god gave rock and roll 2u or th ballad of diego muhlach
a beginning of a draft (dated 3 Feb 2003) I writ for a zine I'd made plans to do w/ my ex-girlfriend ... haven't looked @ this in a while, but
IT'S BEEN ABOUT A YEAR SINCE TH ACCIDENT. I've got th x-rays and CT scans and MRIs packed away in a big envelope somewhere in my messy apartment, and my recall of what happened a year ago is obviously not as good as if I had kept a journal of events @ th time; and so this is becoming archaeology: digging through my room and digging through my recollections, both of which seem to get messier AUTOMATICALLY. But if there is one thing I have learned in th past year, it's that writing down what happens REALLY CLEANS THINGS UP.
I'z feeling ALL NOSTALGE, 'di ba, aso?
Th same day, I'd also writ th sentence
Seize this life motherfucker by th throat.
--HAHA zome things never change. It's still a constant struggle against mess here, and ah ztill exhort myzelf, in overdramatic language, to do better.
CLEANING UP: thet mean tying up mental loose endz, too. I gotta finish telling th story of Th Accident.
Friday night, 11 January, 2002, Manila, Philippines, where th map
says SAMPALOC. My rock band, Th Aga Muhlach Experience, are playing @ Mayric's, a small drinking establishment near th University of Santo Tomas. Mebbe 50 people can fit in there, and there about that many, mebbe slightly more, on this night.
It is our last show. Our farewell show is a running joke, because this is our third or fourth show to be billed as such, since 1996, th year we disbanded. Th thing is, I'm cleaning my room in between
... writing this. (Therefore, neither task is likely to be completed soon.) (Putting th "Live" in
... Livejournal.)
OK, let's take it from th top. If by "top" you mean somewhere in th middle, always in th middle, of th story known as human civilization: WHO IZ THIS AGA MUHLACH? Google, th one true and Holy Bible for these times, will reveal that he is a Filipino actor of no small stature, th biggest star of th last decade, arguably th biggest star O.A.T. That his star is located in a galaxy thet virtually no one outside of th Philippines knows exists does not diminish th huge, hot brightness of it. When I lived in Th Phil., I thought of him as Their Keanu, but it is clear in retrospect that I underestimated, that Th 'Nu is like unto a houseboy, compared to Aga Muhlach. Aga Muhlach's starpower approaches that of Brando, or (@ least) Th Cruise.
All that heat packed into a light-skinned, big-eyed, baby-faced human form.
ANYHOW it ain't hard 2 see why a crappy cover band who barely know how to play their instruments would want to take him as their namesake, their TOTEM. If we don't see ourselves as big, bright, shining, throbbing stars, who th fuck else will?
Diego Muhlach was born in als;kfjas;lfka;slkfjas;dfkfak
My friendship w/ Diego Muhlach began in 1995, when I started living in Manila. I'd met him briefly th previous year, while on vacation. This was during th period when undefinable genres of popular music such as "punk rock" and "indie rock" were being successfully folded into th flesh-eating genre known as "BU$INE$$." It was easy to make frenz, jest by name-dropping a few key bands--even in those pre-Internet-boom days, even in Third World countries. You jest had to know where to look.
Years later, ah decided thet shared taste in esoteric musics am a terrible criterion for selecting frenz, due to th fact thet music snobs are douchetrucks. Out of th one trillion frenz I made during th Manila sojourn, th number w/ whom ah ztill care to keep in contact can be counted on one hand. Oh, yeah, I was a douchetruck, too.
So was Diego, probably. We hated everyone. Our favourite sport was something that came to be known between us as "bashing." Thet's when you sit down drinking beers and talk shit about everyone else in th room.
I'd also befriended a DJ named Toti D., best known for owning over 10,000 records, and himself no stranger to shit-talking. He'd recently moved to Th Phil., too, and was in th beginning stages of a King-Of-All-Media-style business plan. He already had a weekly radio show and a sweet little rooftop record shop named Groove Nation (motto: "Purveyors of Taste"). In th year I lived in Manila, Toti's how-do-you-say ... EMPIRE ... expanded to include a monthly dance night, an aggressively-distributed arts zine, and th world's greatest rock band according to my mum, who saw us once, and who loves me.
