Images and Words

“Dubai is the quintessential home of sand, sun and shopping. A century ago, it was a tranquil town whose coral-and-gypsum huts housed Bedouin traders and pearl divers. Today the merchants have gone international and science-fiction skyscrapers stand alongside the mosques and wind towers of Old Dubai”.
- from the Lonely Planet website

For many years now, the Gulf States (i.e. UAE, Qatar, Bahrain) have been the preferred destinations for thousand upon thousands of our OFWs. Blame it on the enormous global demands for oil which transformed those former backwaters into their current “uber-wealthy nation” status and the tax-free system in those filthy-rich shiekdoms for causing this present day “diaspora” or migration. What person in his right mind could dare refuse such enticing perks like free and luxurious board and lodging and of course, wages equivalent and sometimes higher than 4x of current pay here in our godforsaken country. Clearly, it all boils down to economics vis a vis the singular pursuit to uplift one’s status in life.

Perhaps the city that best exemplifies this burgeoning trend is Dubai, considered as the crown jewel of the United Arab Emirates. It’s hard to fathom the immense in-roads that city has experienced in such a short amount of time. These staggering developments have resulted to a plethora of employment opportunities for the migrant worker to take advantage of. Go get yourself a copy of the Sunday classifieds of the Manila Bulletin or check out those long queues outside employment agencies and you’ll get my drift. Which had me pondering two things: Are the Arabs simply that lazy and well-off that they have to hire foreign workers to do their bidding? Or is it simply because the staggering advancements and progress in their country necessitates such a massive influx of outside help? Go figure.

Almost all of us have relatives or knows someone who has worked or is currently working in the Middle East. These fortune-seekers represent the growing breed of Filipinos who brave the estrangement of family and the perils associated with being an immigrant just to earn their well-deserved keep. Leaving one’s homeland to make a living abroad is by any means no small feat. Horror stories abound of abuses (both physical and sexual) contractual violations and other inequities imposed by foreign employers. Indeed, the picture is not always that rosy in the lands of sky-rocketing wages and highly-industrialized environs. The sacrifices and hardships they endure make for compelling materials that would put any telenovelas to shame. Consider this too: where if not for the billions of dollars of OFW remittances yearly, our economy would surely be in a much deeper quagmire.

So why the heck am I dreaming of Dubai? For the simple fact that it is where my mind and my heart belongs to right now. You see, someone very dear to me has been toiling in that city for almost two months now. Though I have long known the fact that she was leaving, one can not really prepare for the sad realities a prolonged physical separation would entail – the thousand of miles apart, the different time zones to adjust and the feeling of daily yearning to name just a few. Recent advances in technology and telecommunications (e,g. SMS, email, voicechat) somewhat helps to bridge the gap and to assuage the loneliness. Still, nothing beats that simple but overwhelming joy of being just a whisper away from the person you cherish the most.

In my 27 plus years in this mortal coil, it has never really occurred to me to take that giant leap and seek opportunities that lay elsewhere (read: work overseas). I have grown accustomed and attached to my familiar surroundings and to the comforts and permanence of family and friends. I was content to earn my monthly pittance, spend a few here and there and get drunk on weekends. Been working for almost 4 years (with certain lapses in between) now and still haven’t gotten the savings or the goods to show for it. Time, it seems, is sadly not on my side.

How I’m gonna make my dreams a reality is still a big question mark. Finances (lots of it!) are still the prime considerations. Going abroad is nothing to sneeze at. If the plane fare wouldn’t burn a big hole in your pockets, then the cost of living and other incidental expenses will. Plus the fact that I have no surefire employment waiting for me there further adds a damper to my plans. The odds are all sadly stacked against my favor. Perhaps all I have now is an unbridled determination to make that leap of faith and take the biggest chance in my otherwise pathetic and mundane existence.

But enough of these ramblings and self-imposed doubts and fears. Being a slave to helplessness would do me no good. I have long believed in the mantra “Fortune favors the brave” so I guess it’s high time to walk the walk and talk the talk, so to speak. If you have to ask me, the biggest motivation I possess right now is that if ever my dreams come into fruition, I’m leaving to go see about a girl - my damsel in the desert.

