I remember the days when reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee was a requirement. When coming up with a reaction paper, either computerized or manually written, was expected of you. When reacting was expected of you.

All BS... BS... BS.. BS... Fuck you bitch! I couldn't curse you more you worthless piece of shit. Do auto-fellatio til your vertebrae snap out of your alabaster skin. Pout your lips as if you've been burnt by a cruel winter breeze. Squint as if you're going blind... And lastly, think as if you've got a brain to do so.

We went to the annual UP Fair (this year’s theme was: No FAIRmit, No Rally) last Friday night. It was über fun. Aside from watching today’s “hottest” local acts suck, paying homage to the defunct Eraserheads (another moolah-generating stint for Jesus Ventura), we had a wild spin riding the ferris wheel. Gawd, I was so hot about the idea. It was mah first time. At first Kate and I were so exhilarated… but after a couple of spins, we started to get tired of holding tight to the metal bar against our guts… Hehehe.. After the ride, our exhilaration was converted to pure exhaustion. 

 Well, I guess it’s going to be a better year for me… I’ve been adhering to what I promised myself... doing things for the first time…This excludes a tomato red jacket and lime green leather boots, I’m way over that one. Anyway, I had some guy put dirt on my neck in accord to a tribal-ish pattern, which my friend Bert referred to as an eighty-peso libag. Hehehehe… Errol and his girlfriend, Lai, took off at half-past twelve-ish; ‘cause the man had to work early in the morn. Earlier that night we thought of staying at Lai’s place and see some art flicks, but then we were waiting for some bands to play it up.

I don’t know if it was the ride (that was for our cliché) or the time (it was friggin’ two in the morning); but the crowd seemed non-responsive to the artists on stage. There was an exception though. When “rocker-rockeran” Spongecola hit the stage, dang! The “mga rakista ng Prajek ewan kuno blah blah” crowd helluva killed each other. Hahahaha.. At first that seemed amusing, but consequently it pissed me off.  People in front of us were rushing their way to the rear of the garden because of the pushing and fiendish demeanor of these rats. I even had to wake up Kate from her out-of-place napping galore (just imagine how boring it was!) to avoid the stampede ala Wowowee. Aside from this, damn! Spongecola vocalist, Yael, was also pissed off. He does actually have every right to be, because his boyband-ish image should not be catering these scumbags. Damn. Hanep sa rakrakan ah, parang ang bigat ng tugtugan… Slipknot, kayo ba yan?! hahahaha… my brain’s telling me to laugh my heart out and feel agitated by the whole situation… but all subsequently settled as a splitting headache. Lean was so fond of the Wowowee idea… Anyway, Rey joined us. He was with a couple of his friends from PLM. Everything was cool. One of the firsts I had that night was witnessing DictaLicense play on stage. At first I was very skeptic of the rap thing they are prancing around in MTV; but I just kept my mind open. I can say they are way beyond mediocrity. As usual, Urbandub never failed to screw me into my board. There’s a certain unique energy being radiated every time these guys take center stage. I was looking forward to also seeing Stonefree break the cycle, but to my disappointment they took the Ikot jeep.  Furthermore, Ponga – Mr. Congeniality, invited me to join him on his homeward journey aboard the dreaded Pipeman’s car (a.k.a. Brian). Hell no… For personal reasons, I’d rather entrust my life to my friendly jeepney driver’s hands.

We ended the day having cups of hot choco at Quezon City’s delta: Philcoa. Friendly Ronald invited us to his hall of plastic chairs and paper-bound tables. Initially, we planned to kill time, wait for Mr. Brightside. With exhaustion and sleep paving in, it was like breaking down a bounded region into infinitesimal coordinates. Well, as usual, it was never a waste of time. Waiting for something you’d know would come – in a definite time.

We parted ways at the foot of the notorious overpass. Kate and I missed the way Plaza Lawton stood still with the sinuous smoke of our cigarettes and sensible talks. We stayed for several minutes… somewhat contemplating. 

I took an FX bound to Las Piñas country. It was one of those nostalgic moments. The hum of Ikot jeepneys… endless harmonic vibrations in the air consolidating into a familiar sound… smell of Gudang Garam… unbound, unrestrained people.

“…every color, every hue is represented by me and you…take a slide….. in this Kaleidoscope world…” Francis Magalona

I'm coming out of my cage
And I've been doing just fine
Gotta gotta be down
Because I want it all
It started out with a kiss
How did it end up like this
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss
Now I'm falling asleep
And she's calling a cab
While he's having a smoke
And she's taking a drag
Now they're going to bed
And my stomach is sick
And it's all in my head
But she's touching his-chest
Now, he takes off her dress
Now, letting me go

And I just can't look its killing me
And taking control
Jealousy, turning saints into the sea
Swimming through sick lullabies
Choking on your alibis
But it's just the price I pay
Destiny is calling me
Open up my eager eyes
'Cause I'm Mr Brightside

                                                   -  The Killers -

February 14^th? Spare me.

