You Fill Up My Senses, Like WD40

If you want success, find a suitable mentor. Emulate their achievements, workshop your problems, seek their advice. Older people have gained wisdom through years of experience. In your twenties, you simply can’t know it all.

-Conventional wisdom, maybe Confucius or Oprah said something like this once

Dear Tommy Lee,

My name is Lizzie and I am 27 years old. I am a devout disciple of rock n’ roll from the Filipino provinces. I am searching for answers in life and was wondering if you could be my mentor. I actually think I might be a little mentally ill because I sometimes find you attractive on television, especially when you take your shirt off and go ape on the drum kit. Painted men and jail breakers are hot.

When I grow up, I want to be a rock star just like you. I discovered I wanted to be a rock star after watching your show, Rockstar Supernova. My favourite pastime is actually watching Rockstar and laying into a bit of sweet, sweet alcohol on the living room couch, although this means I’m always turning up to work drunk because Rockstar airs in the Philippines at 8 am on Wednesday and Thursday mornings.

I’m not the only one who thinks I have star potential. My friends sometimes tell me I “rock the house”. Often they say “wow, that’s so rock n’ roll space cadet” when I tell them about stuff I didn’t actually do on the weekend but wish I had.

Furthermore, I’m really good at falling asleep in strange places and looking haggard in the morning. Oh oh, and like all the time, when I turn up at parties an hour late, other people will say crazy things like “whoa, look out, now here’s trouble” and slap my arse. Does that ever happen to you?

I’ve been learning the guitar and am good at John Denver’s songs. I know he’s not very r&r but I’ve been told that Denver is musically similar to the Stone Temple Pilots if you stand in an enclosed space for long enough after it’s been WD40-ied. I’ve never tried getting high on household cleaners (can it be done?), but I’d totally like to bring a bit more hum to the works of Denver, because at the moment all the ho’s there but it’s sautéed in wrong sauce. I think we could really rock that mutha tractor biatch Annie’s Song out with a bit of hard kore bass, maybe stripped back a bit, and some phat superhero he-man geeetar upfront.

Perhaps you could tell me whether my idea is sautéed even mildly in the right sauce? I should ask the house band, since without them we would all be nothing. Actually, I would also like to ask them if they play any house music ‘cause I am a massive fan of house music, especially C & C music factory’s pre ’91 stuff (you know, before they got signed and were still struggling artists doing running man busks on street corners in Seattle. Didn’t they do some collaboration with Black Francis? I mean, they were so much truer to themselves before Things That Make You Go Mmmm).

The only other thing I wanted you to clarify was which wrong sauce you keep referring to. It’s a pretty cool thing to say, but there are so many wrong sauces in the Philippines that it’s really hard to find a right one.

But, like, awesome, wow, WOW!!! Can I throw it back to Brookie on the stage now?
xx Rock Star Lizzie Supervehicle

PS Is rock star one word or two? I need to know ‘cause I’m changing my title by depole and I’d totally hate for people to be laughing at me like I was some kind of moron if I screwed up.

Ode to Ceres

The bus terminal. Nine o’clock.
A wiry man
with a determined stride
and a smell of fried things
nods with absolute assurance.
He whistles to a friend,
another smelly one,
who pushes me onto a bus.
Not the front of the bus
or the side of the bus
or the back of the bus
or, indeed, anywhere near fresh air.
In the smelliest,
hottest,
darkest part of the bus
In minutes that creep,
infected by second hand karaoke
and last night’s insomnia
I wither. I shrivel slowly,
riddled with hangover.

Ah, praise be to timetables,
for they are all thrown away.
Some have even been used
to hold salt for hungry travellers,
devouring duck embryos.
Much of the embryonic fluid
embraces lovingly
my acute alcoholic poisoning.

In two hours there is a yell:
We Are Off!
Off ma’am, completely off!
Really? What a riot.
Oh, how lovely to be woken up
Just at the moment of bothersome sleep.
Asleep on this bus?
Hell no, what a silly thought indeed.

The bus winds its wild way
Through territory home to NPA
And broken vehicles the sorry prey
Of precision Pinoy driving skills.

Jesus.
LOOK OUT FOR THAT CORNER!
Whoops, I’m just a passenger.
Sometimes I forget
when I am thrown up the front of the bus
or throwing up at the front of the bus.
Airborne and heroic,
for a second or two.
Look mummy, I’m flying
and that nice man is putting corn in my face.

None for me thanks.
I had ten bags of peanuts for breakfast.
But perhaps you could tell me
When this lovely journey is already finishing?
Would it be tonight, or tomorrow,
At the mental home?
Or perhaps at my funeral?
No idea? Oh no, that’s okay.
Maybe we should all just pray.