(postcript: on a happy note, my damsel in the desert returned to the country last June 16. the dubai sojourn is on hold for now. but hey, who’s complaining?)

“I come as a pilgrim of love, of truth and of hope”
- from the pope’s 1998 visit to Cuba

In what has been labeled as the “largest funeral in modern times”, Johannes Paulo II or more universally known as Pope John Paul II, came home to the embrace of his Holy Creator and laid to rest in the very bedrock of Catholicism – St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City.

The 264th pontiff (and the first non-Italian in 455 years) stood at the helm of the Catholic Church for 26 years, an era marked by immense global upheavals and unparalleled developments. In a world constantly burdened by poverty, wars and hopelessness, John Paul II was an indefatigable beacon of light amidst the prevailing darkness.

He preached his message of openness and forgiveness, conducted inter-faith dialogues and espoused the revival of the “culture of life” from Albania to Zimbabwe. Along the way, he effected changes, advocated the return to a strong sense of morality and spoke about the evils of Capitalism. Yet, he was always accorded the warmest of welcomes wherever his travels took him.

Historians credit him for aiding in the downfall of Communism, thereby lifting the Iron Curtain enveloping his native Poland and the rest of Eastern Europe. On the other end of the spectrum, critics blame him for contributing to the spread of the AIDS epidemic due to his hardline stance on birth control and for stifling the growing clamor towards a more open-minded and liberal Church.

Many of us will tend to disagree with his beliefs and policies, but it is impossibly hard not to like the man for his radiant warmth and unassailable integrity.

More than 120 countries were blessed to have been touched by his presence. His visits to Cuba and Israel were milestones for the Church. He even took the bold step of apologizing for the Vatican’s apathy and indifference to the Jews in the aforementioned Israel sojourn. Indeed, this was a religious figure unafraid to face up to the mistakes and misgivings of his Church’s past.

No destination was too far and no government too tyrannical for the most traveled pontiff in history. Not even an assassin’s bullet could deter his universal quest to spread his message of love and hope.

We Filipinos were blessed twice over as John Paul II made two memorable and momentous pilgrimages to a country he considers close to his heart.

The first one, in 1981, hardly registers to us twentysomethings of today. Martial law had just ended then (albeit hastened by his visit) and he was in town to beatify one of our own – Lorenzo Ruiz (now a saint). It’s worth noting that the Holy See rarely conducts beatification rites outside of the Vatican. Millions of Filipinos welcomed him like he was a long-awaited house guest. In turn, the visit would mark the start of a special relationship between Karol and Juan de la Cruz.

It would take another 14 years before he would return but the long wait would be overshadowed by the ecstatic response and the mammoth crowds that welcomed his “homecoming”. The entire country was transfixed by “papal-mania” for days on end and the World Youth Day of 1995 would stand out in history for the way it captivated a country, the world and a very visibly-pleased Pope.

No surprise then that the archipelago was recently gripped in a massive outpouring of grief as though a part of the family had died. His demise was indeed a tragic loss to us Filipinos as the Holy Father was viewed as one of the champions of the less-privileged and downtrodden. It would almost have been criminal if GMA was not personally there to attend the funeral rites in behalf of the Filipino nation.

Although he had been frail and beset with numerous illnesses for the last few years, he seemed to have made us believed that he would live on to greet the third millennium with his abundant wisdom, charisma and infinite love for humanity.

Karol Jozef Wojtyla (1920-2005). Maggio il vostro lustro chiaro su questo mondo sempre.

Last February 6, 2005, another godchild was added to my ever-growing roster of “inaanaks”. I’m now a godfather eight times (or is it 9?) over. Time flies when you’ve had too many godchildren.

This baptism was a quite a departure from the others I’ve attended before. For one, I haven’t had yet the pleasure of meeting both the parents and the child. All I knew was that the dad is my 2nd cousin and the place would be in Cavite. It also marked the first time I became a godfather to a relative from the paternal side.

Like all other typical family gatherings, I had a strong inkling that the affair would be overflowing with food and booze. Thankfully, my conjecture was right on the mark.