It was one of those oh-so-what-a-drag-Sunday-early mornings. I found myself having lunch (that would be breakfast for the normal person's day) with one of my teammates. He was this guy who never runs out of personal stuff to blab about. He never fails to name-drop and tortuously makes a star of himself.  If you are the type that cannot stand an hour-break acquiescing and being pre-occupied by others' oh-so-personal shit, you'll never survive this guy's company. Believe me, I do not even know if it was just me and my endless endeavor for understanding people nor my famished state that kept me through that break. Damn, what a phony I was! Well, after excruciatingly finishing butchered meat in a bun and a heap of  carcinogenic potatoes, we got to have some death stick dessert. Upon clicking precariously on my Cricket, I saw my team leader and a colleague walking out of the glass doors. Man, for a minute I thought that was just the best! They could have just spared me from madness. But fawk! They were discussing stuff about going out, drinking, dressing up, and spending money…

That girly beat of Janet Jackson's "Someone to Call My Lover" suddenly played in my head.

"Maybe we'll meet in the bar, and drive a funky car. Maybe we'll meet in a club, and fall so deeply in love."

To all where the insecure entities go, prancing around with their pretentious ensembles of overconfidence.

Gregarious people fascinate me, especially those in their late twenties and thirties. Gregarious, I mean, those who can actually kill you in just three minutes. These are people who find profundity in club music and box office hit movies. Their species can gracefully start a conversation and easily ditch it. It is just like a piece of Devil's food cake for them to be all over the place. Is it just characteristic for these beings to be honest and be loud about it? Or is it a mask that can be purchased with one easy swipe? I clearly understand kids partying and their main goal to be drunk. But what do these lads and lasses have in mind? Why do I care? Why should you be aware? One simple thing, they are inevitable. They can leave you high and dry. They can kiss your ass. They can suck you up until your body gets limp with their eloquence. Or can easily eat you up for lunch.

I can still remember how Antoine du Saint-Exupery's Pilot disgust matters of consequence. Ironically, these ate up most of his life.

For those who see the truth but wait.

I was given a ring by my communication coach after a very head-splitting call. Oh, it's one of those yada-yada sessions, wherein your grammar, pronunciation, intonation, and congeniality would be under strict scrutiny. How I love his job: listening to young Noypis blabbing, wobbling, and stretching tongues in their oral cavities. It's like picking up the right tomatoes for your putanesca. Anyway, he was listening to this remake of a defunct '90s band: Eraserheads. Damn! He was raving over the "technical" prowess of 6 Cycle Mind and Southborder. Horseshit! Well, they totally vandalized the whole concept. That was one kind of phoney ass move. It's like chocolate sauce on your sisig. I didn't know what to do at that instant. I can either: (1) frankly say, "Huh?! Duh!" or (2) acquiescently say, "Oh, that's cool…". I decided to choose the latter. I didn't want to burst his bubble. You see, that's the whole point of it. It was like a bubble – a colloidal fuck of enclosed air. How on earth did Kitchie Nadal's shitty pitchy voice possibly give "Ligaya" spunk? When did "Huwag mo nang itanong" become a mothafuckin' love song? Then upsize your combo, like fries and soft drink, with coupla off rhymes? Was this "project" of Ehly Buendia (a.k.a. Dizzy) a glimpse of the current OPM rock-alternative scene? If you were someone who studied in UP, these E-heads songs strike you differently. May your stud number be 2005-xxxxx. The material was murdered ruthlessly. To hell with these BS artists… I'd rather hear these songs done by Rico Blanco or Bamboo Mañalac. Believe me, big time sucker!

Others say that your high school and college days are memories that you keep (and would want to keep) living in/ dwelling on. That was a crucial time in one's life: when concepts of the ideal from a microcosm (family/relatives) meet a larger sociological pool's norm/ standards. And the consolidation of which creates your own set. You walk out of campus bearing these in mind. Quite ideal. That was an understatement. Very ideal. How I wish that everything could be easy as dropping a course and retaking it the next semester. How I wish that everything could be only as hard as solving an algebra equation. Well… thinking a bit, it does. But the change is so drastic, that sometimes you find yourself lost in translation, literally and figuratively. Everything can be solved, if not now – maybe later. It all boils down to how gracefully you caught the pig-skin thrown to you 30 yards from the line of scrimmage.

