Far From Neutral Notions - Philippine politics, culture and stuff

Patrick Aman

Born a dog
Died a gentleman.

You will be missed, my dearest friend; thank you for giving us your friendship… I guess Heaven needed somebody to perk them up.

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Club Dredd. We finally got to play Club Dredd. Hold on while I try and come to grips with that seemingly insignificant piece of information. FMD, fronting in Jeepney Joyride’s official album launch, played at Club Dredd. I played at Club Dredd.

Sure, not the Dredd of old, but it’s still Club Dredd. Ever since I started learning to play the guitar, I’ve dreamed of playing at three venues: Mayric’s, UP and Club Dredd. Mayric’s was relatively easy, and so was UP. Dredd though, closed down some time ago and it seemed nothing more than a pipe dream. Until it’s re-opening at, of all places, Eastwood.

Fine, it’s in the exact same spot Gweilo’s was, and we’ve played there a few times before. And there isn’t any real significance to landing a gig there. But it’s still Dredd. For me, it’s not a place, it’s a symbol: rock ‘n roll. It may not look it anymore, it may not even feel it, but that’s what Dredd will always mean for me.

I may bleed the blues, but my heart pumps rock n’ roll. And as Malcom Mclaren, manager of the Sex Pistols once said: Rock and roll doesn’t necessarily mean a band. It doesn’t mean a singer, and it doesn’t mean a lyric, really. It’s that question of trying to be immortal.

And in that moment, on that stage, with my band, I was.

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There is a sublime pleasure involved in letting acrid smoke pass through my nostrils, down to my lungs, holding it in for a moment, and exhaling, with the lingering hint of menthol around my inner cheeks as I down a glass of ice-cold cola. I’ve abused my share of (legal, wink wink) substances, but nothing comes close to this, the sweet combination of cigarettes and caffeine. It is a rush — albeit psychological — that is unparalleled. It is also bad for the health: mine, and yours, if you’re around me. For that, I apologize.

Friends, officemates and even brief acquaintances know me for one of several things: my music, my art, my concerns, my uncharacteristic interest in sports, or, in rare circumstances, this blog. But for those that have met me personally, there’s one characteristic that is universally known: I smoke. Like a chimney.

It’s like a crutch, really. I can’t do much of anything without a puff or six, but the boost it gives is epiphanic, to say the least. I can waste several nicotine-less hours thinking about something that I can conceptualize after five minutes spent smoking. I’m weak and addicted, but I’m young-ish enough to not care, yet.

Coupled with the boost of caffeine that only Coke can give me, well, let’s just say that some of my most memorable conversations wouldn’t have happened without their help. My friend Allan calls them the 3 C’s: Coke, cigarettes and conversation, with Coke interchangeable with coffee.

That said, I somewhat support the anti-smoking initiatives of the cities of Makati, Pasig and the like, although I believe it’s a fairly futile and inutile solution. But then, their campaign is politically driven, and that’s a fatal flaw to any endeavor, well-meaning or otherwise. Because the trick really isn’t in legislation. I’d still find a way to smoke in Makati, in Pasig. It’s not that hard, even inside buildings.

The trick is in realizing that smokers like myself need help, and a pretty good reason, to quit. The trick is not to treat us as vagabonds and ne’r-do-wells, but as, well, victims. You can’t make me stop by yelling at me, but you can help me help myself.

Case in point, the head of security at the building I work at talked to me one time about my habit of smoking in the indoor parking area, which is a non-smoking zone. I’ve been in that situation before, and I thought I knew what to expect. He surprised me, though, because he talked to me. Not yelled, not admonished, just talked. I listened. It worked, too. I still smoke, but as a result, I haven’t smoked inside the building in months, and every day I’m that much closer to making my mind up and quitting. For good. Honest.

I leave you with this moment of Zen:

And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.

Rudyard Kipling

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Funny thing happened on my way to work earlier: I was running late, and decided to spring for a cab because, well, traffic’s always heavy when I commute, and I figured I’d take to the side streets and shortcuts to get there faster. But the cabbie says everything’s OK in EDSA; I tried to think about it but I was in a hurry so I said fine. And wouldn’t you know it, he was right: traffic was light all the way. Then I remembered classes were suspended because of typhoon “EGAY”. Neat. It was still cloudy, but I was actually beginning to get my hopes up: maybe it won’t rain on Saturday, and I could go forward with the climb with nary a raincloud to spoil the trip.

So of course, that’s when things started to go downhill. Isko, FMD’s frontman, texted me. Seems Romeo Lee (yes, THE Romeo Lee) scheduled his Lee’s Night for this Saturday (it’s usually held on a Tuesday), and we’re in the lineup again. For the uninitiated, Lee is… well, it’s actually pretty hard to describe Lee. I’ll tell you one thing, sublime he’s not. He’s been around UP for as long as pretty much anyone can remember, and he’s a blast to be with, telling the most ridiculous stories over a bottle of beer. Or twelve. You know how Pepe Smith says far out, man all the time? Well, Lee’s the Far Out Man.