Having come from a “dawn-ending drinking session”, the night before, I really wasn’t that excited to face the day ahead. Yet, I was resigned to the fact that my presence was required. A hangover while driving under the scorching mid-day heat isn’t exactly something to look forward too. After several persistent wake-up calls from my parents, I eventually mustered the will and the strength to go about my morning rituals and get dressed. By now, we were already way behind the scheduled time for the christening.

With our trusty steed, Ironhide (our Lite Ace van, for the uninitiated) leading the way, we coasted along Coastal Road and Bacoor with nary a snag. Maybe we could still make it in time to the church after all, I surmised. Our expectations were eventually dashed as we encountered a nasty buildup on the way to the church. It was 30 minutes of hellish gridlock that we had to endure before we got to the appointed place.

All of us are quite familiar with the role of being a godparent. For starters, it requires attending the christening ceremony and all the other rituals associated with the sacrament of baptism. Lack of adequate sleep and the bottleneck we encountered prevented me from fulfilling my avowed obligation to my godson. Mea maxima culpa.

Thus, the next logical thing to do was to proceed directly to the reception place – the family’s house inside one of those all-too familiar subdivisions dotting the suburbian Cavite landscape.

Arriving at their abode, I was naturally hesitant to make the customary social greetings as is the wont when meeting new people for the first time. Sure, they were my relatives, but they were still all perfect strangers to me. Fortunately, my folks made all the necessary introductions and all I had to do was reply with the perfunctory smile and handshakes.

The celebrant was truly a sight to behold, a chubby cherub (christened Dirc Martin, the father being a huge NBA fanatic) with the cutest of smiles. Coming out as a healthy 10.5 pound offspring, he was very much the little bundle of joy his visibly proud and ecstatic parents wished for. My only fervent hope was that I would be able to see him grow up as a self-confident and unassuming young man, devoid off all the trappings and frustrations of this mortal coil.

The buffet table was already buzzing with action and the influx of guests made for a disorderly scene. The dishes were a sumptuous cacophony of local cuisine with a few typical party staples thrown in. Needless to say, the gastronomic delights were more than enough to satisfy my already famished state.

Logic and social norms dictate that a hearty meal be followed with a massive serving of drinks to go around. My folks and other relatives gamely started the proceedings as they gathered around a long wooden table. Me? I was still taking my sweet time and contemplating if I’d be able to weather another drinking session. You see, I was nursing this slight hangover that was made worse by a lack of meaningful sleep. The sweltering heat made things as worse as it already was.

After a lot of prodding from my relatives, I eventually caved in and joined the fray. The kid’s father was a superb and gracious host as he attended to all our needs and made sure the booze and food was in ample supply. My initial hesitation was now turning into a rather strong urge to guzzle up till a trace of drunken stupor made its way to my still alcohol-saturated system.

It was also during this time that I got to know my formerly “unfamiliar” relatives better and deeper. My initial shyness and misgivings were overpowered by their warmth and hospitality. From the celebrant’s father to his siblings and parents, they all made me feel like family, like we’ve known each other for the longest of times. Clearly, events like this serves to strengthen the natural bonds that exists among relatives.

They regaled me with tales from their life experiences – their exploits, struggles and some little known facts about our family that further reinforced whatever scant knowledge I have of our huge clan. The laughs and jokes were aplenty, matched only by the free-flowing deluge of drinks and chow. It seemed that the fun and fellowship would last till the wee hours of the evening.

Our relatives were rather appreciative of my coming that they were already looking forward to our next drinking/bonding session. Chalk up another prospective “tomaan-tambayan” venue for this weekend warrior.

Like all good things that must come to an end, we bid our farewells at around 5pm. By then, I was still in my elements and more than fit and able to meet the rigors of the long drive ahead. Blame it on my oft-repeated role as the designated driver even while inebriated. After the long, drawn-out goodbyes, it was back to the urban jungle for us and the promise of another manic Monday.

It was indeed a cathartic and heartening experience to bond with long lost relatives and to serve as a godfather to the newest member of our ever-expanding clan. Without an iota of a doubt, this familial bond would only grow stronger as the years go by. The challenge now resides on us, the younger set as we continue to bridge the generational gap and establish deeper and more meaningful links.