I can't help but to be bewildered of the sociological theory of man: a walking irony. And this seems to be always the best option for his representation. From Rousseau's "free man in chains" to Rizal's "Romantic realism". An ability to adapt and conform with the current milieu? An evolutionary process? Gradual mutation? Why? To conceal oneself? To be socially accepted? Or to survive? You could've loved the way instant pancit canton once satiated your gastronomic need. Do you still love it? And if you still do, will you be craving for it tomorrow? With gin and Coke? With the means, I bet you won't. Ever. But upon consideration of other factors, the table is turned. You will remember how it tasted. You will miss the way it tasted. You will crave for its greasy smooth texture. The man pretends to be unbound from the chains and escapes reality to feed his temporal appetite.

I was never fond of renditions. Honestly. The original's always hot. Anybody can sing along. Vocalists are overrated. But the mere idea of hearing a familiar sound sets you adrift to memory bliss.

Last night, I boarded a bus to Ayala Avenue at Baclaran. They were playing pinoy pop on the radio. I was so fucking tired (barely got sleep). I was in no mood for the crap that I was hearing. Southborder's remake of "With a Smile" suddenly played. My lids parted. I felt the tension across my forehead ease out. I always hated Jay Durias and his idiotic Boyz II Men recruits. But then, I was thinking of what I lost and have. What I've done and what I can do. Of bridging yesterday and tomorrow with today – like it never happened before.

For those who loved Here Comes the Sun by George Harrison.

When I was cleaning up my helluva room, I found some memoirs.

v     Letters from a friend who flew to the US 7 years ago.

v     Notes from my Advanced Inorganic Analytical Chemistry class.

v     Love letters from a college friend.

v     Sheets of Manila paper with notes way back from high school.

v     Red chopsticks

v     Class cards (whoa… fail… fail… fail.. almost passed.. passed…)

v     Combat boots

v     Candy wrappers (Fres, Lipps, Tootsie Roll, and White Rabbit)

v     Application form for the UPCAT

v     Old high school pics

v     Neo prints with an Assumptionista blockmate

v     Receipt from Wendy’s dated 08/ 21/ 1998

v     Application form for the DOST Scholarship Exam

v     A sheet of paper with the lyrics of “Iris” by Goo goo dolls

v     Old bluebooks

v     A guide for ten-pin bowling

v     A Christmas card from a long lost friend

v     Graduation pics of my elementary friends

v     A paperback copy of the novel, “To Kill a Mockingbird” by Harper Lee

v     A photocopy of a depressing short story, “The Necklace” by Guy de Maupassant

v     Smiley button pins

v     An empty pack of West Ice

v     A bracelet I made out from a deconstructed tie

v     A dream catcher pendant

v     Issues of 2002 FHM magazine

v     Issues of 1999 National Geographic magazine

v     A half emptied bottle of Off Lotion

v     Manual of the last cellphone I lost

v     Manual of my new digital camera

v     A scented candle from a dear friend

v     A purple beanie cap from a dear friend’s trip to Baguio

v     A UP Infantry Black Hawks shirt

v     A white Freshmen’s Orientation Program Committee shirt

v     Survival kit from my freshman year in college

v     My high school yearbook

v     My college True Copy of Grades

v     A regularization letter from Convergys

v     A pic of me smiling 17 years ago.

When was the last time you did something for the first time?

The loneliest time a person could be:  sitting on some faux fancy wooden chair, eating butchered meat flattened into a patty, grilled on some unfamiliar pan – served with a few leaves…sandwiched by an oatmeal bun.

It was around eleven in the morning, after constantly stretching my vocal cords (not to mention my patience), I left the oh-so damned production floor of CVG 1. My guts were really growling like hell. Believe me, it's like I've drank muriatic-ini (1 ½ ounces of analytical grade hydrochloric acid and 2 ounces of vodka, finished with a maraschino cherry). I felt like being a walking disaster… I just wanted to shoot every damn person that holds a fucking mobile phone. It was so depressing. How pathetic.

I walked my way to the nearest fast food store to fill my guts with shit. I happened to feel like wasting a coupla hundred pesos on some burger and onion rings. As I walked to the barely dined place just at the ground floor of our building, I ordered the usual shit and sat on one of their oh-so classy chairs. If you could've seen how pathetic I looked, with my bumblebee shades and green coat, sitting there waiting for my name to be called to pick up my order… you could've puked.

After convincing myself that the food's great, I immediately got out of the damn place and took the underpass. I began to feel a splitting headache. It was worst as hell… I can't help thinking of something not so related of work and all… and that was how I got my mind strolling on how I got myself involved with this shit.

My tired mind brought me to this memory of my brethren and I smoking death sticks at the Sunken Garden. We also got booze that night. With Norbert strumming the guitar and about five of us singing, it gave this feeling of freedom… a kickass feel it seemed… a feeling of promise. Those were the days when pimples and red jeans were no big deal…when people were so easy to talk to.

