SHE SAW A RAINBOW LAST NIGHT

an imprint, I will blemish on
your lips
iron out the erogenous
with my
signature, dye your woes with loud
syllables
dripping minor-key guarantees
as you moan

your monochrome unmuting its
sad creaking

my bare fingers like a trusty
crowbar will
unhinge intricate details
conspiracies
you choose not to disclose before

to birth
front porch allegories
of how

we created hues in
that TV-lighted room

purrrr me...

poor me...

ANG ALAMAT NG NARSISO

It has been 4 days since I tried this one-cup-of-rice-per-day routine and it seems I am getting used to it. I think the trick is to not really be conscious of the regime. Lourd De Veyra will surely lash against my kind for being “Di Tunay na Lalake” but I own a pink telecaster for god’s sake ( which I lovingly named Areola) so I don’t think I was ever leaning to the macho stereotype.

I also have been walking. The choice to walk home every night can be excruciating when you don’t have anyone to hold hands to, but my trusty Experia has Ben Gibbard’s new album on it so I think I’m alright.

I’m not sure if there will be some kind of effect that will magically turn my limp glands into Popeye muscles but I can always reason out that it is for health reasons – which is a real good reason, by the way.

I need to shed off these extra pounds in my belly because I am starting to look like a human light bulb. The verb Starting is pushing it way too much since this is old news. I just want to feel good about myself for once.

The female of the species torture themselves with over-consumption of food when they feel bad about themselves. What they don’t know is that guys, even if their testosterone-driven brain will never admit it, suffer from the same insecurities. It is another version of survival of the fittest. They want to get ahead of the pack by winning flames and dames, and they resort to aggression and over-consumption of worldly pleasures (sex, alcohol, drugs etc.) when these needs are not met.

Even without this critical analysis over man’s narcissistic tendencies, I don’t think I’ll ever give up drinking. What’s the fun in that? Though I am too open and chatty to ever need some boozing to perk up my nights, it does wonder to social interactions especially for people who are not…well, open and chatty.

I hope to win some damsels in distress soon and maybe the world -- stir some reactions, explore and hopefully, without this flabby suit.

I am drinking tea right now, and thinking of sleeping off lunch time.

ME AND MY DANCE SHTICK

I miss playing dance-y tunes. 4 to the floor beats, pulsating, heart-heavy bass, and funky effect-drenched rhythm guitars adorned with light-saber synthesizers meant to injure your bones by electrifying it with deadly beats. No, I am not talking about the "showband" band kind, dishing out endless EWF covers with a front man resembling a zombie-fied Charice. With all gusto, I will exclaim my allergy to that shtick. This is not your ordinary disco.

2008: Must be the influence of Narda's 2nd incarnation and my love for Yeah Yeah Yeahs that I secretly injected my love for postpunk/dancepunk into my other Bicol band The Doldrums. Fortunately, my band mates were open-minded to the genre and swallowed the pill whole without hesitations. But 2008 is so far away now. I miss playing with those gals (and a guy!). They know how to riot by heart.

Fast forward to present tense:  while I'm listening to The Drums' Portamento and Friendly Fires' Pala here in the office, I can't help but wiggle my butt and sway like a bushy tree (I know that sounds wrong, but all my moves look so damn wrong so that's exactly a very apt metaphor) to the high-mid static of my phone's speakers.

This resulted to me daydreaming of having a band that plays the same shtick. One close call is when Ryan Villena (of Narda/Techy Romantics fame) and Nico Africa (of Narda fame) invited me for a jamming session somewhere in UP village 3 years ago. I was not really close to this guys but it seems they like my singing style, and me – well, let me just say I was flustered from the fact that my idols were inviting me to cook up something with them.

It was a strange set-up. Ryan was in bass, and tinkering with his keys while Nico is adding textures like The Edge learning to do J. Mascis in cocaine, interchanging riffs from his delay-heavy guitar to a reverb-heavy synths (man, I say "heavy" too much). I was asked to just sing along with whatever melody or words come to mind. Not familiar with this rehearsal style, I open up the draft folders of my trusty Nokia 6600 and mumbled words amidst the beautiful mess. I sounded like a pot-bellied Michael Hutchence. And you know what, it worked. Ryan is aiming for that LCD Soundsystem punch and I was heavy on Cut Copy then so our sound was not far-fetched to that dream genre which can allow me to be a swaying bushy tree (see reference meaning on the 1^st paragraph of this blog). We packed up with live recordings recorded in Ryan’s laptop and went home.

