Exploits of a City Dweller

Recently I rediscovered Cynthia Alexander’s music. I say “rediscovered” because for years I only half noticed this woman but never accorded her my contribution in album sales.

[Side note: In the age of Limewire, a lot of us won't bother but my policy is that if an artist has talent enough to create a handful of worthy songs, I buy the CD. Then I rip the tracks for my MP3 player which you might see as a complete waste of energy. I like seeing my CD collection proliferate even if at a snail's pace. If it is truly worth the effort, it is one way of showing gratitude to the folks who make good music. Also my Creative player has an antediluvian capacity of 512MB that might've prompted gasps of awe sometime in the Cretaceous period. Now it's falling apart and I have to bandage it with scotch tape (oh yes!) but I remain adamant in my refusal to follow the IPod herd.]

Last weekend, I realized that my track list is in dire need of an update. I have been listening to the same Drastic Fantastic songs for the past five months. Don’t get me wrong, I am not about to set aside the Tunstall but she needs to take a break.

I came across a track online called Motorbykle from Cynthia Alexander’s album Rippingyarns. The arrangement has her signature mix that resonates both the modern and the native highlands. The acoustic guitar solo was exceptional, the lyrics insightful. I was bowled over by it. That compelled me to force it on people in my household and by extension, my blog readership.  You may already be familiar with some of her material such as the more playful “The Weather Report” (remember the video where a little boy in a raincoat lipsynchs to the tune). If you do decide to further your musical education, I would suggest you start with this song and then move to “Comet’s Tail” and “Comfort in Your Strangeness”.

I can think of several reasons why I should wax lyrical.  One is that she displays a level of expertise over her instruments that only a few mainstream artists have achieved. I have the utmost respect for people who take their time to sit down and learn their craft. Another is that she is a singer / songwriter which only means she is unlikely to do covers of covers of covers of love songs made popular by Eighties has-beens. A break in the trend! How refreshing.

But most importantly, Cynthia Alexander represents the brilliance that this country pushes underground while allowing the injustice of leaving all that is crass and cloying to float to the surface (Which in a convoluted way works for me. When they get overrated, I lose interest. I’m cruel that way). This is true even with our films. “Indie” has become a badge of honor while “mainstream” has been known to cause eyebrows to flick up at a 45 degree angle.

I have made it my short term goal to see her play live. Here’s one advantage to patronizing local artists: you don’t have to implore the high heavens for some far-flung chance to see them in action. Last December, I had to forego one of her gigs at a café a block away from my apartment (This happens to me a lot. My druids come to my neighborhood and I miss out on seeing them for the strangest reasons. In February, Jessica Zafra had a book signing across the street and I didn’t know. I pulled my hair out for a month!). This time, I am resolved to formulating a better plan of action.

This is where I’ll leave off my panegyrical outbursts. But I’m linking up her website so you can do some exploring.  Click the guitar. 

There has been a resurgence in LTFRB’s enforcement of the “on duty / off duty” card requirement for Metro Manila taxis. Apparently cab drivers reserve the right to refuse passengers when they have the windshield card flipped to the ”off duty” side.

I need some clarification on this. Is this supposed to restrain them from being picky when they’re “on duty”? Because from my stand point, the policy is just as useful as placing age limits on certain websites. Anybody can easily click the “Yes, I’m above 18″ button. In the same sense, every cab driver can just flip over to “off duty” if they deem your destination too far or too traffic prone (A complaint I never understood the meaning of. Masyadong matraffic ma’am? Leche! E di sa baryo ka magpasada kung ayaw mo ng traffic!)

Maybe it exists not so much to help the issue but to make policy makers seem like they’re taking action. In reality, we’re all just fooling ourselves. Unless maybe the cards are equipped with microsensors that cause the  driver to get stun-gunned everytime he goes on “off duty” under false pretenses. But then she wakes up from the dream and remembers that this is the Philippines.

As you might have already read in one of my previous entries (That is if you’ve been following this blog religiously…in which case I feel like I owe you a Starbucks for your patience), I was sent on a scholarship to Italy in 2003. It was my first time out of the country. First time on a plane. First time to see people wearing masks at the Taiwan airport for fear of contracting SARs (it was all the hype back then). First time to realize that the Abu Dhabi International airport looked more like a purple and limegreen spaceship that decided to randomly moor itself in the dessert. I swear, I took one look at  that concave ceiling and immediately felt bad for not having brought a lightsaber.  