Toti D. took me out on th rooftop early one a.m. and gestured w/ his open hand toward th entire skyline of Manila, and said, "One day ... all of this ... will be Groove Nation." Diego Muhlach, a natural-born anti-bohemian, hated him.
"Don't get me wrong, I like Toti, I'm not trying to say whatever. If he got in a fight, fuck it, I'd be in there defending the guy. But he's a bit like Hitler."
"Yahahahaha. He's a great guy, just a bit Hitleresque."
"I'm not trying to say whatever, whatever."
Behind Diego's back, Toti sneered, "Diego is a Pearl Jam fan."
We kicked Toti out of th band, or he quit, or it was jest understood. Creative diffz. Our new drummer, Mike Muhlach, hit th skins about 10x harder.
Dear L000000rd, did ah ever have fun. It's probably why working in an office zeem zo dull, now. Like th Ramones, we renamed ourselves and did an impersonation of a family. Ah ztill do muh best to rename All God's Creation and make it new agin, but it'll never be as easy as in 1995--alzo, not coincidentally, th year ah crossed th line from shy to not-shy. Alzo th year ah dizcovered thet ah could be completely alone w/o being lonely, and th year ah realized ah'd never had a friend quite as good as Diego Muhlach.
Hot-tempered motherfucker, like me. We'd nearly COME TO BLOWS one night, during rehearsal, because I was SURE we were playing th chords wrong on "Poolhouse Blue," and he was all, "Come ON, man, it sounds GOOD ENOUGH, what the FUCK"--as I fiddled incompetently w/ my guitar trying to figure out th RIGHT WAY.
His best childhood friend had jest died of an aneurysm or zomezing, and he'd come into rehearsal w/ red eyes. Because I was a douchetruck, I said,
"You know, I understand thet you're upset, but you know what? I'M JEST TRYING TO FIGURE OUT TH RIGHT CHORDS OK. I didn't do nothin' OK so don't bring yr personal problems to practice OK AND COULD YOU STOP W/ TH ATTITUDE."
He stepped to me and jabbed his finger into my chest. "You know, pare ..."
For one second, I glared. It was th fight-or-flight mind, taking over. And den
... I backed off, shocked. His girlfriend (and our bassist) Myrene Muhlach said, "Hoy, Diego!" I slammed my guitar into my case and stalked out of th practice room, down th stairs, onto th street, shaking. Diego ran after me.
He was apologizing in a blur of sorries. Whether I cried @ this point or not is lost to history, but it was certainly th scene in th movie when th dude cries--or admits, "Because I'm AFRAID, ALL RIGHT? I'm afraid. There, I said it! Are you happy now?!" I do not remember, either, what was said between us, except thet it was said in th trebly vocal registers thet mark frustration and last-ditch sincerity. A friend, I thought to myself, is not a real friend until after you've had yr first fight.
We played "Poolhouse Blue" nearly every show after that. As usual, I played th easy part, he played th part that required an actual feel for music. It didn't get anywhere close to th grandeur or noise of th original; but, oddly enough, it was th song that was complimented most often, out of our 30-song repertoire. Ah joked thet people could hear my ludicrous phantom fistfight w/ Diego, inside th song, and thet's why they liked it.
And den we appeared on a Pepsi-sponsored television special, opening for th country's biggest band, th Eraserheads--million sellers, bottomless well of melodic hookery, Number One cause of public fainting among Filipino females aged 18-34--@ th height of their popularity. No, it's more than that: they were Number One across all demographic boundaries. It was th Eraserheads' world; we were jest living in it.
Th day after it aired, I went to th mall to buy water, bread, and fake meat. A kid shouted, "Hoy! Aga Muhlach!" I turned around, and there were a bunch of kids, and no one was actually trying to talk to me, so I kept walking. "Aga Muhlach!"
These bastard brats are making fun of me, I thought.