God Bless Our Journey
proclaims our driver’s mirror.
I briefly permit myself the blessing
To consider the journey without god’s good grace.
My bruised rear is the very definition of Satan’s wrath.
Satan on Monday morning after a big weekend
On the piss
and I think there might be a team meeting
with the other branch from hell.

No, wait.
Could we be here?
Surely not.
No, wait we are. I recognize this place.
This is the same smell I smelt before.
And look, there’s the same pile of garbage from days of yore!
We’re not one hundred metres away, we’re so, so near!
Tap tap.
What’s that?
Oh no wait, we’ve stopped.
Three Pinoys extract themselves from the roof space.
We start again. Seventy metres when
Tap tap!
Again?
A balut seller climbs through the window,
Then climbs out.
On we roll.
Then we stop.
The driver has a quiet smoke,
buys a bottle of luke warm coke,
while five schoolchildren file out.
Twenty metres, ten, again
Tap tap!
WHAT THE FRICK HAS NO ONE HEARD OF A BLOODY BUS STOP!
Mortified by my shocking moan
I exeunt to walk the rest alone.

Are we in Australia yet?

Expert Admits To Not Being An Expert

I am an expert on many things, the topic of “English as an International Language” not being one of them. Nevertheless, this is the title of a talk that I am fearlessly giving (hopefully in English) to some graduating English majors at West Negros College next Thursday.

Anybody with a spare ninety minute speech on this subject is urged to contact me asap, no further questions asked.

STARK RAVIN' NOISY

I’m dumb-founded at my newly acquired tolerance for loud noise, gained in just the space of a year. I’ve always had a soft spot for silence and thoughtful reflection. These days I’m just a massive fan of any noise environment that doesn’t result in irreversible deafness.

A case in point... Today I am sitting at my desk with gritted teeth. Located directly outside City Hall are six of the biggest sub-woofers I have ever seen. All six are currently pumping out, in slightly mistimed unison, the greatest hits of Survivor for the sixtieth time today. Unfortunately, Survivor only had one great hit, that being “Eye of the Tiger”. I’m trying to persevere with a bit of statistical analysis on important topics like child malnutrition, access to government health programs and disabilities in Bacolod. Unfortunately, most of the under-privileged children in the city currently appear to be outside my window throwing Rocky-like punches in the air every time the MC cranks “risin’ up, straight to the top...” over the airwaves, again and again and again.

I could be irritated but the atmosphere’s a bit too infectious. The whole city, except for me, is waiting for Filipino ‘man of the moment’ and adopted son of Bacolod, Manny Pacquiao, to arrive. I feel like a bit of a party pooper, but I’d attract too much of a spectacle if I went out there and joined them all. I might even end up on the teevs, and I’m wearing my fat clothes today.

How times change. I used to complain when my Pyrmont “work colleagues” (you know who you are) would talk loudly and provocatively about me outside my office. These days I have to put up with maoist revolutionaries screaming “Out with America, out with all white people who look like Americans” just next to the Fountain of Justice in the courtyard.

Yesterday, there was an anti-Gloria demonstration, led by an angry Pinay who barked about corruption and accountability in Ilonggo, allegedly the happiest language in the Philippines. This lasted for four hours in Luzuriaga Street, while disenchanted locals sang various anti-Gloria jingles, made screaming references to Hitler and ignored the on-going barrage of distorted feedback from an obviously pro-Gloria loud speaker that was trying to sabotage the whole event. The overall effect was a comprehensive showcase of the most offensive noises Earth has to offer.

Some days I think no one else must be able to hear themselves, since the noise is constantly inappropriate, uncalled-for and/or off-key. Whether it originates from blaring car horns, noisy screaming children or illegal karaoke set-ups on street corners, I can quite literally write that there’s always something offensive lurking in my ear canal.

It seems that the Pinoys don’t even stop to sleep. Last Monday night I was awoken at 4 am by the Macarena pumping out of the PA system at the Provincial Lagoon, four blocks from my house. No one will ever convince me it was a Macarena emergency. This appalling start to the day was followed by an assortment of Spice Girls, Kylie and Starship songs, leaving absolutely no doubt in my mind that Bacolod City really was built on rock n’ roll. (Perhaps that explains why significant parts of it are prematurely falling down.)

By all accounts the clamor should have driven me mad by now, but strangely in the middle of each racket I always end up laughing in a very noisy way that feels a lot like crying. In fact, it’s a lot like that Henry Rollins song where he laughs in a mentally deranged way for about five minutes before swearing to remain a liar.

In any case, I’m now well-versed in making my own hullabaloo. If you can’t beat ‘em, you might as well join ‘em, and join ‘em in a deadset crazy way too says I.