I am greatly heartened by the fact that even if this kind of gatherings are few and far in between, the distance and the lost years can easily be transcended by the ties that binds people sharing one common heritage.

One love, one blood. We have just got to share it.

Commitment. The very mention of it strikes terror in the hearts of those unwilling and unprepared to face the consequences it entails. It has become the modern-day plague, an outbreak spreading among the twentysomethings of today. The thorny and nagging bone of contention that often puts a damper to an otherwise budding and blissful romance. What is it about the Big C that provokes such deep-seated fear and paranoia among those who have been to the brink and even beyond?

It could be partly due to one definition of the word which states that commitment is an “official consignment, as to a prison or mental health facility” Lest we all collectively shudder at that thought, in hindsight, we are really consigning ourselves to an institution (the relationship) that neither have guards nor high and padded walls but have “circle of trusts”, “sweet nothings” and “displays of affection”. The parallelisms lie in the fact that like those institutions, it has a built-in set of rules and regulations sprinkled with certain “limitations” that we must all adhere to. It is the bittersweet prelude to the “perpetua reclusion” of relationships – marriage

Our routines, lifestyles, habits, are for better or worse, altered once the Big C enters the equation. It is tantamount to relinquishing our long-held freedoms and liberties (read: freewheeling and hedonistic ways) in exchange for a more controlled, subdued and oftentimes mundane existence. We surrender ourselves to the great unknown, an abyss that has its pitfalls and tribulations. Yet, it also a time of pure, unabashed happiness akin to the joyous times of our childhood. Life indeed is yin and yang, always taking the good with the bad.

Call it gut feel or one gigantic leap of faith, the act of committing to someone requires tremendous amounts of sacrifices and compromises, fortitude, sheer guts and determination to hurdle the challenges ahead. Even the wisest, the bravest, the fools who rush in, the hopeless romantic, or anyone who has been mystified by the idea of falling in love, all of us, have been subjected to the must cruel emotional/psychological torture of all – the fear of the unknown and the feeling of helplessness and vulnerability that it brings.

Many will dilly-dally or will have cold feet when the Big C comes a-calling. Human frailty and inherent mistrust always comes into play. We tend to take comfort in the sanctuary of our solitary confinement and in the customary ebb and flow of our lives. We are scared shitless to commit the same old mistakes time and time again. After all, our pride and the notion of self-preservation are the only saving graces we take refuge to in the face of great adversity and repeated failures. In the end, we are nonetheless left with a feeling of emptiness because we refused to have risked it all.

Which finally begs the question: Am I afraid of the Big C? The answer borders on the edge of lucidity - yes for all the wrong reasons and no for all the right ones. Ready to crash and burn, I never learn…

And so this is Christmas and what have you done
Another year over; a new one just begun
-John Lennon (“Happy Christmas, War is Over”)

John Lennon is God.

With his rousing and unforgettable Christmas ditty (an all-time fave), the late, great Beatle truly encapsulated the essence and spirit of the holidays. Pure genius at work. So what have we really done? As the big day draws near, we are but helplessly confined to bouts of soul-searching and constant self reflection. Life altering questions flood our mind. Major decisions must be made. The year zoomed by like a blur, the new one looming in the horizon. We are but silent witnesses to the ravages of time and the eternally unfulfilled promise of the future.

Our last day at work and I can’t help but feel lethargic. Everybody seems to be in heightened vacation mode, albeit giddily looking forward to the endless streams of drinking, feasting and all the other delights that Christmas brings. Yup. It’s gonna be a veritable cornucopia of hedonism delight once more. Same old thing. Year after year after year. Not that I’m complaining. This is the utopian dream – no worries, no cares and no waking up at ungodly hours. The holidays have been witness to some of my greatest feats of debauchery – consuming inhuman amounts of booze, nicotine and everything else in between was and still is normal fare come Christmas season.

