What’s Keep’n Me Busy?

Last week is, in a word, turbulent. Ok, so that’s an exaggeration, but last week I was so busy that, for five straight days, I’ve slept less than 4 hours.

But it’s over. I’m done with what I was supposed to do last week. And what is it exactly? Well, come over here and lemme show you (note: you need to have your flash player enabled on your browser to see it). And by the way, it’s just a sample. I don’t intend to make that site my permanent residence.

I don’t claim that to be the best thing I’ve ever done all my life, but it’s been a while since I’ve accomplished something like that. And boy, must I say, that felt truly inspiring. I feel vaguely happy. Not exactly the giddy-giddy-jumpy-jumpy kind of happy, but more like I have a smile that won’t leave my face whenever I think of what I did.

And now that I can finally breathe some fresh air, all I need to do is put myself in the zone again before this blog comes back to its regular programming - err, how did that go again? I hope to see you in a couple of days.

Destination Unknown

You know a blog post is going to suck if it’s written for not much of a purpose. So unless you like the smut quality of ramblings, you might wanta click that back button. Easy does it.

So, still here? Yeah, the reason I’m posting a new update is I just want to push the previous update further down. Google Ads are starting to misread my blog and classify it under "adult blogs". I haven’t stooped that low. I mean, it’s crazy enough that I have perhaps the most willy-nilly blog: where else can you read of someone who reviews a book one day, talks about jazz the another, critiques ads, chastises other blogs, waxes romantics on someone, discusses a couple of magazines, writes proses about sleeping, scorns plagiarists, draws annoying pictures, tries a descriptive route of talking about mundane things, blablablabla. I don’t need to toss in nudity on those cesspool of topics. Or do I? No, I don’t.

I finished reading To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee and, by george, that’s pretty much the best book I’ve read in quite some time, and reading something as humanitarian as that feels upright (as opposed to downright?) invigorating.

But I’m not going to review it yet. My hands are a bit tied at the moment, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to post in this blog that much this week. No, this isn’t another one of those foolish "self-flaggelation" that I insisted doing when I was reading Ulysses, only to fail too miserably at it. I’m really busy, I couldn’t even bother editing this post. So busy, in fact, that even if Jessica Alba asks me out, I’ll decline her invitation. Not that that’s ever going to happen.

I wish you all a spiffy day, and don’t get burned by that sweltering 39 degree centigrade now.

Mag Shot

Somebody gimme clues: what external forces could have propelled me to blow P250 yesterday on a couple of magazines. Boredom? A need for new insights? Or are you gonna be so lowbrow and say "the cover girls"?

I admit, the cover girls are all eye candies. But, it’s the articles listed on the cover of both magazines that had me curious. Okay, so maybe just one of two magazines. I bought Manual because I wanted to know about "10 Pinoy Bands I must listen to". As for Action & Fitness, well, I’m just too drawn to Riza Santos’s allure.

So yesterday, I got the April issue of Manual, and March-April issue of Action & Fitness. And then I went home and gave both their much needed visit to the toilet (isn’t that what mags are for?). I’m not editing this. Shut up.

Manual has good writing. The layout is teeming with black and gold and silver, which I find a bit to be on the clichéd grunge side. It’s not ugly, but it’s not original either. The content isn’t dissimilar to other men’s magazine, which shouldn’t be surprising, as it is also a men’s mag. And that’s a problem. Besides not having tacky pictorials of women undressing, there isn’t much else that distinguishes Manual from the glut of other men’s mags, such as FHM or Maxim. The plus side is the "10 Pinoy Bands I must listen to" article that I mentioned a while ago. It’s an informative take of what pinoy bands are worth your attention. I don’t just find it a satisfying-read; I find it a surfeiting-read. The listed bands lean towards rock, though, which shouldn’t be a problem if they don’t all sound and dress alike. They mostly do, although there’s one that’s distinctive. I also enjoyed reading the interview with Sam Oh. Then again, is it even possible to be bored from reading about Sam Oh?

