Almost F

I may not have a decent job (which is due prolly to my being not a decent person) and I may not receive much pay (which is due prolly to my being not much at work most of the time) but I do have this: BOOKSALE.

(Actually, thousands of other people may also lay claim to having it but I would like to believe that it has been particularly kind to me all these years, what with handing over Solzhenitsyn, Tolstoy, Whitman, Auden…)

Enough of the crap and let us move on to the point of this post.

While not a lot of people may drool at my recent acquisition, it has taken me a good three hours before putting down the book and writing this post, aimed more at inspiring jealousy than advertising the contents of the '81 hard-bound gem I have lying on my lap, which is:

FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH.

60.00 Php.

'Yun lang. Salamat.

Happyness

Dear Hamlet,

I have been thinking about your query and I have come to this: I already am infinitely happy with this infinite pursuit of happiness.

In terms of personal relationships, I cannot ask for more from either my partner or my closest friends; nor do I have anything against the different kinds of people I have met all these years. (I may not have liked some of them but, still, they have come to shape who I am now. And that, methinks, counts for a lot.)

In terms of my careers, I still have three books gathering dust; I still do not have a job that earns enough; and the band is yet to see well-compensating gigs.

But, all in all, I am satisfied and can sleep rather well at night, knowing that the next day would bring yet another barrage of obstacles, and truckloads of shit.

The thing is, you cannot even begin to feel the slightest hint of joy until you have learned to appreciate the enormity of all the troubles that beset your life.

When, at night, you find yourself thinking that you would want to wake up to another bout with what you call your fate, that, methinks, is the time when you can safely say that you are happy.

Your friend,

K

And Now…

I have been a rover
I have walked alone
Hiked a hundred highways
Never found a home
Still in all I'm happy
The reason is, you see
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me

There was a girl in Denver
Before the summer storm
Oh, her eyes were tender
Oh, her arms were warm
And she could smile away the thunder
Kiss away the rain
Even though she's gone away
You won't hear me complain

I have been a rover
I have walked alone
Hiked a hundred highways
Never found a home
Still in all I'm happy
The reason is, you see
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me

There was a girl in Portland
Before the winter chill
We used to go a-courtin'
Along October Hill
And she could laugh away the dark clouds
Cry away the snow
It seems like only yesterday
As down the road I go

I've been a rover
I have walked alone
Hiked a hundred highways
Never found a home
Still in all I'm happy
The reason is, you see
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me

—

After working, these are what I believe I deserve: Sinatra on the radio and half a case of Pale Pilsens.

Lagona edatera!

I have just finished cleaning the house – including the two living rooms, the dining room, the kitchen, the lair (my siblings prefer to clean their own rooms), and the music room – which entailed moving three electric guitars, an acoustic guitar, two electric bass guitars, my brother’s guitar amp, and my drum set… all of this while George Harrison’s songs were playing on the PC… and could be heard until the next block.

Whilst cleaning, I was thinking of how inspiring While My Guitar Gently Weeps is… especially when you’re wiping dog piss off the floor… I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping… Harhar!

On a more serious note though, I only began liking George’s music when I entered college. Since I was young, I had looked up to John, him being the more vocal and rebellious of the four. But, having fully acknowledged the presence of an infinitely more powerful being in my life, I started loving George’s lyrics. From the well-known My Sweet Lord to the humbling solemnity of Life Itself. Not to mention the rather cynical Think For Yourself and the philanthropic Bangladesh, which, by its conception, gave birth to the widely-celebrated notion of star-studded benefit concerts. He tackled politics too, with Taxman, and delved into pop music, with Got My Mind Set On You. But, for me, the most touching piece George ever made was All Those Years Ago, written sometime after Lennon’s demise.

I wish I could be as prolific and profound… In any case, George, although a Hindu devotee, never quit smoking until the late 90’s, methinks, which is a perfect excuse not to stop until I-don’t-know-when.

Here’s to you, you bloke!

The Interview

The much-awaited five questions from Annamanila:

1.  I don't think you are as cynical or iconoclastic or angry as your blog theme/header projects you to be.  What can you say to prove I am wrong?

I would not really want to prove anybody wrong when it comes to perceptions about me.

2.  What did you do when you saw a poor neighbor or friend suffer?

I did not do anything because I never want to underestimate anyone’s capabilities of handling difficulties.

3.  How hard or easy will it be for you to quit smoking?

How hard or easy it will be is of no consequence. It is the why that really matters to me.

4.  What is the significance of griffins in myth and why do you identify with it?

I have read that no-one can lie in the presence of a griffin. Whether the griffin can or will lie is another thing, I suppose.

5.  Have you ever written a happy poem?  Can you share with us some happy excerpts of it?  If not, will you write a short happy one right now? (a couplet or haiku will do).