Thet awkward minute were th most famous ah ever got in my whole life. Diego Muhlach, though, went on to much greater renown in th band he and th remaining Muhlachs formed after I left th Philippines for good: Sandwich, here seen
clowning in typical style, and here
accepting th 1999 NU107 Album of th Year award. Unable to decide between Beastie Boyish funk, Deft Ones-like arena rock, and indie-pop faggery, Sandwich defiantly chose to stack all 3 elements on top of one another, w/ results that one source close to th band reported were "whatever, I'm not trying to say whatever, Marc [vocals, guitar] is a sweet kid, but sometimes I want to strangle him"--yet proved oddly compelling over th course of 3 (and counting) chart-humping albums.
Concurrently, ah were in a relationship w/ a lady, thet lasted 5.5 years. It qualified as epic, and included sordid and painful events about which I am still unable to joke. Life during this time never failed to be interesting, but it did leave th window wide open for occasional rock star daydreams.
In th course of writing this account, it occurred to me thet I have trouble talking about anything if I cannot joke about it. He said to his therapist.
Diego Muhlach was busy enacting my daydreams in RL, and he swore up and down that it wasn't that hot. During th day, he was an A&R guy for BMG Philippines. @ night, he drank, watched bootleg DVDs, babysat touring international acts, hosted an absurd, homosexually-themed talk radio show, and played shows w/ Sandwich. He wrote a lucrative commercial jingle for Pepsi. Later, he produced a homosexually-themed cable television program, and directed music videos and a short film (homosexually-themed).
Is that why I got along so famously w/ th Ivy Robot, because she has trouble not-joking, also? Is that also why I broke up w/ her? May you live in interesting times: it's a curse!
Thiz, anyhow, were th state of affairs when Th Aga Muhlach Experience got 2gether, uh, one last time. In @ least 90% of cases of people discussing their own rock bands, they lapse into an irksome self-mythologizing tone thet really make you wanna punch both them and yrself in th face. I will avoid that here by describing only what happened, in th barest language, jest th facts, w/o mentioning or even hinting how legendary, unprecedented, or (!) INFLUENTIAL ON YOUNGER GENERATIONS it all was, and alzo how nobody really GOT us because we were probably too mind-blowing and PARADIGM-SUBVERTING for their shackled consciousnesses to comprehend asdl;kjsadlf;kjasdfl;kasjdfkfak
Friday night, 11 January, 2002, Manila, Philippines: I have jest shit my pants, literally.
It was th accursed cheese on th motherfuckin' pizza from California Pizza Kitchen--sure sign of apocalypse, if by "apocalypse" you mean "inexorable encroachment of th American corporate life-form on everywhere, everytime"--when I lived in Manila, T.G.I.Friday's was a popular gathering place for actual rich people--out of everywhere I could have had th last meal of my vacation, why did we choose California Pizza Kitchen? Thank God my underwear took most of th blast.
Sitting, guts wrenching, on th toilet of th public men's room of another American pizza joint, Shakey's, waiting for my band's turn to play, I am cursing. Asses to asses, shit to shit. Is this th price of rock, aso? We got a 3 a.m. flight to catch, me little bruddah and ah, and den 24 hours of travel time w/ a potentially naughty belly, and den I gotta go2work @ th lobbying firm th first day back, w/ a biological clock thet am exactly upside-down? I dip my soiled underpants in th sink, pump a lot of soap on it, scrub, rinse, wring, make sure not a single molecule of my shit is left on th sink. Th damp underpants will go inside a plastic bag. It will be stuffed into th side pocket of my suitcase. No one must know about this.
I look in th mirror. It am a miserable person there. It am a happy person, w/ a uncontrollable shit-hiding grin. I am happy. My band is about to play.
Diego always says th purpose of life is to be happy. He always says it probably because I always gotta be reminded of it.
"I don't pretend to know whatever, but right? That's gotta be what we're here for?"
"But anyone can be happy. What about doing something GREAT."
"Yeah, but if you're not happy, why are you doing it?"
"Well, when you put it that way."
As for Picasso, as much as Diego loves and admires his art (i.e., an awful lot), he claims thet he can get just as much joy out of th refrigerator drawings by his little cousin David, who also kicks his ass @ Playstation.
(David is considerably older now and is probably not only retired from refrigerator art, but also probably going to law school or something like that. I forget how old I am. Soon, David will have little kids of his own, and they will be creating th refrigerator masterpieces, and I will be dead.)
"Where have you been?"
"Upset tummy."