I felt the culture shock blindside me the second we landed in Rome. I amused myself by keeping track of the differences between us and them. After 20-odd years of being completely immersed in a culture with an unspoken requirement to read between the lines, it took me a while to get accustomed to how forthright people were.

For instance, when the Italians get into an argument, they openly yell obscenities at each other, fingertips huddled together pointing upward (if you’re into Mafia movies, they’re surprisingly accurate. Down to the way their gruff voices sound like they have chewed-up peanut particles stuck in their throat). A few hours later, you will find the same two people at a bar having a beer like nothing happened.  As opposed to us, we sugar coat like crazy to avoid hurting each others feelings. God forbid if you do cross that thin, precarious line, the other person will secretly hate your guts for years on end. I am guilty of the crime at some level, having been programmed with the rest of the populace by three colonial centuries of shutting up and taking the brunt. I must say though, I’m favoring the Italian way of settling things. If for anything else, they sure know how to air out the heat and let go. It saves a lot of energy that way.

And for the piece de resistance: the infamous sweet talk. They have a penchant for the romantics to an almost preposterous degree. As if the Blarney stone was originally Italian. I recently dug up irrefutable evidence of that claim:

Picture taken at a park in Reggio Calabria (located at the toe of the Italian boot). Graffiti translates as follows: “I would like to be a drop of your blood so I may run through your veins and into your heart to see if my name is written there.” Yes! This is coming from some teenage punk who couldn’t find better use for his marker other than the poetic defacement of public property. Wait…Whatever was that crashing sound?! Oh it’s just Hallmark’s sales plummeting to the basement.

And the most we can hope for are offensive caricatures of male genitalia and anonymous females sneering at each other with acidic retorts of “p#$% ka, [Inday]! Inagaw mo siya sa akin!”  This is drawn from actual experience by the way. Some years back I had the pleasure of reading one such “thread” on an SM bowling alley bathroom stall. Although my version is significantly tamer than what was written. I took the liberty of removing most of the expletives thus the brevity of my example. In our building, someone used a pointed object to scratch out “Filipinos are monkeys” on the inside panel of the elevator door. For some time I wondered where the vandal was from until one day I noticed a reply written below it that read ”Koreans are dung”. That answered my question although the Condo Association was obviously perturbed by it. They had all the elevators repainted and surveillance cameras installed. The walls remained graffiti-free from then onwards.

I’m noticing a trend. My theory is that with all our pent up emotions, some of us take to the walls to settle scores and let out steam.  Whereas the Italians are so full of mush, they must use all available resources to compel everyone to feel the love.

Now there’s a new method of cultural introduction. When in unfamiliar territory, read the graffiti and you will know the people.

A few years ago,  a group of us decided to go on a trip out of town. On our way, we passed this curious looking tenement. 

Prime real estate. Three floors. Lush foliage.

I had to take a picture of it. Makes me marvel at Pinoy ingenuity. You may not see it from this angle but the “third floor” is actually a tiny little box-shaped room perched on top of the house. It’s probably only a fourth of the actual length of the structure.  I remember us spending the better half of an hour pondering it’s purpose.

I can only surmise that this is where they send the kids as punishment for uncouth behaviour. Or maybe the moody teenager of the family demanded that they give him/her a little privacy. I can imagine the inside walls veiled with posters of punk bands and anime characters. Or they might have really high maintenance pigeons.

What do you think?

Who would have thought that one of my eerier nightmares of late would get interpreted by Jessica Zafra.

Here’s what I wrote:

The other night I had this nightmare that I was Sweeney Todd’s daughter and that he was dead set on slashing my throat. He chased me all around town (I’m not sure what town it was but it looked provincial) with a bloody razor hanging from his neck. He clearly wasn’t Johnny Depp because he looked old and shrivelled. Anyway, the townsfolk ended up rallying against him and a pregnant lady shot him multiple times with a machine gun.

I’ m not sure if this even needs further interpretation but the weird thing is I watched Sweeney Todd over a month ago.

Here’s what she wrote:

About eilish’s dream. Do you feel that if people knew who you really are, they would turn against you/hunt you down? Initially anyway, because at the end of the dream they go over to your side. Who’s the pregnant lady? Are you “incubating” an idea that might be controversial?

Of course, I may be very wrong.

And mind you, she wasn’t entirely off course with her interpretation.

Note: Alright…Alright…Cuff me up and send me to rehab because I have an unhealthy addiction to her work. I admit it now. In my defense, her stuff is the only tried and tested detoxifier when I get the urge to flambé people at work. Which is ironic in a way because she is a tad misanthropic herself.