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?

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.