Th band before us, Blast Ople, don't seem to have rehearsed much, which is a good thing in this case. They are a bunch of kids. They are getting really into it. I remember when th singer, Quark Henares, was jest a little 15-year-old squirt w/ a big smile on his face, super-excited about having all th Pavement CDs. Actually, he still looks like that. He is throwing his big frame around, jumping, and gesturing like a preacher. Now he is coming over to
hug me. My stomach hurts. Th guitar player is piling on top of Quark. It will be a challenge to out-retard these guys. I am so old. When does th desire to be retarded become extinguished, God only knows.
"Good evening, we are Th Aga Muhlach Experience. Come closer," I say.
Haha, come closer, because I'm lonely, and tired of writing this.
It am an aerobic workout, th first 2 minutes. We have 4 songs 2night. If my legs, which suddenly feel like spaghetti, can make it through th first 2 minutes, everyzing's gonna be all right. It is a song named "Sub-Lingual," which is pretty sweet because I've forgotten all th words. It is by a band from England that I'd never heard of until Diego pulled it out of his ass @ practice. YOU WANNA SING THIS LISTEN TO IT IT ROCKS. "LA LA LA, LA LA LA," I sing.
I leave th stage and do a bunch of stuff.
Between songs, I tell jokes and say stuff such as, "Who am ready 2 rock?" I think I can zee Myrene Muhlach smiling in th picture, because I have zaid zomezing extremely funny.
And den ah fulfilled a lifelong dream by covering a song by my favourite band, Idlewild. It is named "Roseability." "GERTRUDE STEIN SAYS THAT'S ENOUGH," I zing. Th lyrics are deep. I feel them. Raimund Marasigan Muhlach whips out a toy raygun and shoots it into his pickups, making a racket that pleases all th 2-year-olds in th whole universe.
I notice some people have fancy cameras. This reddish glow was brought 2U by th Lomo belonging to a sweetheart named Lj spearminthead. She is not named Lj spearminthead yet. I have not been baptized yet, either. El jay is only a twinkle in my pants.
Diego Muhlach is to th right of me, Raimund Marasigan Muhlach is to th left of me, Mike Muhlach is behind me, Myrene Muhlach is behind and to th left of me. It is like those New Age trust exercises they tried to make me act out in couples counseling. If you lean back in th chair, and it tips, yr partner will catch you. I love. I am safe here.
I am a farmer on his land, proudly plowing.
Now for some old songs.
Diego loves this song, "Fabricoh," by Archers of Loaf. It is a good song, a dick song, a pussy song, a song song. "ROCKIN' OUT ROCKIN' OOOUUUT," I zing. I am jumping off of tables now; th people on th ground are catching me like a hammock.
Diego used to call me on th telephone, super-long-distance, when he was bummed out. WHAT AM I DOING W/ MY LIFE etc. Our comfort was telling each other stories. He taught me a lot about how to tell a story. More to th point, he taught me a lot about WHY to tell a story. Tell it because you can't wait to tell somebody, because it is bursting yr insides wanting to be told. It make you laugh, jest thinking about it. You want th other people to feel it like this CHECK THIS OUT YOU'RE GONNA LOVE THIS. Diego writes, too, but his real superpower is telling stories out loud. LOUD motherfucker, th vein in his forehead sticks out, he am talking w/ him hands, punctuating w/ sound effects, impersonating characters, grabbing you arm. HEY MOTHERFUCKER th oral tradition am in gud hands.
It is time for th finale, Huggy Bear's "Her Jazz": it am a pro-feminist song. Quark joins us on stage to sing th part what I don't sing. Our zinging overlaps. We have practically erased girls from th song w/ our manly zinging. Ah don't know why, it make me want to zmash things.
Pro-feminist, anti-matter. We got 3 minutes to enjoy as much CHAOS as possible. It is like when you and yr friend are jogging, and yr friend decides to pick up th pace, and suddenly it is a race. "YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING SOMEWHERE BUT YOU'RE GOIN' NO-WHERE/ YOU THINK YOU'RE TAKING ME BUT AH'M GOING ELSE-WHERE," I zing. Now you've lost a shoe, but you don't care. This is a race.