Last official working day of the year. A crossroad of significant proportions to say the least. Though I feel I haven’t come full circle yet, 2004 was a turning point. It marked my much overdue re-entry into the rat race. Prior to that, I was just another devil-may-care bum unmindfully making my way through the labyrinth of this mortal coil. Two plus years religiously spent on booze, babes and all sorts of bacchanalia. I sure do miss the good ole days. Yet, I was also resigned to the fact that I had to haul my ass to work to earn my pittance. Slaves to the wage we all are.

As we pause and reflect on the year that was, we can’t help but feel trapped in a state of anxiety and exasperation. For those gifted with boundless optimism, a new opportunity for changes and the vow of better things to come. For those perpetually caught in a state of cynicism and loathing, another round of miseries and sorrows to bear. You pick your poison. Been there, done that.

Yes, there were the good, the bad and the downright ugly. Everything went by like a blur. If you ask me, this has been quite a pretty good year indeed. I met many interesting and worthwhile people with whom I shared some pretty good experiences. Work has been mighty fine so far, especially my present one. Now as for what the coming year has to offer, that is the great unknown staring me squarely in the face.

My motto for 2004 was “Pabor na Pabor sa 2004. Simple and catchy. Fortunately for me, it somehow came true. For the approaching year, I am envisioning a more cautious and somber maxim so as not to over-extend the spate of luck and blessings creeping in. “I’m Still Alive in 2005” A brave and bold proclamation from someone who’s still figuring out how to navigate the twists and turns that litters the bumpy road ahead.

One life. One love. We need to share it.

In sic transit mundi gloria. (Thus passes away the glory of the world)

The nation is once again caught in a massive outpouring of grief and monumental mourning. Local Tinseltown’s undisputed “Da King” is gone - riding away towards the sunset and into the pantheons of the immortals. For more than half a century, FPJ came to symbolize the aspirations of the masses, the larger than life screen hero who transcended the silver screen and made the subsequent leapt into the sleazy and dog-eat-dog world of local politics. The king has left this mortal coil and his loyal subjects have come en masse to pay their last, tearful respects. After Manny Paquiao’s smashing ring triumph, the country is left to wallow in the devastating loss of its greatest and renowned celluloid hero.

FPJ’s wake may yet approximate that of the martyred Ninoy Aquino in terms of drawing power, sheer drama and the ensuing monstrous traffic jams it may bring about. Here we have two national figures whose incandescent flames were abruptly extinguished. Both were magnetic symbols of a struggle against the perceived tyranny of their times – one against a long-standing dictatorship, the other from a besieged President who he claimed cheated him of his rightful throne (the electoral protest is still pending). Ninoy’s manifest destiny was snuffed out by a hail of bullets, FPJ’s by the banality of the ballots. The two are also blessed with widows who further magnify and add mystique to their charisma and legend. Fittingly, both were to lie in state at the historic and sprawling Sto. Domingo Church.

Being the colossal media and entertainment figure that he was, the major TV networks were understandably all caught up in a frenzied coverage, reporting on FPJ’s untimely demise that rivals that of a head of state’s death. The two TV titans, Channels 2 and 7, even had their live set-up from both the Arlington Funeral Homes and the Sto. Domingo Church during their late night news programs. They delivered a blow-by-blow accounting of the event that had the entire country riveted. Once again, they were trying to outdo each other in their unceasing battle for those precious TV ratings. Luckily, the viewers were treated to a front-row seat and an exhaustive news coverage of the events as they unfurled. The Rico Yan tragedy proved to be an overt display of excessive media hype and hubris. For all intents and purposes, the media will be excused from resulting to over-indulgence this time around. Not when the King is the subject of the story.

I’m no big FPJ fan but I was intently glued to the tube as I joined the hoi polloi in watching what is undoubtedly the event of the year. The throngs of people I saw trudging their way to Sto. Domingo as I passed by en route from work was a resounding testament to the man’s unsurpassed popularity. Some were from far-flung places and were there as early as 4am. Such devotion and unbridled respect for their hero seems to be turning into a common Pinoy trait. Or is it because FPJ is the uncommon and absolute personification of everything we hope for in our heroes and idols?