I believe that all my pieces are rather happy, and that happiness is really just a state of mind. In this light, I would like to quote a genius:

“I would like to die like my grandfather, who died peacefully in his sleep while the passengers of the bus he was driving were screaming their lungs out.” - Gary Lising

—

Interview rules: 1. Leave me a comment saying “Interview me.” 2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions. 3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions. 4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post. 5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Erratum

June 29, Friday, 9 PM
Club Streakers, Las Piñas
with The Haneps & Feeble

—

The details relayed were not clear and I have never been to this particular joint. My apologies.

And I’m Back?

My most sincere apologies and my deepest thanks to those who have been passing by. I've been rather busy with the band for sometime, and I've also been reading up since my booty from Booksale has swelled up to an unsightly pile of unread literature.

Chelot, thanks for dropping by and linking me. I'm not really angry. Hahaha. E-A-T at the G-D-C tayo minsan. Yihee!

Monkeywrench, no problem. Keep on taking those wonderful photographs.

Nina, Ian's last name is Gomez. Yes, he is from CSA but I'm not quite sure if you know him. He's a batch ahead of ours.

Comrade, yes, Time stood still for a while in this blog. But I'll be posting again soon.

Teacher Trina, thanks for passing by as well. You take care too.

I hope you all like the previous post that I copped from Gargantua & Pantagruel by Francois Rabelais. I'm working on lots of stories for all of you.

And if you've got time, check out our gigs:

June 21, Thursday, 9 PM
Conspiracy Cafe, Visayas Ave.
with Earthfishfish & Butong Pakwan

June 29, Friday, 9 PM
Gig Streakers, Las Piñas
with The Haneps & Feeble

June 30, Saturday, 8 PM
Purple Haze, Timog cor. E. Rod Ave.
Oi! Attack 19

July 5, Thursday, 8 PM
Route 196 (Inihaw Republic)
with Earthfishfish & Butong Pakwan 

Send me an sms too so I can prepare copies of our demo CD for you.

An Excerpt From Gargantua & Pantagruel

CHAPTER 29: Epistemon’s Displeasure at the Institution of Lent

   ‘Did you observe,’ asked Epistemon, ‘how that wicked and miserable Quaverer quoted March to us as the month for lechery?’

   ‘Yes, ‘ answered Pantagruel, ‘and what’s more it always falls in lent, which was instituted for the maceration of the flesh, for the mortification of the sensual appetites, and for the restraining of the venereal passions.’

   ‘Now,’ said Epistemon, ‘you can judge the intelligence of the Pope who first instituted it, when this poor sandal of a Quaverer admits that he is never so beshitten with lechery as in time of Lent, also from the plain arguments adduced by all good and learned physicians. For they affirm that never in the whole course of the year is any food eaten more exciting to the act of concupiscence that at that time. For Lenten-fare is: beans, haricots, chick-peas, onions, walnuts, oysters, herrings, smoked fish, pickles, and salads entirely composed of aphrodisiac herbs such as rocket, garden-cress, tarragon, watercress, water-parsley, rampion, horned poppy, hop-buds, figs, rice, and raisins.’

   ‘You would be very much surprised to learn,’ said Pantagruel, ‘that the good Pope who instituted Holy Lent especially prescribed these foods to encourage the multiplication of the human race. For he knew that to be the season when the natural heat proceeds from the interior of the body, in which it has lain throughout the winter cold, and diffuses itself about the surface of the limbs, as the sap does in trees. What convinces me of this is that in the baptismal register of Thouars the number of children is greater in October and November than in the other ten months of the year; and so by retrospective computation we find that they must have all been made, conceived, and engendered in Lent.’

   ‘I am listening to your argument,’ announced Friar John, ‘and I’m getting no small pleasure from it. But the Vicar of Jambet attributed this copious impregnation of women, not to Lenten fare but to the little hump-backed beggars, and little booted preachers, and dirty little confessors, who at this season of the year damn all erring husbands three fathoms lower in hell than Lucifer’s claws. So, in their terror, these husbands give up rogering the servant girls and return to their wives. I have spoken.’

   ‘Interpret the institution of Lent according to your own fancy,’ said Epistemon. ‘Everyone is full of his own ideas. But all the doctors will oppose its suppression, though I believe it is impending. I’m sure they would. I’ve heard them say so. For without Lent their art would fall into contempt. They would earn nothing, since no one would be ill. All diseases are sown in Lent. It’s the nursing-ground, the native bed, and dispenser of all maladies. What’s more, not only does Lent corrupt the body, it drives souls out of their senses as well. Just consider that. Devils try their hardest then; hypocrites come out of doors; and canters hold their great feasts and fairs and stations and sessions and pardons and confessions and whippings and anathematisations. However, I should not like to infer that the Arimaspians are any better than ourselves in this respect. But I know what I’m saying.’