You'll pick up th shoe later? All loose ends will be tied up after 3 minutes. Th thought "Hey, should ah do a backflip?" crosses my mind.
CLICK FOR GORE
IT'S BEEN ABOUT A YEAR SINCE TH ACCIDENT. I've got th x-rays and CT scans and MRIs packed away in a big envelope somewhere in my messy apartment, and my recall of what happened a year ago is obviously not as good as if I had kept a journal of events @ th time; and so this is becoming archaeology: digging through my room and digging through my recollections, both of which seem to get messier AUTOMATICALLY. But if there is one thing I have learned in th past year, it's that writing down what happens REALLY CLEANS THINGS UP.
I'z feeling ALL NOSTALGE, 'di ba, aso?
Th same day, I'd also writ th sentence
Seize this life motherfucker by th throat.
--HAHA zome things never change. It's still a constant struggle against mess here, and ah ztill exhort myzelf, in overdramatic language, to do better.
CLEANING UP: thet mean tying up mental loose endz, too. I gotta finish telling th story of Th Accident.
Friday night, 11 January, 2002, Manila, Philippines, where th map
says SAMPALOC. My rock band, Th Aga Muhlach Experience, are playing @ Mayric's, a small drinking establishment near th University of Santo Tomas. Mebbe 50 people can fit in there, and there about that many, mebbe slightly more, on this night.
It is our last show. Our farewell show is a running joke, because this is our third or fourth show to be billed as such, since 1996, th year we disbanded. Th thing is, I'm cleaning my room in between
... writing this. (Therefore, neither task is likely to be completed soon.) (Putting th "Live" in
... Livejournal.)
OK, let's take it from th top. If by "top" you mean somewhere in th middle, always in th middle, of th story known as human civilization: WHO IZ THIS AGA MUHLACH? Google, th one true and Holy Bible for these times, will reveal that he is a Filipino actor of no small stature, th biggest star of th last decade, arguably th biggest star O.A.T. That his star is located in a galaxy thet virtually no one outside of th Philippines knows exists does not diminish th huge, hot brightness of it. When I lived in Th Phil., I thought of him as Their Keanu, but it is clear in retrospect that I underestimated, that Th 'Nu is like unto a houseboy, compared to Aga Muhlach. Aga Muhlach's starpower approaches that of Brando, or (@ least) Th Cruise.
All that heat packed into a light-skinned, big-eyed, baby-faced human form.
ANYHOW it ain't hard 2 see why a crappy cover band who barely know how to play their instruments would want to take him as their namesake, their TOTEM. If we don't see ourselves as big, bright, shining, throbbing stars, who th fuck else will?
Diego Muhlach was born in als;kfjas;lfka;slkfjas;dfkfak
My friendship w/ Diego Muhlach began in 1995, when I started living in Manila. I'd met him briefly th previous year, while on vacation. This was during th period when undefinable genres of popular music such as "punk rock" and "indie rock" were being successfully folded into th flesh-eating genre known as "BU$INE$$." It was easy to make frenz, jest by name-dropping a few key bands--even in those pre-Internet-boom days, even in Third World countries. You jest had to know where to look.
Years later, ah decided thet shared taste in esoteric musics am a terrible criterion for selecting frenz, due to th fact thet music snobs are douchetrucks. Out of th one trillion frenz I made during th Manila sojourn, th number w/ whom ah ztill care to keep in contact can be counted on one hand. Oh, yeah, I was a douchetruck, too.
So was Diego, probably. We hated everyone. Our favourite sport was something that came to be known between us as "bashing." Thet's when you sit down drinking beers and talk shit about everyone else in th room.
I'd also befriended a DJ named Toti D., best known for owning over 10,000 records, and himself no stranger to shit-talking. He'd recently moved to Th Phil., too, and was in th beginning stages of a King-Of-All-Media-style business plan. He already had a weekly radio show and a sweet little rooftop record shop named Groove Nation (motto: "Purveyors of Taste"). In th year I lived in Manila, Toti's how-do-you-say ... EMPIRE ... expanded to include a monthly dance night, an aggressively-distributed arts zine, and th world's greatest rock band according to my mum, who saw us once, and who loves me.