Countless stories abound with regards to FPJ’s infinite goodness and unmatched generosity. Anecdotes from family and friends would make for good reading material. He was a man of a few words but he let his big heart do the talking. Many will make their somber journey to Sto. Domingo having lost a father-figure, benefactor, friend, idol, and hero. I am of the opinion that his defeat in the elections was in itself a blessing in disguise. He would have died with a heavy heart had he entered the snakepit that is Malacanang. His reputation would have been tarnished and his legacy shattered by the mudslinging and corruption inherent in the dirty world of politics. I also shudder at the thought of Kabayan being the big kahuna of our godforsaken country. Bet you would be scared too.

For now, we bid adieu to the man, Da King, the legend of Philippine cinema and the man who would have been President. In sic transit mundi gloria.

All of us have certain songs that represent a memorable chapter or event in our lives. They are the soundtracks to our day to day travails, triumphs, success and sorrows, the good, the bad and the downright ugly. By listening to them, we can’t help but smile, cry or sing our heart out. In the tradition of Nick Hornby’s “High Fidelity and “31 Songs” here is my own take on the songs (in chronological order) that define (and continues to) my so-called life…

Stairway to Heaven
Led Zeppelin
Led Zeppelin IV/Four Symbols (1971)

Universally hailed as “the greatest rock song of all time”, this magnum opus from Led Zep is a swirling and mystifying journey into Robert Plant’s quest for spiritual perfection and the trappings of our mortality. It is quite simply the best known and most overplayed rock song of all time. Bar none. Who else but Zep could pull off this 8 minute miracle and forever change the course of rock music as we know it? The ambiguous and enchanting lyrics (There’s a feeling I get/When I look to the west), soaring guitar riffs by Jimmy Page capped off by Guitar World’s “Greatest Guitar Solo of All Time” and solidly complemented by the formidable rhythm section of John Paul Jones and John Bonham, the song is a cacophony of “Zeppelian” artistry and imagery. No song will ever capture the imagination or inspire more conspiracy theories to the listening public than Stairway did. If this isn’t the apex of musical creativity, then we’d all be better off finding a “lady who’s sure”.

Killer Verse: There’s a feeling I get when I look to the west
And my spirit is crying for leaving
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees
And the voices of those who stand looking

Welcome to the Jungle
Guns n’ Roses
Appetite for Destruction (1987)

The first single on the very first record (sadly, forever gone from my collection) I bought and the song that made me a faithful servant of the metal militia. Axl and the boys were the prototypical in-your-face hard rocking band – loud and proud, hard-drinking, chain-smoking, drug-popping, anti-establishment lads who didn’t gave a rats ass but blazed the musical mainstream like no other. This was their clarion call, a sonic assault highlighted by Axl’s distinctive vocal style and Slash’s fiery guitar licks and solos. It was an unabashed autobiographical tour de force chronicling the decadent LA 80’s sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll scene – the halcyon days of glam metal. “Appetite for Destruction” was and still is a benchmark debut album peppered with raw musical emotions that produced anthemic hits (“Sweet Child O’ Mine anyone?) No surprise that it would turn out to be a chart topper and worldwide phenomenon (over 15 million in global sales). Not bad for a couple of would-be rock renegades who eventually unleashed to the masses its defining soundtrack for the ages. Too bad they weren’t in it long enough to enjoy the ride.

Killer Verse: Welcome to the jungle
We’ve got fun ‘n’ games
We got everything you want
Honey, we know the names

Black
Pearl Jam
Ten (1991)

1991 was the defining era when rock recaptured its mantle and spawned an exciting and innovative subgenre – the Pacific Northwest’s “grunge” movement. Hot off the heels of the explosive debut of Nirvana (they just toppled Michael Jackson’s album from the top of the charts), was another promising quintet from Seattle named Pearl Jam. Their debut album, “Ten” would catapult the band into the spotlight and transform vocalist Eddie Vedder as the poster boy of the angst-ridden, alienated generation. A good majority of the 11 songs from this resonant release struck a chord with the disenfranchised and troubled youth and was an uncanny foretelling of the times (Jeremy as a pre-Columbine tale). Undeniably the most heartfelt and emotional track is the stirring and edgy, “Black” – a staple in any drinking session with a guitar involved. This song is a somber soundtrack to unrequited love, of nostalgia and sorrow, and the whole spectrum of emotions associated with loving and losing. Eddie Vedder (and his gem of a song), modern day poet and troubadour who truly captured the pitfalls and agonies we so often endure.