Never got to hear those songs again. Techy Romantics got big (and they are one of those bands that need to be experienced live) and everyone got busy with day jobs. So that was the last sighting of the trio.

Going back to the premise at hand: I am very much in love with Your Imaginary Friends (our new songs are awesome!) and a side project Everyday, Airplanes, who’s going to blow everyone’s butt with our own version of indie folk music, is writing more songs (and praying for more gigs), but I hope to find a couple of people to jam with that can do a synth-dance project with me. This was triggered insistently again to my subconscious last last week, upon witnessing how breathtaking the Foster the People guys are in entertaining their crowd and delivering their goods.

Plus, I want to justify my epileptic moves with well-written music. I can sing or play guitar or something whatever. Mark Foster did it. Diego Mapa is killing it. And Ed Macfarlane, no matter how gay those hips are, is a dancing demi-god.

So….know someone?

I DREAMT OF FINALLY TALKING TO YOU

I dreamt of finally talking to you.

your almost-mechanical smile, now hidden in my dying brown wallet
as a pocket-sized artifact,
rippled into a clumsy giggle
against the noise of the morning rush.

I can only hold my breath for too long to savor the echo for breakfast.

"the greatest thing since The Smiths 
and peanut butter", I teased.

I forgot to ask where we are,
if you have found yourself now.

I was not brave enough to bargain 
for answers, but 
restraint is never my strongest suit.

so I stirred my coffee, clanking 
the sides of the cup with my spoon 
nervously hinting that we've ran 
out of sugar this early.

I never really knew how the dream ended
or we,

but I choose not to know now.

HALLOWIENER

My country is never big on Halloween. That’s why I always envy our western counterparts for making a holiday out of a silly costume hullabaloo. A tribute to the dead in the form of scary masks, carved pumpkins and sweet delicacies --what can be more fun than that?

Filipinos are known in the world as sentimental and fun loving, so dismissing this annual event as a waste of time is almost ironic. I admire parties trying to reshape this mentality by holding an annual Halloween event. like the Popshoppe Pre-Halloween party happening this Saturday, October 20. Expect great music and costumes in one night!

It was always an exciting challenge to surprise guests with whatever costume I can come up with and my band Your Imaginary Friends never takes the activity lightly. I realized I have been dressing myself up in all forms and shapes ever since my first October here in Manila.

Last year, Your Imaginary Friends came to the gig as a black metal band (check out the YIF's blog about that interesting night here!). Face make-up, chains and ripped Pulp Summer slam shirt.  And it was the first time I had my hair ironed, giving it the Wowie De Guzman stamp of approval.

nip slip.

For October 2010, I borrowed Eric's construction worker cap and put on a pink jumper that my bro Khalid found in the UKay (I honestly don't know what came to his mind when he bought this). With a moustache worthy of 70’s porno and a double brush of eyeliner, I was set to be part of the Village People : the arab incarnation. Nothing is scarier than that.

This was informal. Did not plan dressing up for the 2009 gig but I was inclined to at least present myself nicely. An office mate had this big circular earring and a souvenir lady Indian turban. That was enough to make me look like drunken Jack Sparrow for a night.

My favorite will always be my pseudo-Britney attire. October 2008. There was a costume party contest in E-Lamp, an English academy for Koreans. I swept the award for best costume (the prize was a measly 300 bucks). I was new in that office then and my office mates were compelled to finish the night with a bang. The company did not sponsored any party so we desperately looked for one. 

That brought us to Embassy (which was packed with night creatures in skimpy scary get-ups) then to this real "halloween" club in Malate. I was questioning the reason for my suffering that night upon witnessing tongue-to-tongue action in flesh in the dance floor between two weiners. It was already dawn when we ended our little celebration with Mcdo breakfast meals in drag, looking drugged somewhere in Ortigas.

Who will I be this year? You have to drop by Route196 this weekend for a peek on the apparition (that's the clue!). HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYONE!!!

MONOCHROME

"your blog is too colorful", a friend told me. 

