
Oh, oh
Teenage wasteland
They're all wasted!

My life within a span of a few lines, seems to suddenly make sense.



As the night gets deeper, faces in the crowd turn into silhuoettes against a bright rock stage. A hammered young man of my generation howls happy expletives to his friend and spilling some of his bear while at it, "Dude, I've fuckin' seen the fuckin' Who live man. I can fuckin' die happy!!"

I smile and look forward to seeing the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Life is beautiful.

everything but this girl

After spending some quality time with my eldest sib Rachel and her cat, Jacob in Toronto, I've gotten to rediscover this gem of a duo that comprised of Ben Watts and vocalist Tracy Thorne whom I've taken a liking to way back as a small town high school girl in the sugar bowl of course through my urbanite La Salle university-going sisters. As soon as I have my new baby, my beloved i-Pod, I've lost no time downloading their late-90s album Walking Wounded, one of the decade's essential albums and classiest example of pop music natural selection unbeknownst to the rest of the world that have bought into Britney being that innocent.

Two tracks stand out and are stuck in my head like recurring dreams as I teether between defiance and melancholia. I guess it's the memory of the local boy who casually lets out he cares for me like a sister. It's the memory of a surgeon boy in Indiana who broke my heart in quiet. It's my fixation for incendiary guitars and Jesus-men. It's the conscious choice of being enamoured from afar. I have painstakingly worked on going it alone. I revel in my independence as I face the monkey's paws of my freedom.

I've lately gone to thinking that there could be some divine reason for it all and for all the little signs along the the way that has lead to the now and is pointing me ultimately to my future. It fills me with nervous energy as much as of excitement and with a sense clarity and peace I have not felt before. It is scary. It feels right.

It could be just another existentialist crisis with a soundtrack, BUT how come I almost wish it's not? Still I'm a believer of the universe unfolding as it is. I still have years to mull about it and more mysterious ways from the cosmos to take into consideration but I can feel it working through me forming me slowly and surely as we speak.

Love is a strange thing.




Artist: Everything But The Girl
Song: The heart remains a child
Album: Walking Wounded


I dreamed about you again last night
You never have the same face twice
but I always know its you and
and you're always looking better than you really do
and you really do.

I walk around the whole next day
feeling like a still have something to say
but I don't know what it is
and I don't know how to reach you even if I did, even if I did.

Do I wanna hear that you forgive me?
Do I wanna hear you're no good without me?
and am I big enough to hear that you never even think about me.
why should you ever think about me?

And I thought that I'd outgrow this kind of thing.
Tell me, aren't we supposed to mature or something.
But I haven't found that yet.
Is this as grown up as we'll ever get?
Maybe this is as good as it gets.

And years may go by.
But I think the heart remains a child.
The mind may grow wise, but the heart just sulks, and it whines,
and remains a child, I think the heart remains a child.
Why don't you love me? Why don't you love me? Why don't you love me?

Artist: Everything But The Girl
Song: Single
Album: Walking Wounded



I called you from the hotel phone
I haven't dialled this code before
I'm sleeping later and waking later
I'm eating less and thinking more
And how am I without you?
Am I more myself or less myself?
I feel younger, louder
Like I don't always connect
Like I don't ever connect

And do you like being single?
Do you want me back?
Do you want me back?
And do I like being single?
Am I coming back?
Am I coming back?

I'll put my suitcase here for now
I'll turn the TV to the bed
But if no one calls and I don't speak all day
Do I disappear?
And look at me without you
I'm quite proud of myself
I feel reckless, clumsy
Like I'm making a mistake
A really big mistake

And do you like being single?
Do you want me back?
Do you want me back?
And do I like being single?
Am I coming back?
Am I coming back?
Do you want me back? (x6)

And now I know
Each time I go
I don't really know
What I'm thinking
And now I know
Each time I go
I don't really know
What I'm thinking of

Do you want me back?