Killer Verse: I know someday you’ll have a beautiful life,
I know you’ll be a sun
In somebody else’s sky, but why
Why, why can’t it be, why can’t it be mine?

One
U2
Achtung Baby (1991)

How do you follow up a seminal album like “The Joshua Tree”? That was the uphill challenge facing the boys from Dublin even before they recorded the smash “Achtung Baby”, their more experimental and distorted gem of an album. U2 is a band that is unafraid to reinvent itself and push the musical envelope to the creative extremes. The album marked U2’s emergence as the pre-eminent rock act on the face of the planet. Achtung strength lies on the immense diversity of the tracks yet still retains U2’s trademark musical stylings that according to Rolling Stone magazine “proves that the same penchant for epic musical and verbal gestures that leads many artists to self-parody can, in more inspired hands, fuel the unforgettable fire that defines great rock & roll.” At the heart of this fire is the unforgettable single, “One”. This song can move you to tears with its haunting and elegiac lyrics and subtle yet infectious melodies. Bono’s singing echoes like a lamentation on the terrible disease called apathy and ignorance.” One” is an enduring testament to the unmatched brilliance of U2 and their propensity to produce music that transcends boundaries and generations.

Killer Verse: Did I ask too much, more than a lot
You gave me nothing now it’s all I got
We’re one but we’re not the same
Well, we hurt each other then we do it again

Voices
Dream Theater
Awake (1994)

Progressive rockers are oftentimes shunned for their over-indulgence on musical virtuosity and technicality. This fetish for perfection claims purists, strips away the soul and personality in their music. However, Dream Theater is not your typical prog-rock band. Although the members are musically gifted and technically-schooled (some are from the renowned Berklee College of Music – the MIT or Harvard for musicians), their songs belie the oft-repeated observations about the subgenre. Their first album, “Images and Words” was a portent of things to come with such classics as Pull me Under, Another Day, Metropolis Pt. 1 providing the punch. The follow-up effort, ”Awake” further cemented their status as prog-rock’s leading lights. Tracks from the album are epics that cover a broad range of issues and topics. “Voices”, the second part of the 3-part “A Mind Beside Itself” concept song stands out because of the sheer majesty and genius of the lyrics and the musicianship – a 9-minute thought-provoking journey into the inner recesses of the minds and of the personal demons we continually confront. The track is representative of the band’s awe-inspiring musical skills and elaborate yet cerebral compositions. Listening to Dream Theater is a cathartic audio experience - a blissful aural assault in images and words and into our personal theater of dreams

Killer Verse: Is there fantasy in refuge?
God in politicians?
Should I turn on my religion?
These demons in my head tell me to

It was a homecoming long overdue. Our venerable, trusty and dependable Ironhide was finally heading home after almost 2 months in sick bay. He was gone for a long time and is now fully-rehabilitated. Happy days are here again.

Did I mention that Ironhide is our maroon family van (Lite-Ace)? Guess you already knew that from watching too much cartoons (thus Transformers rings a bell to you?) during your kiddie years. Still confused? The name was given by a brod in reference to the Transformer character, a red van called Ironhide. The nickname/nom de guerre has stuck ever since

A bit of history and nostalgia first. Ironhide came to our lives circa 1996. All of us were giddy and excited when we first laid eyes on him; our first family vehicle, spanking new and reeking of factory-fresh plastic and upholstery. We have officially joined the ranks of the emerging middle class – a home in a subdivision with a parked automobile in the garage.

Fast forward 9 years later and the van has pretty much been a big part of our lives through all the good and the bad. An indispensable and highly dependable family member who will always be a faithful road warrior and companion.

Since none of use didn’t know how to drive yet at that time, we resorted to hiring drivers (mostly distant relatives) to shuttle us during our daily commute. Navigating through SLEX was a hellish experience back then as it was still under completion. Four hours of commute going to Manila was a daily dose of gridlock mayhem. We never seemed to mind however as we felt secure and comfy inside Ironhide’s embracing confines.