Toti D. took me out on th rooftop early one a.m. and gestured w/ his open hand toward th entire skyline of Manila, and said, "One day ... all of this ... will be Groove Nation." Diego Muhlach, a natural-born anti-bohemian, hated him.
"Don't get me wrong, I like Toti, I'm not trying to say whatever. If he got in a fight, fuck it, I'd be in there defending the guy. But he's a bit like Hitler."
"Yahahahaha. He's a great guy, just a bit Hitleresque."
"I'm not trying to say whatever, whatever."
Behind Diego's back, Toti sneered, "Diego is a Pearl Jam fan."
We kicked Toti out of th band, or he quit, or it was jest understood. Creative diffz. Our new drummer, Mike Muhlach, hit th skins about 10x harder.
Dear L000000rd, did ah ever have fun. It's probably why working in an office zeem zo dull, now. Like th Ramones, we renamed ourselves and did an impersonation of a family. Ah ztill do muh best to rename All God's Creation and make it new agin, but it'll never be as easy as in 1995--alzo, not coincidentally, th year ah crossed th line from shy to not-shy. Alzo th year ah dizcovered thet ah could be completely alone w/o being lonely, and th year ah realized ah'd never had a friend quite as good as Diego Muhlach.
Hot-tempered motherfucker, like me. We'd nearly COME TO BLOWS one night, during rehearsal, because I was SURE we were playing th chords wrong on "Poolhouse Blue," and he was all, "Come ON, man, it sounds GOOD ENOUGH, what the FUCK"--as I fiddled incompetently w/ my guitar trying to figure out th RIGHT WAY.
His best childhood friend had jest died of an aneurysm or zomezing, and he'd come into rehearsal w/ red eyes. Because I was a douchetruck, I said,
"You know, I understand thet you're upset, but you know what? I'M JEST TRYING TO FIGURE OUT TH RIGHT CHORDS OK. I didn't do nothin' OK so don't bring yr personal problems to practice OK AND COULD YOU STOP W/ TH ATTITUDE."
He stepped to me and jabbed his finger into my chest. "You know, pare ..."
For one second, I glared. It was th fight-or-flight mind, taking over. And den
... I backed off, shocked. His girlfriend (and our bassist) Myrene Muhlach said, "Hoy, Diego!" I slammed my guitar into my case and stalked out of th practice room, down th stairs, onto th street, shaking. Diego ran after me.
He was apologizing in a blur of sorries. Whether I cried @ this point or not is lost to history, but it was certainly th scene in th movie when th dude cries--or admits, "Because I'm AFRAID, ALL RIGHT? I'm afraid. There, I said it! Are you happy now?!" I do not remember, either, what was said between us, except thet it was said in th trebly vocal registers thet mark frustration and last-ditch sincerity. A friend, I thought to myself, is not a real friend until after you've had yr first fight.
We played "Poolhouse Blue" nearly every show after that. As usual, I played th easy part, he played th part that required an actual feel for music. It didn't get anywhere close to th grandeur or noise of th original; but, oddly enough, it was th song that was complimented most often, out of our 30-song repertoire. Ah joked thet people could hear my ludicrous phantom fistfight w/ Diego, inside th song, and thet's why they liked it.
And den we appeared on a Pepsi-sponsored television special, opening for th country's biggest band, th Eraserheads--million sellers, bottomless well of melodic hookery, Number One cause of public fainting among Filipino females aged 18-34--@ th height of their popularity. No, it's more than that: they were Number One across all demographic boundaries. It was th Eraserheads' world; we were jest living in it.
Th day after it aired, I went to th mall to buy water, bread, and fake meat. A kid shouted, "Hoy! Aga Muhlach!" I turned around, and there were a bunch of kids, and no one was actually trying to talk to me, so I kept walking. "Aga Muhlach!"
These bastard brats are making fun of me, I thought.
Thet awkward minute were th most famous ah ever got in my whole life. Diego Muhlach, though, went on to much greater renown in th band he and th remaining Muhlachs formed after I left th Philippines for good: Sandwich, here seen
clowning in typical style, and here
accepting th 1999 NU107 Album of th Year award. Unable to decide between Beastie Boyish funk, Deft Ones-like arena rock, and indie-pop faggery, Sandwich defiantly chose to stack all 3 elements on top of one another, w/ results that one source close to th band reported were "whatever, I'm not trying to say whatever, Marc [vocals, guitar] is a sweet kid, but sometimes I want to strangle him"--yet proved oddly compelling over th course of 3 (and counting) chart-humping albums.