Action & Fitness could benefit from a more attentive editor, as there are a few glaring grammatical errors. That aside, I like Action & Fitness a lot. The way its articles are described on the cover may sound as boring as the senate’s hearing, so I tell you now, they’re not bad. They are, in fact, excellent, because they’re helpful, and they’re blunt and pithy, making reading them not too taxing. Its subjects are mostly about how to be healthier and more active. I must say, it makes exercising sound fun. But by far the best thing about it is the features about Kota Kinabalu, and Micronesia. Their photographs look too tempting, that I’m hating every minute of not being there, and instead, being on this overcommercialized wasteland they call “Manila”. The Riza Santos interview is too short, though, and I don’t know how it ties with other articles. Also, one writer writes that she “lurves” something. Lurve? Just what on Riza’s ample breast is that babytalk “lurve” doing inside a magazine? What’s with all the “lurves” and “luffles” anyway? Why can’t people say they LOVE something instead? 

Anyway, who do you think is prettier, Kim Chiu or Riza Santos?

Kim looks too much like a Chinatown denizen who likes to webcamwhore, and likes to upload those pics on Friendster or Facebook. And she looks underage too. She has a hug-able appeal, but then again, I sometimes find her cuteness grating.

Riza has better curves and has a far greater sex appeal. Before she joined Miss World Canada (I don’t know what that is) she had been in the army and was, among her troops, the one using the heaviest machinegun. So, yeah, she’d totally fit in on a Michael Bay movie and she can blow things up. I mean, blow things like buildings and cars and, well, what were you thinking? I like Riza Santos better. And I’m gonna stop now before this post become my shallowest yet.

Guessing Game

Just a quick one for today. And something different too.

"Slowly, painfully, the ten dollars was collected. The door was opened, and the gust of warm air revived us. Zeebo lined On Jordan’s Stormy Banks, and the church was over."

I’m giving props to anyone who can guess what book those 3 sentences came from.

And just one more clue for you: Calpurnia.

(Much thanks to dhey for giving me this idea).

Of Chimps and Charlatans

Seeing as how arbitrarily-prefixed the word “problogging” is (where’s “conblogging”?), correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m taking for granted that it’s the short of “professional blogging”, as in “getting paid to blog”.

So, pro-blogging. Although many bloggers are into it, some decry it. It’s the same deal with why people spite bands that have stopped being “indy”, and have “sold out”. Simply put, some’s love of blogging is so peculiar, they put this craft on an altar, and they call “sacrilege” when others do it for profit.

I’m undecided about paid blogs. Yeah, it sounds spectacular - what’s more spiffy than earning without leaving home, typing while at the spacious comfort of your own sofa (if you have a laptop, that is) and not worrying about travel expenses, smog, pickpockets and traffic? You can even download movies (shh!) while you toil away. On the other hand, not everyone is capable of writing multiple commentaries every day. Some get exhausted. And I think that is happening to many probloggers - without their realizing - and is the reason their posts are becoming timeworn. Sure, some probloggers excel consistently - and many props to them - but it’s easier to find those that are flat.

But, sure, problogging is neat, and is responsible for unprecedented surge of information. I’m just not in love with it, and I can understand other jaded-souls. Problogging is so hyped, probloggers chest-bump each other until they get breast cancer, and the news is so acknowledging them like it wants to join the orgy, and Time Magazine is droning on and on in multiple articles about how problogging is the nirvana of New Journalism and that probloggers are suddenly the arthouse indy working-class heroes who can write elegiac documentary-like overviews of reality blablabla… With those noises, who wouldn’t be irritated?

Then again, you know what I can’t stand? Ignorant self-proclaimed “real bloggers” who think they’re so illuminated, they chastise probloggers, while claiming themselves as of higher art. Example? This guy.

Of Prostitutes, and Other Bloggers

-Siege Malvar

You know what I can’t stand? It’s when "probloggers" talk about "how to blog" as if they know jackshit about writing.

Real bloggers, when are we going to stand up against this mockery of the form, this exploitation of the medium?