And my dilemma is in the irony: Lee’s Night is my second most favorite gig to play for, after Big Time Tado in Purple Haze. It’s a once-a-month thing, and it’ll be my last chance to play at Lee’s Night, ever, since I’m packing my bags and heading back to the idyllic shores of my home province. Plus, I hear Snakecharmer’s gonna play too. But it’s in direct conflict with my weekend mountaineering trip. My first — and probably last — mountaineering trip. So here’s the ironic part I mentioned at the beginning of this paragraph: last I checked, Lee’s a UP mountaineer, and he’s been egging me to out and appreciate nature’s beauty for as long as I’ve known him.

So um yeah, decisions, decisions.

But in case you’re interested, Lee’s Night starts at 9:30 PM at Mag:Net cafe, AGCOR building, 335 Katipunan Avenue, Quezon City. It’s almost in front of Miriam College, just go slow and you can’t miss it.

I leave you with this moment of Zen:

The mystery of life isn’t a problem to solve, but a reality to experience.

The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam

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That’s it. The weather’s gone to the dogs. The rain’s been pretty much off and on until today, where it pretty much rained all day. With the way the wind is blowing, it’s even threatening to ruin my challenge of a lifetime on Saturday, as according to the Philippine Weather Bureau (PAGASA) bulletin, issued 5:00 p.m., 15 August 2007:

At 2:00 p.m. today, Typhoon “EGAY” was located based on satellite and surface data at 420 kms east northeast of Virac, Catanduanes (15.7N, 128.1E) with maximum sustained winds of 175 kph near the center and gustiness of up to 210 kph. It is forecast to move west at 9 kph. Moderate to strong southwesterly surface windflow prevailing over Luzon and western sections of Visayas.

The “tell”, though, is in the forecast for the 18th and 19th: mostly cloudy with scattered rainshowers & thunderstorms. Which is PAGASA talk for “we don’t know”. Which sucks because I’m really looking forward to this “expedition” and I don’t want to have to spend any part of it under a tent or wrapped up in a raincoat. So yes, I am downer than a bar of hash.

Which, of course, necessitates some of that Robert Hunter and Jerry Garcia magic to cheer me up, which means I leave you with this moment of zen (yes, Syd, we’re both copping Stephen Colbert):

Sorry that you feel that way
The only thing there is to say
Every silver lining’s got a
Touch of grey

I will get by / I will get by
I will get by / I will survive

Grateful Dead, Touch of Grey

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You know how a song or a movie can sometimes quantify an overly complex series of emotions so accurately and so completely that when you feel it, you can’t help but hear the song or play that scene in your head?

Well, yesterday was my James Blunt moment. Instant freaking LSS on “You’re Beautiful”, because it’s just so freakishly apt:

I saw your face in a crowded place,
And I don’t know what to do,
‘Cause I’ll never be with you.

And yes, I mean the girl on the left /:|

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Speaking in front of reporters for what would seemingly have been the thousandth time, George Mallory gives the almost snide, immortal response to the question “why climb Mt. Everest”: because it is there. Now, 84 years later, one man looks back at what Mallory must have faced when attempting to tame the wildest frontier known to man, as he himself prepares to undertake a perilous journey of his own.

I sometimes wonder what Mallory must have been thinking, cold, stranded and slowly losing mobility, struggling to breathe the thin air, prolonging for a few seconds more — a few seconds more! — a life that was better lived than any. Here was a man who dared to do things. A man who, at 38, had a richer storehouse of experience than those twice, thrice his age. A man of action, vigor and strength, helpless to prevent the dying of his once-raging light under the onslaught of the most unforgiving region on the face of the planet.

In his last moments, knowing that the end is near, did he ever regret his impetuousness? His audacity? His brazen defiance of all that stood taller, prouder, mightier than he? Some might call it hubris, that endearing yet ultimately infuriating and damning characteristic of all great Shakespearean and Greek heroes. And there’s one thing all heroes have in common, as well: they die, in the end.

I wonder about that increasingly these days, as I prepare myself for my first climb: Mt. Gulugud-Baboy. Yes, it’s only 300-or-so feet above sea level. And yes, it is, for all intents and purposes, a freaking hill. But I cannot escape the same sense of dread Mallory must have felt, all those years ago, when nature responded to his challenge. Will I fare better, I wonder, when Gaia throws down the gauntlet? Am I on a fool’s errand, wasting my bargain-basement life in attempting to conquer this… err… peak? Will I venture forth into that summit, only to be, like Mallory, never heard from again?

God help me, but I don’t care. I must do this. Because it is there.

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I can’t wait! Whee! Leave no trace, everyone! Whee!

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I have no idea why this isn’t published yet. Just a wonderful, wonderful story.

Check out Kit’s Kids’ DeviantArt page.

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Sanctify, sanctify the ninth of July
The jam, the riff, for naught
I know of no reason why the girl, lost like the Key
should ever be forgot.

In some ways, three years is such along time, but in others, it is blissfully short. Three years ago today, Lost Key played it’s first gig at Mayric’s for the production In Diss Corner, and I met the muse to match my music. Three years later, Lost Key has long died a gruesome death, and the muse has been lost beyond the seas. Has it been that long? No, it’s been that short.

You’ve never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable… known someone that could level you with her eyes… feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. ~ Good Will Hunting

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I’ve got LSS, so here’s some words of wisdom from the late, great, Jeff Buckley:

It’s never over, my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder
It’s never over, all my riches for her smiles when i slept so soft against her
It’s never over, all my blood for the sweetness of her laughter
It’s never over, she’s the tear that hangs inside my soul forever

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