I replied with a smirk. I honestly don't have any psychoanalytic exposition to justify this subconscious preference. Maybe I like dressing up all my whining with a distinctive flourish. More like a standard Flaming Lips song. Maybe my inner child wants out but it has been poisoned by the likes of German Moreno and Lito Camo that it quivers badly to even announce its existence confidently.

maybe. maybe. uncertainties looming in.

My drummer illustrated a common mistake in graphic design : too much diversity. a plethora of font style and color doesn't necessarily translate as eye-catching or aesthetically beautiful. Instead it can be quite distracting and you don't want that if your purpose is to get your message across.

RATS.

Even with English and Filipino as core subjects since the start of our formal education, people always fail to get their message across. Why is that?

I borrowed (or stole) this book in my office's library 5 years ago about Color Psychology. They included several square papers representing different colors and you have to choose your favorites in order. The book always has a good analysis in figuring out what you are feeling at that very moment. 

If colors will be used as signals for people to know what they are going through, then we won't be needing words. Imagine people scramming away from people wearing black. oh, they already do that to emo and metal kids. poor them. More libel suits on the way. Hooray to the Judicial system.

One day, I'll find a girl with kaleidoscope eyes 
maybe then, words, or even colors wouldn't matter.

maybe. maybe. uncertainties looming in.

But for now, I'll buy a box of crayon and draw a yellow sun.

about that "wallflower"

Finished the book in one sitting.

And I have to say that this is one of the few adaptations that the movie is way better than the book. Let the book club whores bat their eyelashes against this statement but it’s true. High fidelity comes in close second.

It also helps that Stephen Chbosky, the writer  directed the film. He successfully gave us a bird’s eye view of what he was envisioning for the story flow and the buildup of the characters. So you know that those purists don’t have the right to bash how the film is overrated and does not live up to the book because in the first place, you are already arguing with the writer. HE WROTE IT AND GAVE US A PEEK ON THE REAL STORY INSIDE HIS HEAD GODDAMIT.

Then there’s the cast.. What can I say? The actors gave out a believable take on the characters. Especially Ezra Miller. Now they have faces when we think of those letters. And what wonderful faces, I might add.

There were a lot of cut-aways that were done unexpectedly, considering that the book was a collection of letters to Charlie’s imaginary friend. Like the emphasis on the importance of the tunnel song. The movie breathed life to that scene, making it the best symbol of being free…or in Chbosky’s words, infinite. I don't mean that as a bad thing though.

Even those simple scenes where Charlie was introduced to Sam in the football game bleachers. Emma Watson asked Patrick; “Patrick, who’s this?” Not on the book, but perfectly placed. The repetition of that famous quote “we accept the love we think we deserve”  as delivered by Charlie to Sam was not in the book, but was strategically used to show us how Charlie is growing up in his own little way. And how Bill or Mr. Anderson in the movie is influencing/inspiring him (though he was not given enough credit except for that scene).

There’s even that dance where the step-siblings strutted coolly to the tune of Come On Eileen where Patrick/Nothing exclaimed “they’re playing good music!”.  What a welcome addition to let us see the dynamics of their relationship. Extremely close, carefree and discriminating when it comes to taste in music. Hipsters in the making, eh?

One will argue the importance of Charlie’s parents’ upbringing style in the book. Then again, there is a big reason why the writer-slash-director did not dwell on it and just let them be like Charlie Brown’s parents = paper cut portrayals of ordinary suburban parents: To shift our focus mainly on Charlie and his new found social life. How they tackle adolescent issues with their own mechanisms. This is a teen movie after all but done right.

Props to the lighthearted delivery that Stephen Chbosky employed in this book. I have never read a book in one sitting. My attention span needs rewiring every now and then and this piece of literature had me roped down to the last page.

AN HONEST REVIEW OF WHERE WE ARE

sinful sighs
we will recite

as limbs sway along

but they can break
like twigs

or your smile

we will not mind
for now

for now...

A POST-MORTEM FOR MY FUTURE WIFE

I wonder what you are like 
when you throw a fit
over my unfair analogies
about sexism

then I'll keep this canned laughter
in my head
to avoid your wrath

which I am sure to classify as childlike
childish
comely

will you step on my back
and treat it like a balance beam
if I ask

yes, step on the scars
and leave footsteps on my skin
so I'll know where to come home to

for soon, your future tears drizzle
in the verge of my forget

when this anvil heart has no choice
but wish for our natural death

HOMO LOMO (my Anawangin experience in static)

My first Holga experience is a failure. 