Don’t you think this is a growing problem? People making money out of a medium we have made popularize with our skills and artistry? By our art, we have made blogging respectable! By our passions, we have made blogging authentic! By our compulsion to reach out with what we know we must share, we have made blogging alive, dynamic, vibrant!

Who are these charlatans, these pretenders to our court? Who are these apes with their skills for copy pasting?

I will continue to blog free from ads. I have always been blogging free from ads.

I mourn the sad state of blogging. I mourn the rise of the blogging prostitutes.

And even if I ignore the bad grammars (I won’t nitpick them, thank you), his ego bewilders me. I’d like him to demonstrate just what part of him is “passionate” and “artful”. This part? The only thing formidable about him is his baseball bat, and his post read more like a toiletpaper scribbles of a stuck-up yuppie scum. Nothing he says flows into why he consider probloggers “prostitutes”. And, by the way, “blogging prostitutes”? That sounds more like hookers who blog. I’d like to hear more of that.

And, ah, “charlatan”. It’s one of my favorite insults, but I’m not sure this guy understands what it means. Charlatan is when you boast of having skills you do not possess, or when you’re selling shoddy products you advertise as “the cutting edge of cutting edge”. Charlatan is the merchant who sells a spear, that he claims can penetrate through anything, and a shield, that he claims can defend from anything. (What happens if this all-powerful spear meets the all-enduring shield then?) Charlatan is when you say you have acerbic wit, and you use mass/volume when saying people are dense. And when you claim that your writing is artistic and passionate and skillful, and yet, well, artistry and passion and skill and what crackpot legerdemain aren’t even remotely near your writing, what does that make you?

Let that question besiege you, The Siege.

Newsflash, huh

nightdreamer: hey i have a grammar related question
play-duh: shoot
play-duh: ill try to help
nightdreamer: news is singular or plural?
play-duh: singular
play-duh: you treat it as singular
play-duh: the news says that you suck
play-duh: the news is new
nightdreamer: hey i don’t!

play-duh: haha
play-duh: example lang yun (translation: that’s just an example)
nightdreamer: bah you just ruined my day

Babe Watching

As much as I love my brother, I do find it annoying that he has to be so elitist and snobbish when deciding what DVD to watch. 

My brother would say, "What say you we see Natural Born Killers tonight? No? How about American Psycho? A Clockwork Orange? Raging Bull? Scarface? Goodfellas? Fight Club (yet again)? Babel? Do The Right Thing? 2001 Space Odyssey?"

I have concurred with him often, though sometimes the more apt phrase is "surrendered to him". I’d prepare myself to talk to him for hours about what we feel for the film. Most of the time, he’d just rant, about how dystopian the world is now, and about how movies today are not as good as they were in the past. And then he’d look the films up in wikipedia and peruse their reviews from rottentomatoes, while I’d nag, "Why are you so obsessed with what these high brow film critics think of these films? Are you unable to evaluate them on their own terms, and without knowing what others think?!" And then we’d have a few bouts of shouting. And then we’d be at peace. And then we’d watch another movie, and everything would repeat.

Perhaps I was in a sour mood last week when I lashed out:

"Dammit bro! Just why do we always have to see these award-winning, controversy-stirring movies all the hot-damned time? Can’t we watch cartoons for once?"

He shrugged, but that didn’t stop me from watching Babe while he was sleeping. If you don’t know what Babe is about, you can read the synopsis here as I’m too lazy to rewrite it in my own words.

I first saw Babe when I was 11 years old. Although I enjoyed it then, I only had recollections of how cute it was. So, aside from needing a respite from my brother’s obsession to heavy ass movies, I watched it to see if I’d still like it.

To my surprise, I liked it more than before. Reason is that Babe is populated with animals that actually brim with personalities. They’re not simple wisecracking fodder Dreamworks is so wont to use. They have so much character, that they even have individual ways of speech. It’s hard to believe that, with lolcat being too popular now, people used to bother making anthropomorphic animals sound smarter and less predictable. And maybe this is irony, but they’re a lot cuter when they speak like humans, and not like bulk e-mails.