Months passed when I decided to learn how to tame the beast that was Ironhide. Good thing our driver (a relative who became a good buddy) was more than eager to teach us the rudiments of driving. All 3 of us boys would take turns practicing during the weekends. We took him for awkward and sputtering spins inside the wide roads of our subdivision and the outskirts. I can still distinctly remember my first 100+kph moment along the roads leading to Southwoods. Michael Schumacher, here I come.

FVR gracefully bowed out, the actor popularly known as Erap became Prez and I meanwhile, was about to have my non-pro driver’s license. Finally, I was a legit driver and the road to nowhere was just there beckoning to be explored. Ironhide and moi was a perfect fit from the start. I was the adventurous, devil-may-care, vagabond type, he, the trusty automobile that will take me to unknown territories and numerous escapades.

This newfound mobility turned out to be both a blessing and a slight curse.

Gone were the days of commuting and enduring the accompanying hassles and hardships. However, I was forced to assume the role of family driver for financial and practical reasons. Driving my parents and sibling to their parties, appointments, gimmicks, and whathaveyou’s become part and parcel of my routine. During idle days, I had Ironhide to myself and wanton joyrides became commonplace.

Our family had countless trips and journeys aboard Ironhide. No destination was too far and no road impassable for Ironhide. Samar (thrice), Baguio, Ilocos Sur, Leyete, Batangas, Pampanga, the list seems straight out of that Eheads song, “Overdrive”. During those sojourns, we were very fortunate and blessed not to have been involved in any road mishaps. All we had to worry about was where to eat next or to take a leak. Ironhide was a steadfast and trustworthy chariot of steel.

Those long drives must have taken a big toll on him. He gave out on some of those trips and major repairs became recurrent. His body suffered welts, scars and bruises, a far cry from his spanking and shiny look of yesteryears. A plastic surgery of enormous proportions was badly needed.

So we took him in for a total-body surgery that had been a long time coming. For almost two months he was confined to the “auto spa”, soaking in the fresh coat of paint and enduring the hammering that would straighten out his once well-toned body. I knew he’d come out of it like a man reborn, ready to take on the roads again. Indeed, he was a sight to behold when they were done with him. Sporting fresh sets of mags and glistening body paint, he was a sight to behold once more.

Unfortunately, this total-body makeover was just a tantalizing prelude to the misfortunes that would come. Ironhide suffered a “stroke” (radiator overheat) in San Fernando, Pampanga. It was a rainy Sunday night, an inappropriate time to find an auto repair stall. Fortunately, we chanced upon one and they turned out to be helpful and well-meaning folks. (I decided to spend the night and stayed in a motel but that’s another story altogether). 2 days passed and the mechanics said he was fit for the roads again.

And so I thought. A roadtrip with my college buddies to Jalajala, Rizal proved to be the final straw. Our journey was punctuated by countless (about 30+) stops to replenish his dehydrated radiator. Not quite exactly one of our more memorable roadtrips. He was spewing water and coughing up smoke that was eerily reminiscent of a volcano about to explode. We still managed to drive him home but it was clear that he was in badly need of an engine overhaul or a radical “multi-organ” transplant (engine replacement).

We decided to go with the transplant as the chief mechanic told it was the cheaper and quicker alternative. Alas, the few weeks soon turned into 2 months. But it would soon turned out be worth the wait. I received the call to pick-up my old buddy and the giddiness and excitement of before were back. Pure and unadulterated déjà vu. (cue in “Reunited” by Peaches and Herbs here). I arrived at the shop around 9pm and I saw here sitting there like a lion waiting to be unleashed in the urban jungle.

I started the engine and revved him up for old time’s sake. He was like an old chap who took the elixir of youth. Yup, he still got them power and vitality in those trusty old legs. A new engine really works wonder. If he was human, it would be equivalent to having a new heart, lungs and liver.

It was a homecoming long overdue. I was back in my favorite spot on earth – the driver’s seat. Completely oblivious to the gridlock along EDSA, smoking my Marlboro reds and contemplating the roadtrips ahead; it was a cathartic experience having Ironhide in action. Happy days are definitely here again…