GOODBYE ANTONIO

I just found out earlier that Antonio is dead. Antonio is one of the "pseudo-cousins" of my wife's family. According to initial reports, he got a heart attack and a stroke. That's what biologically killed him. But after talking to him the last time, I think I knew what really killed him. Him not being able to do what he loved.

He lost the use of his left arm in a motorcycle accident not too many months ago. He has been undergoing treatment for it thence, and has resorted to acupuncture to bring the arm back to life. Before that, he was, according to what little he was able to talk to me about, a piano man, a tinkerer, a percussionist, an anarchist, an audiophile. And having to live with the pain of an arm gone wrong was what might have done him in. I know that if I was in his shoes, that would kill me.

We shared breakfast the last time I spoke to him, I made him coffee and a sandwich while we talked about the merits of magnetic versus optical music storage. He also told me how his arm got to be what it was. He spoke to me about music, and his eyes lit up from the usual dull depressed look of the deformed that they usually had when I told him about my passions in music. He was even kind enough to tune the kids' guitar, with one hand, by ear.

I remember asking him, guitar in hand that day: "Hey piano man! Can you tune a guitar?" "Of course!" And he proceeded to do what I thought would have had to be a two man operation. He can't make a sandwich for himself, but he tuned that guitar in minutes, all the while giving me pointers about it.

That day, he inspired me in a way that I was not able to really tell him. He became what he wanted to be. He did what he wanted. He lived life. Broken, battered, and bruised; but unbowed. Thank you Antonio. Wherever you may be doing lounge right now, break a leg.

PRETTY SUICIDE

One of the pseudo-cousins came by today and related by way of conversation that their neighbor's pretty, hot and tempting daughter hung herself by the neck till dead when she found out that her parents were getting an annulment of their marriage.

Of course I knew she was a hot thing because the cousin, who is very knowledgeable about girls in a sense said that she was in the local colloquialism artistahin (can become a TV/Movie actor). Well pedophilia and necrophilia aside, the issue here is not the girl being "p.h.a.t." nor the sudden end of her entertainment career, but her demise by her own hands via a hemp necktie.

First of all, it's a shame that such a young, and according to the story, a very possible fine piece of ass had been taken away so suddenly. As the cousin said, she had everything, and still, she did what she did. I guess the problem is that kids always blame themselves when the relationship of their parents fail. So to prevent any more future babes from being Satan's concubine, I would like the kids who are reading this to pay full attention and read slowly, because I will say this one time only: IF YOUR PARENTS FIGHT ITS THEIR FAULT, NOT YOURS. EVER. DON'T FEEL GUILTY FOR THINKING IT WAS YOURS. YOU CAN'T HELP IT THAT YOU ARE STUPID. JUST LOOK AT THE TWO NUMBSKULLS YOU CAME FROM. NO SURPRISE THERE. IF YOU WANT TO STOP YOUR PARENTS FROM FIGHTING, STOP TALKING TO THEM FOR A WHOLE DAY EVERYTIME THEY TUSSLE. IF THEY ASK WHAT YOU'RE DOING, HAND THEM A NOTE WITH THIS MESSAGE OR SOMETHING LIKE IT: "I'M LETTING YOU FEEL WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF YOU KEEP FIGHTING, ONE DAY YOU WILL TRY TO TALK TO ME, BUT I WILL BE GONE. I WILL EITHER BE WITH THE OTHER PARENT, A LOST RUNAWAY, OUT WITH BAD COMPANY, HELD BY SOCIAL SERVICES, OR DEAD BY SUICIDE. I'M HOPING YOU REALIZE BEFORE ITS TOO LATE THAT YOU ARE DAMAGING ME. NOW EITHER ADAPT TO ONE ANOTHER OR GET THE DIVORCE PAPERS NOW AND LET'S KILL THIS FAMILY."

I remember as a teen that when I heard my parents fighting for the first time in my life, on an issue that surely could result in an annulment, I was distraught, I cried, I got drunk. I ended up in a cheap girlie bar watching very ugly, very cheap whores dancing to a red light bulb. Very badly dancing to a red light bulb.

Let's just say that after that horrid experience, the next time I heard my parents fight, I just stuck with being distraught and I always went outside so I wouldn't end up throwing up because of the sight of ugly whores. But eventually I confronted them and told them that I would rather have them beat me physically than the hurt they were giving me inside, I reasoned that at least bruises heal. They stopped.

What our pretty suicide could have done, rest her soul by the way, was to not take it so hard. Maybe that's what happens when kids are sheltered too much, too dependent on their parents. I don't know.

At least now, those two idiots who were thinking of getting an annulment now don't have to worry who gets to keep the daughter. Plus the father won't ever have to worry trying to explain to her daughter someday why her ex-classmate is now her "Tita Mommy." Or the mom would not have to explain why they have a young strapping new driver, who ogles her by the way when mommy is not around, even though they don't own a car.

WHEN YOU HAVE NOTHING TO WRITE

The one thing I hate about blogging is the need to come up with something to write every now and then. I guess the topic of the blog, if your blog had a singular topic, say a blog on tropical cacti would be easy to maintain, you speak about the topic at hand and that would be that. But having a rant column like this one is at best a lesson in futility. Trying to keep up with it and not being able to. Choosing a topic to speak about, and eventually not being able to post something because its just so personal.