Family movies of now are pretty bad. Instead of being heartfelt, they feel like soulless corporate drivels that only care for box office figures, and have forgotten what it’s like to have an imagination. Heard of Madagascar? Shark’s Tale? Meet the Robinsons? Home in the Range? Back when they were just out, everyone was all suckered to them because everyone just had to, I dunno, freaking guzzle every crap that looks trendy. Who can tell me now, with a straight face, that they remember these movies’ stories and messages? And yet, we keep seeing kid flicks that aren’t about telling a good story, but are more concerned with shiny ass CGs. Or artsy fartsy gothic stupidities. Or loquacious Zebras. Or longwinded fight scenes. Or selling Linkin’ Park soundtracks, Burger King toys, PS2 videogames, and ring tones.

I urge you to see Babe, and get some Kleenex so you can weep for the cartoons they play now.

Advices - Love or Hate ‘Em?

I believe the most prideful ones like to dispense advices, and that a writer’s pride is peerless. Writers gloat when they can express their thoughts so cogently, their words rock everyone’s perspective. They fancy being so perceptive, that they can plough through all hardships - even those not their own. Advising may be a writer’s nature. I defy you cite an exception.

I have a tolerance for people who get intrusive and offer unsolicited advices. I get plenty of those from my elder friends. Although it’s easy to think that they’re just being annoying, sometimes their words are well-meant.

But when strangers give unsolicited advices? Ah, now that’s nuisance! I won’t feel comfortable when I’m approached by a street preacher and am told to listen to the "voice of my conscience". Or if a bum tells me to be like John Galt.

So what about people who have read me online but haven’t seen me personally? They stand somewhere between unfamiliarity and kinship, and their advices have a more varying credibility. If, for example, I sound troubled on a blog post, their words could either hack away my anxieties, or just nettle me more. It depends on relevancy and tenability.

Any time you type, you’re a writer. The only thing that will vary is if others will see you as a someone who could write for a profession. But I don’t care if you’re an amateur or Pulitzer-Prize laureate. If your comments on my blog are wise and precise, I’ll be grateful. But, if you constantly knock me with patronizing self-important fodders, then you’re nothing but grating.

Diary Ah

Isolation

"Save the earth" said the newly purchased notebook. I bought it neither for its message nor for its viridity. I bought it because I just wanted to scrawl. Back in high school, I would end the day curled on my bed, scribbling on a notebook. I paid little attention to words, but I delighted at the marked union of pen and paper, like lissome twirlings of ballerinas. Presently, I am spoiled by the amenities of word processors, and I rarely willed to do manuscripts. But today, I wanted to redo manuscripts. I wanted to relive the days when writing was less slapdash, for corrections were salient and looked like punishments.

I have a favorite spot in Ortigas Center. It’s the Ortigas Park. Though it is as small as a bum’s bum, it is calming for its greenness, distinct from neighbors of gray skyscrapers and orange lamps. It’s at the middle of a commercial district, but is isolated from activities. It also has a coffee shop - Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf - where I loll at when I need reposes. And today was a day when I needed reposes, for getting away from noises of shoes-clopping and cars-tooralooming will bring peace of mind. I was alone. I seated at a sofa, coffee mug at hand, notebook at the table, drowned by the rhythmic hums of coffee blenders and fragmented yaks of other customers, each having a different story of being here.

When I had just arrived, I was forcefully filling my notebook with words that only made sense to me. Three persons - a guy, two girls - were at the table next to mine. They had a laptop up and were, to their surroundings, oblivious, as I momentarily was to them. The guy did legerdemains. Card tricks. Coin tricks. He could be doing that to impress the chicks, which he’s quite successful at, for he was applauded. He even taught few of his tricks to his friends, and, though curious, I was too shy to look their way - for they were strangers - long.

And then he played a movie on his laptop, showing a video he recommends his girl friends (that bastard) to watch. It was in Japanese, so I didn’t understand what was happening, and I went back to writing (or the pretense of). But then, I heard Ludwig von’s music, played so passionately the thespians bickered about it. And then I recalled an anime with the same premises. I peeked, and sure enough, I knew what was being played. Nodame Cantabile, live version. I knew this! I was just as dorky as that guy. Oh my God.