Concurrently, ah were in a relationship w/ a lady, thet lasted 5.5 years. It qualified as epic, and included sordid and painful events about which I am still unable to joke. Life during this time never failed to be interesting, but it did leave th window wide open for occasional rock star daydreams.
In th course of writing this account, it occurred to me thet I have trouble talking about anything if I cannot joke about it. He said to his therapist.
Diego Muhlach was busy enacting my daydreams in RL, and he swore up and down that it wasn't that hot. During th day, he was an A&R guy for BMG Philippines. @ night, he drank, watched bootleg DVDs, babysat touring international acts, hosted an absurd, homosexually-themed talk radio show, and played shows w/ Sandwich. He wrote a lucrative commercial jingle for Pepsi. Later, he produced a homosexually-themed cable television program, and directed music videos and a short film (homosexually-themed).
Is that why I got along so famously w/ th Ivy Robot, because she has trouble not-joking, also? Is that also why I broke up w/ her? May you live in interesting times: it's a curse!
Thiz, anyhow, were th state of affairs when Th Aga Muhlach Experience got 2gether, uh, one last time. In @ least 90% of cases of people discussing their own rock bands, they lapse into an irksome self-mythologizing tone thet really make you wanna punch both them and yrself in th face. I will avoid that here by describing only what happened, in th barest language, jest th facts, w/o mentioning or even hinting how legendary, unprecedented, or (!) INFLUENTIAL ON YOUNGER GENERATIONS it all was, and alzo how nobody really GOT us because we were probably too mind-blowing and PARADIGM-SUBVERTING for their shackled consciousnesses to comprehend asdl;kjsadlf;kjasdfl;kasjdfkfak
Friday night, 11 January, 2002, Manila, Philippines: I have jest shit my pants, literally.
It was th accursed cheese on th motherfuckin' pizza from California Pizza Kitchen--sure sign of apocalypse, if by "apocalypse" you mean "inexorable encroachment of th American corporate life-form on everywhere, everytime"--when I lived in Manila, T.G.I.Friday's was a popular gathering place for actual rich people--out of everywhere I could have had th last meal of my vacation, why did we choose California Pizza Kitchen? Thank God my underwear took most of th blast.
Sitting, guts wrenching, on th toilet of th public men's room of another American pizza joint, Shakey's, waiting for my band's turn to play, I am cursing. Asses to asses, shit to shit. Is this th price of rock, aso? We got a 3 a.m. flight to catch, me little bruddah and ah, and den 24 hours of travel time w/ a potentially naughty belly, and den I gotta go2work @ th lobbying firm th first day back, w/ a biological clock thet am exactly upside-down? I dip my soiled underpants in th sink, pump a lot of soap on it, scrub, rinse, wring, make sure not a single molecule of my shit is left on th sink. Th damp underpants will go inside a plastic bag. It will be stuffed into th side pocket of my suitcase. No one must know about this.
I look in th mirror. It am a miserable person there. It am a happy person, w/ a uncontrollable shit-hiding grin. I am happy. My band is about to play.
Diego always says th purpose of life is to be happy. He always says it probably because I always gotta be reminded of it.
"I don't pretend to know whatever, but right? That's gotta be what we're here for?"
"But anyone can be happy. What about doing something GREAT."
"Yeah, but if you're not happy, why are you doing it?"
"Well, when you put it that way."
As for Picasso, as much as Diego loves and admires his art (i.e., an awful lot), he claims thet he can get just as much joy out of th refrigerator drawings by his little cousin David, who also kicks his ass @ Playstation.
(David is considerably older now and is probably not only retired from refrigerator art, but also probably going to law school or something like that. I forget how old I am. Soon, David will have little kids of his own, and they will be creating th refrigerator masterpieces, and I will be dead.)
"Where have you been?"
"Upset tummy."