I got off the bus to get on another bus. Fawk! Just imagine how mechanical that can be… I lost the headache. Then I felt like sleeping my way to Las Piñas country. Damn, you should've seen how vampiric I looked! I was the only damn guy who was wearing a jacket and shades. Well, the hell I care about these people who I don't even know. I always felt like a rockstar and shit… wearing crazy stuff ala Liam Gallagher. All the people boarding the bus were so distant. It was as if I got this motherfuckin' ebola virus. Hehehe… well, felt like that all the time. This was that feeling again. And I was so liking it. It never occurred to me then since when did I ever think of what other people think about me and what I do. Maybe it's all brought about by this call center shit I'm in. well, believe me… I've encountered a lot of bimbos. Those people who are fond of slapstick comedy. Not to mention those who get so whoa-ed by superficial stuff. Well, I can't blame them, that is their fucking choice. But no matter how I distance myself to these idiots, they come up to me like mosquitoes. They are fucking all over the place! It's like there is this industrial park constantly producing idiots. I remember Errol telling all these jokes on meeting people with the least sense and intellect. OMG, you can't just help but laugh. Well, others choose to hang out with the cool clichés with the smallest brains ever created. Those who are motivated by looks and not by touch… you know what I mean?

The next day (which is technically a normal person's night), I was determined to seek another lonely soul. Some soul with sense and sensibility. Someone who reads books… someone passionate with music and lyrical poetry.

A cinta veda veda tattva. Jai guru deva om. Sail them home with acquiesce, I'm a ship of hope today. We're strange allies with warring hearts…

*****

For all my dearest Mascitambay people: with whom red horse beer tasted like champagne and martinis.

For my ever patient and loving TL, promising team mates, and vibrant yosi buddies.

For my colleagues who know how to rock.

For people who choose a path of their own.

For Gap who makes me realize how much dumb and mad I was.

Cambio – DV: Pirated DVDs, pamparegla, and 3 bottles of beer for Diego Mapa

Company of five. I went to one of the most disappointing concerts I’ve ever been to. With nasty kids screaming their assholish lyrics over dysfunctional and plastically generated sounds, I patiently opened my eyes, exerting effort to keep my mind open. The reverberating noise was the perfect backdrop to the oozing call for pediatric aid. That night was really nasty. As three of our local bands imparted their deteriorating music, I find myself wondering why the heck these people share their fucked up music in such venue. Definitely Hale won’t attend such charity. Everybody can’t get enough of pop anyway, so Cambio classically laid their DV on stage. Honestly, they all suck. What makes a good band? A good performance? A smashing concert?  A sleek do and outlandishly styled outfit?  Shrill underground vocals with evanescent sounds? Screaming high school and college gals? A herd of street punks?

In a current milieu of fraudulent rock-alternative style and faux individuality movement (that would be a rhetoric, ach..) all boil down to smelling well-ground shitte while goin’ down with the counter-clockwise flow of waste water. Being different is the “in” thing. Fawk! Anyway, too much serious shit.

Though smacked up by such a tragedy, it became one of the defining moments with my Mascitambay family. The hell with shitte. We’ve seen worse. Just can’t stand the thought of such a lame lineup of performers for the sake of children in pain. The fun was just starting, but duty called. I had to leave for work. It could’ve been a smashin’ party of five. Next time, the hops and barley will brew… bottomless? Hehehe..

Incubus - Nice to know you: all Popped-up Boyd flaunting his tunneled ears and waxed hair.

I became used to her disarming smile and freakingly addictive charm. I find myself laughing on how engrossed I have been to her refreshing aura. Now I know that liking chocolate for water will just leave you high and dry. Anyway, I’m just trying to add spice to my monotonous existence. Just like peppermint that temporarily bursts in your mouth like ice-cold water and ceases to exist after two sticks of cigarettes.

The Killers – Mr. Brightside: Back to slack

I’d like to go out and increase my blood alcohol level. I’d like to delve into the metro’s consignment stores and find some vintage clothing. I’d like to listen to music all day all night. I’d like to smash china into pieces. I’d like to be whipped by feisty girls and strapped up to the bed posts. I’d like to smoke my lungs out and eat ice cream til my throat swells to the size of a commercial pvc pipe. Eagle brand. I’d like to lay my head onto the grass in the Sunken Garden and watch the stars. I’d like to sing my heart out. I’d like to hold her hand. I’d like to go backpacking. I’d like to traverse muddy trails. I’d like to watch how the rain washes down the pretentious city streets. I’d like to see people laughing. I’d like to see children laughing. I’d like to watch how the birds glide through the late afternoon skies. I’d like to spin around, go round in circles. I like the sensation of taking another breath.