They ended their jolly meeting and they parted ways tearfully. They seemed like they had kinships, but had long been absent from each other. And then they disappeared, resuming a life comparatively plebeian. I was left at my seat. I thought, these people were pretty swell. I could have sought their friendship and we would get along. But, I was too reticent, and all I did was look from afar, yearning to soon claim possession of a glee like theirs; yearning that I, too, would soon converge with my faraway friends and catch up on each other’s life.

It’s funny how much I empathized with these strangers.

Interlude: My Pet Peeves

People who take themselves too seriously but refuse to take others seriously.

People who are sarcastic every friggin’ time, especially when uncalled for.

People who take everything personally.

People who can’t take a joke.

People who talk down to you.

People who have to hammer down the point that they’re intellectual.

And funny.

People who insist on "moving on" without deracinating the problems.

Elites who think they’re such a working class hero.

"Friends" who tell you they’ll be there when you need them, but never are until it’s too late. They regret, and then go back to their retarded uncaring selfish ways again.

People who, when you criticize the movies they like, say "You really should learn how to sit back, turn off your brain and EN-JJJOOY!"

Guys who think they’re so hiphop and gangsta’.

Guys who think they’re so punk rock.

Elevator music. Especially Bossa Nova renditions of "Eleanor Rigby".

Those bloody annoying badass-posturing beer adverts.

Labandera adverts.

Kris Aquino adverts.

GMA propagandas and propagandists.

Those shameless self-promoting posters of politicians taking credits for all their shoddy projects, as if their faces are some kind of precious loveboat materials.

Litterbugs. Especially jeepney passengers who throw out peanut shells and eaten corns.

Inconsiderate jerks who stand next to the elevator buttons but won’t hold the doors open for incoming passengers.

People who can’t fall in line.

Overbearing pricks.

Manila’s Taxi Drivers.

And damned plagiarists.

Bete Noire

A plagiarist is lurking beneath the shadows of Multiply, and I can’t help being speechless in a retarded kind of way.

He/she/it copy-pasted two of my blog posts: Zzz, and A Spark of Intellect (his/her/its usage of the A Spark post is hilariously out of context). That’s not all, though. Apparently that, um, creature also saw fit to make the rounds in other i.ph blogs and take their works without permission and reference. Lizette, Witssuzara, and Dowmeng are notable victims. Even the "about me" isn’t an original material. That one is from the defunct kimochiwarui.

I’m baffled. If such, uh, entity admires our posts, then why doesn’t that, uh, piddle write its own material instead while having us as its inspiration? Is it such a chore to write imaginatively? I don’t think so. I find that writing is like being a conductor, and I wallow in what I orchestrate, however horrible that may be at times.

Curious? If you have a Multiply account, you can add that twit and find out yourself. I tried that, and the twat wasn’t very discerning about adding strangers. What a stupid and desperate degenerate.

Linky.

(Thank you, Aileen, for informing me)

All Jazzed Up, Part 2: Vocal

If you’ve missed the first installment and doesn’t want to back-read, here’s the short of what All Jazzed Up is. It’s my (now) series of posts about my top five jazz albums of a particular kind - guitar for part 1. This is my way to recommend which albums to get if you are a fan of jazz, or if you want to get into jazz. Today, I am listing 5 of my favorite vocal jazz albums. But before that, let me state my two rules for these lists, so that you’d know how things work here. 1.) An artist will not appear on a list twice. I want to encourage everyone to check out as many artists as they can. Jazz is after all a very diverse field of music, and it has a plethora of performers with their own styles. 2.) I am not including compilation albums. I don’t hate compilation albums, but I think the main albums are the ones to listen to if you want to understand an artist’s works and visions. If you are unable to find copies of the listed albums, though, compilations are good substitutes.