Th band before us, Blast Ople, don't seem to have rehearsed much, which is a good thing in this case. They are a bunch of kids. They are getting really into it. I remember when th singer, Quark Henares, was jest a little 15-year-old squirt w/ a big smile on his face, super-excited about having all th Pavement CDs. Actually, he still looks like that. He is throwing his big frame around, jumping, and gesturing like a preacher. Now he is coming over to
hug me. My stomach hurts. Th guitar player is piling on top of Quark. It will be a challenge to out-retard these guys. I am so old. When does th desire to be retarded become extinguished, God only knows.
"Good evening, we are Th Aga Muhlach Experience. Come closer," I say.
Haha, come closer, because I'm lonely, and tired of writing this.
It am an aerobic workout, th first 2 minutes. We have 4 songs 2night. If my legs, which suddenly feel like spaghetti, can make it through th first 2 minutes, everyzing's gonna be all right. It is a song named "Sub-Lingual," which is pretty sweet because I've forgotten all th words. It is by a band from England that I'd never heard of until Diego pulled it out of his ass @ practice. YOU WANNA SING THIS LISTEN TO IT IT ROCKS. "LA LA LA, LA LA LA," I sing.
I leave th stage and do a bunch of stuff.
Between songs, I tell jokes and say stuff such as, "Who am ready 2 rock?" I think I can zee Myrene Muhlach smiling in th picture, because I have zaid zomezing extremely funny.
And den ah fulfilled a lifelong dream by covering a song by my favourite band, Idlewild. It is named "Roseability." "GERTRUDE STEIN SAYS THAT'S ENOUGH," I zing. Th lyrics are deep. I feel them. Raimund Marasigan Muhlach whips out a toy raygun and shoots it into his pickups, making a racket that pleases all th 2-year-olds in th whole universe.
I notice some people have fancy cameras. This reddish glow was brought 2U by th Lomo belonging to a sweetheart named Lj spearminthead. She is not named Lj spearminthead yet. I have not been baptized yet, either. El jay is only a twinkle in my pants.
Diego Muhlach is to th right of me, Raimund Marasigan Muhlach is to th left of me, Mike Muhlach is behind me, Myrene Muhlach is behind and to th left of me. It is like those New Age trust exercises they tried to make me act out in couples counseling. If you lean back in th chair, and it tips, yr partner will catch you. I love. I am safe here.
I am a farmer on his land, proudly plowing.
Now for some old songs.
Diego loves this song, "Fabricoh," by Archers of Loaf. It is a good song, a dick song, a pussy song, a song song. "ROCKIN' OUT ROCKIN' OOOUUUT," I zing. I am jumping off of tables now; th people on th ground are catching me like a hammock.
Diego used to call me on th telephone, super-long-distance, when he was bummed out. WHAT AM I DOING W/ MY LIFE etc. Our comfort was telling each other stories. He taught me a lot about how to tell a story. More to th point, he taught me a lot about WHY to tell a story. Tell it because you can't wait to tell somebody, because it is bursting yr insides wanting to be told. It make you laugh, jest thinking about it. You want th other people to feel it like this CHECK THIS OUT YOU'RE GONNA LOVE THIS. Diego writes, too, but his real superpower is telling stories out loud. LOUD motherfucker, th vein in his forehead sticks out, he am talking w/ him hands, punctuating w/ sound effects, impersonating characters, grabbing you arm. HEY MOTHERFUCKER th oral tradition am in gud hands.
It is time for th finale, Huggy Bear's "Her Jazz": it am a pro-feminist song. Quark joins us on stage to sing th part what I don't sing. Our zinging overlaps. We have practically erased girls from th song w/ our manly zinging. Ah don't know why, it make me want to zmash things.
Pro-feminist, anti-matter. We got 3 minutes to enjoy as much CHAOS as possible. It is like when you and yr friend are jogging, and yr friend decides to pick up th pace, and suddenly it is a race. "YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING SOMEWHERE BUT YOU'RE GOIN' NO-WHERE/ YOU THINK YOU'RE TAKING ME BUT AH'M GOING ELSE-WHERE," I zing. Now you've lost a shoe, but you don't care. This is a race.
You'll pick up th shoe later? All loose ends will be tied up after 3 minutes. Th thought "Hey, should ah do a backflip?" crosses my mind.
CLICK FOR GORE