10 out of 36 shots got developed.
or at least are readable and not covered with this white light thing. 
I like to consider that baby Jesus is maybe giving me a sign or something through the film lens, but screw it.
Lou Reed is more probable.

It doesn't kill my drive to shoot aimlessly again though. I might capture a real moment, who knows.

So let just call this post my own Warhol phase.

I am defining the world with my own version of hues. I am an artist
and what you see here is another window to my soul.

hope I sold that well.

fun facts about llamas

There is no such thing in life as normal

                                                                Morrissey

I always theorized that everyone has their own disorder, may it be a perversion or personality disorder. There should be no shame in admitting it. That thin line between sanity and insanity – just one surprise push and voila, your world crumbles like a two day-old cookie.

No one should have the audacity to claim that they are normal. Instead, own what makes you a statistic and know how to tame the urges to avoid adding dysfunction to your social environment

                                                                               **********

Masturbation is a sign of anxiety. Too much masturbation is a sign of too much anxiety. I feel I need a new hobby.

                                                                               ***********

I have been procrastinating these past few weeks. Papers for my MA are piling up. I am uninspired. Two factors that can trigger endorphin rush is good music and sex. I have not been getting both. My bro already moved in with his girlfriend so unfortunately for me, he brought the computer and his diligent downloading skills with him. 

I have not been with someone that turns me on instantly like a firefly’s butt. 

My band mates have been engrossed with their own lives, booking themselves flights and bus rides to anywhere but here. I guess everyone needs an escape. I envy their drive. I want to be here. But I want to escape.

                                                                               ***********

Foster the People this Saturday. One reason to dance the blues away.

                                                                               ***********

I watched that new flick 5-year engagement that features Emily Blunt and Jason Segel. Another Judd Apatow-produced romanticism. 

An ex-girlfriend recommended it. A few weeks and numerous debates about commitment after that recommendation, she unfriended me on facebook and decided I am a villain. She never knew I was considering going back to her even though I am not sure if I'm ready. I know that is unfair but I have been thinking of really giving this boyfriend part a shot. And she, well I know she will be worth it. But as always, hesitations are always my favorite dish.

In the movie, Jason Segel got proposed to and won the girl after 5 years of dilemmas and turmoils. It seemed fate can be clumsy and indecisive at times.

Now I know what that girly anthem “Miss You Love” by Silverchair meant.

                                                                                 ***********

I will spit on anyone’s face who thinks positive thinking is the only way to go. As if it’s easy when you are in a job that doesn't make you grow, and you can’t quit ‘coz you need to put some crumbs on the table – and there is emphasis on crumbs. This is reality. When you are doing everything you can to breathe properly, you sometimes need to wait for the wheel to turn so you can be “up” again.

                                                                                   ***********

I like llamas. But I’ll settle for a dog who doesn't salivate that much.

                                                                                   ***********

I dreamt of this office crush last night. We had a lusty rendezvous for a night and she denied any inkling with me to her friends after that unexpected encounter. I was drinking with her friends/traitors as her boyfriend and a gang of 20 await outside the bar to rearrange my face. 

Way to go, brain. Rub it in.

the hillside desolate

The perks of being a wallflower movie is such a knife.

Opening wounds, crippling you with unwelcomed reveries.

Doesn’t help that The Smiths made another appearance, making the movie extra chic.

I walked from Megamall to Bulalakaw after that.

I dreamt of bicycles and a loyal gang strolling behind me while spewing crass banters against each other’s inability to race faster.

I remember doing this---being in this friendly race. 

But I was the one pedalling in double speed, already a few road blocks behind.

Those days at the post office where my gang of misfits stole unripen Indian mangoes. We were too bold to be able to do that in front of the police station. Though one glance from a passer-by causes us to scarper away to the grassy alleys.

I resorted to shoving my preference of Morrissey’s sad lullabies to any unwilling victim last night.

They deserve to know that loneliness is overrated but it doesn’t necessarily mean that the world's got enough of sad bastard music.

bastard = sad= music

Maybe I just need someone to stay with me through the gloom.