5. Julie London - Julie is Her Name vol. 1

When you hear many jazz vocalists, your reaction upon reading this may be a beffudled "why Julie?" You might say that she’s not the most talented musician, and that her voice has a very limited range. Those are true, of course, but I like this album’s minimal approach. Most other vocalists’ albums are backed by a sometimes overwhelming big band, or at least by a trio. This album, however, only has a guitar and a bass accompanying Julie. Since it’s merely the 3 of them, the songs have a very muted feel and they achieve a very film-noir-ish ambience. Who can hear her sing Cry Me A River and not feel bluesy and chilly?

Cry me a river (Julie London)

4. Ella Fitzgerald - Sings the Johnny Mercer Song Book

Ella’s songbook albums are legendary. On each of them, she sings songs focused on one of many famous jazz composers - like Ira and George Gershwin, Cole Porter, Duke Ellington, etc. Of her many songbooks, I like Johnny Mercer’s the most (and Cole Porter’s at a very close second). But, I advice you not take this particular choice too seriously. By all means, discover Ella songbooks. There are too many to choose from and arguing which one is best is simply a matter of which composer and which arrangement you like the most. I like Johnny Mercer Song Book for the often understated big band arrangement, and for the ebullient lyrics of the songs. As for Ella Fitzgerald, in terms of vocal range and purity of voice, she’s arguably the best among all jazz vocalists.

Something’s Gotta Give (Ella Fitzgerald)

3. Billie Holiday - Songs for Distingue Lovers

Billie Holiday is also one of the finest jazz vocalists. She sounds like she has her vocal chords continuously yanked, and that results to her voice having limited range. But rather than letting her limitations cripple her, she knows how to use them to give her songs more personal touches. She has a penchant to the blues, too, which helps. I like this ablum’s choice of instruments, which include piano, drums, bass, saxophone, guitar and a muted trumpet. I also like the arrangement. All songs have a soft, intimate, and bittersweet feel. They’re the kind of music ideal for when you’re dining with your love. Thank me later for that advice.

A Foggy Day (Billie Holiday)

2. Gil Scott-Heron and Brian Jackson – Winter In America

I put this here because I read that this is a jazz album. Frankly, I don’t know what’s jazzy about it. Sure, there are improvisations, but improvisations are not restricted to jazz. None of the songs here swing. I guess Brian Jackon’s organ-and-flute-playing is the reason this is considered "jazz". If you’re a purist and if you don’t like the merging of jazz and funk/soul music, you might not like this album. I love it. Gil Scott Heron isn’t the best vocalist, but he puts so much feeling into his lyrics that it’s impossible not to like him. And his songs are always originals. That’s right, folks, while other albums here are renditions of jazz standards, Winter in America – as is the case of every Scott-Heron’s albums – consists entirely of original compositions. Each song is distinct, fresh and unrepetitive. These songs also span no-nonsense topics like drug addiction, alcoholism, platonic love, newborn child, going home, and even the Watergate scandal. (Someone of the present generation needs to take a page from  Scott-Heron and to stop singing about personal "angst") His songwriting is influential, that he is often cited as a progenitor to rap music. Intelligent rap music, that is.

(Make sure you get the extended edition of the album, which includes 4 live performances. The live version of The Bottle is remarkable. I uploaded both the studio and the live version, so that you can compare.) 

The Bottle (Gil Scott-Heron & Brian Jackson)

The Bottle (Live) (Gil Scott-Heron & Brian Jackson)

1. John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman – Self-Titled

This album is billed to both Johnny Hartman (a vocalist) and John Coltrane (a saxophonist), but I consider Coltrane’s role here as secondary. That’s not to say his contributions aren’t significant. Quite the contrary, as he complements Johnny Hartman perfectly. Although he’s well known for playing heavy and aggressive avant-garde jazz, here he proves that he can do just as well when playing soft ballads. As for Johnny Hartman, imagine an archetypical crooner from the 50’s and you’d have an idea how he sounds like. Now imagine such crooner accompanied with a saxophone, a piano, a bass, and a drum, and you still wouldn’t come close to predicting how beautiful the entire album sounds. Every songs here create a very romantic atmosphere, and I dare suggest that you play them when you and your love ones are, well, close.

My One And Only Love (John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman)

So those are my selections. Again, if you have anything else to suggest, go abuse my comment box!