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.