In local terms: "Sabog" roughly translatable to calling something as scattershot. You just don't know what it is about and what point it is driving at. Like this blog. After awhile I find myself irritated by it as it seems all I do is speak about nothing and vague references to events in my life. Well, that is what this blog is about in the beginning anyway: things that happened in my life that I wanted to share with the internet. Not really having a point about it because this is my personal rant page. But truth be told, I want to change things about this blog because of what has happened in my world in the last month.

I find myself at a crossroads once more, because I have once again managed to somehow become unemployed. The fates like toying with me for some reason. I feel I am being readied for something in the future. I am not sure what it is yet, but I am sure that I will either end up as some hybrid erudite or a cosmic platypus. Sigh.

BLINDSIDED

It was a Thursday, not a Tuesday, but yes, it was around four P.M., so I guess Baz Luhrman was right (Did I speel that right?). Your choices are half chance. I'm trying not to berate myself with what happened, nor am I trying to congratulate myself for it. A rebel being punished for rebellion is like a bird being awarded for flying.

But the fact is that, as my friend Aivie said, I should acknowledge that what happened hurt me. Yes it did. I don't want to mull over it though, because there is a part of me that loves lashing out whenever I get hurt. I guess everyone has something like that too. A need for vengeance, a need for the redress of wrongs, real or imagined. Thus I don't want to mull over it too much, lest it affect my judgment in the next few weeks.

But mull over it I do, and what comes to me is a simple fact. Patience is dependent on the intelligence of a person, the more intelligent a person, the more patient he is. The more wise a person, the more patient a person. The more deformed a person, the more impatient a person is. The more miserable a person is with their life, the more impatient a person is. Misery is a friend of fear, thus, whoever is impatient is afraid. Afraid of being expendable, in due time.

Of course, this is all the opinion of someone who is mulling. So pay me no heed. I on the other hand, am patient. I wait. Wait with a patience that reflects my intellect.

JEREMY SPOKE IN CLASS TODAY

Angst, and the grunge movement of the nineties. What do we remember from them? the proliferation of anti-depressants? The two faces of madness in pop culture: cobain and axl rose? the redemption that music brings to an individual as proven by eddie vedder and his grammys? or is it the fact that madonna went through all of it with michael jackson not far behind?

life and music has always been two sides it seems. One side is the angry "i wanna die coz im so sad about something" side and the "damn im a giddy happy hoppy tripped up elf" side.

either of which just manages to do for us what we currently need, as the mood suits. there really is always a song for how you exactly feel, or maybe close enough give or take a few stanzas.

it was in the late eighties that i became aware of my love for music, when i first glued my ears to FM radio and it was in the nineties that i grew musically expanding up from the hardcore new wave / post punk that i ended up in after my early experimentations with pop music.

it was then that i learned of the early rock masters and the balladeers. the acid rock movements that i was exposed to as a child but never truly understood, the hip-hop scene, and rap thar i still have a soft spot for.

my only regret with music is that for all my love for it, i cannot play a single instrument decently of or sing as well as i would like. i love music, music scorns me with mere toleration. for all my talent with writing and poetry i have yet to really feel the muse of music in me.

but i am not bitter, i know that she is the most demanding of all the muses. and i have to be worthy of her attention by providing discipline in exchange for her.

consolation is that as i watch the music evolution and help guide my kids in their own foray into music i am reminded of my journey and it still is magical. truly, music is art, music is life.

what do i remember of the nineties music scene the most: king jeremy the wicked ruled his world.

I REMEMBER YOU

Two years ago, you texted me a question: Will you tell me why no one can love me the way you do?
I think I answered because no one can. Because no one saw you the way i saw you. Because they didn't worship you, or accept you for what you really are, for these never saw what you can be. What you could have been, could still be. Because unlike these men who loved you because they needed love themselves, I love you because you were worth the love. They loved you, I believed in you. I had faith in you. I worshiped you. And as every woman from Eve the snakeslave of Lilith to your own daughter will tell you. A woman will choose worship over love. I let myself be kept around, I had nothing better to do anyway. But you thought that wasn't going anywhere. You were wrong. Very wrong. Because someone saw the way I worshiped you and wanted it for herself. She made ways to take it, and took it she did. Then you were left with nothing but the pawings of your suitors and lovers, but the worship was gone. And your life became empty. We had almost everything when we were together. The only thing missing was your affirmation. But then again, I never asked for it. I didn't want to lose you, but I know anyone who tried to keep you, lost you. You will not be reined. Mine was the softest leash you ever had. You were my most beloved pet. The one I had the longest but couldn't keep. Ours was a hidden, fierce, unspeakable love. As complicated and unbidden and crazy as all kinds of love should be. Unthiking, brutal, feverish. But to speak of it, to hint of it, to even slightly touch its gossamer wings would destroy it. And that is what we did when we did. Now you are ashamed of it. you are troubled by its memory. I remember it. I remember you. Why no one can love you the way I do? Because I can, and I choose to do so. Something the cowards who you call your men can't because they can't bring themselves to worship something else aside from themselves. Worship to ruin.