Hopeless

I spent the wee hours of May 14 depressed, stressed out and feeling suicidal. Whatever hope I have for this country was dashed when the results of the previous day’s elections started trickling in. It’s the same trapos dominating local and national races. The same sweet-talking scions of political clans. The same warlords and plunderers and dolts. Sickening, really. I felt like a fool for believing that this particular election will be different.

May 13 midterm elections: Dude, where’s my precinct?

Even in Antipolo, my last bastion of hope and sanity as far as politics is concerned, the tides seem to have changed. A member of the Ynares dynasty of Rizal is trying to seize control of the city hall, and judging from what I saw yesterday at our polling precinct, there’s hardly any reason to be optimistic that he will not succeed. There were just too many idiots willing to sell their souls for a price, even for a cheap fast food meal. Sad.

And the Senate race? Forget it. Very little hope there. The fact that millions of voters thought political greenhorns like Nancy Binay and Bam Aquino are fit to sit in a body that crafts and passes laws will baffle me for a long time. I hope they’ll prove me wrong in the near future.

Otherwise, this country is better off at the bottom of the South China Sea.

Rockstar obituary: Jeff Hanneman

Wow. Less than a week after that heavy metal high that was Pulp Summer Slam XIII comes the ultimate letdown: Jeff Hanneman, guitarist and founding member of thrash metal titans Slayer, died Friday (Manila time) due to alleged drink-related liver failure. He was 49.

Really, wow. This genuinely saddens me. I may not be the biggest Slayer fan on the block, but I have the biggest respect for the band and have fond memories of their music.

I remember listening to Decade of Aggression at a friend’s place many summers ago. Nothing really special about that afternoon except the period: I was starting my teenage years, cranked up on that feeling of invincibility that one feels at that age, and Slayer — with Hanneman and Kerry King’s blitzkrieg guitar riffs and face-melting solos — was providing a fitting soundtrack to that. Slayer was also among the first bands I listened to when I wanted to feel “tough” and “evil” and to piss off the adults. Later I’d use their music to get over a particularly hellish day at the office.

They say the most unforgettable music in one’s life is the one he heard when he was a teenager. Hard not to spot sense in that wisdom.

Will be listening to Decade of Aggression all weekend.

Into the pit

I’ve been to mosh pits before, including its arguably more insane variant, the circle pit. But it was last Saturday night, at Pulp Summer Slam XIII, when I stayed in one the longest. By my estimate, I was probably at the pit during 90% of Cannibal Corpse’s 14-song set. I got bruises to show.

It wasn’t planned. I didn’t go to Amoranto Stadium seeking sadistic gratification. I went there to listen to live music, from bands I only see in magazines and on the Internet, to bang my head and perhaps do a little pushing and shoving, but only  at a safe spot and with my bros nearby. That, however, changed after a conversation with my tukayo, the writer Karl de Mesa, at the venue.

“Dude,” he said. “Slam ka?”

I gave him a safe answer: “Not sure.” And then I threw him the same question.

“Nope,” he blurted. “I’m too old for that shit.”

Understandable, I thought. Like me, he’s well into his 30s and isn’t exactly one may call “athletic.” Still, his retort got me thinking. Am I too old for that shit too? The question — and its thinly veiled challenge — burned and festered in my head. It nagged at me. It made me uncomfortable. The English power metal band Dragonforce cried thunder in front of us, but half my concentration was on that question.

I figured there was only one way to find out, and the realization made my amygdala, the “fear center” of the brain, kick into high gear. Those who say there’s no harm in trying aren’t talking about mosh pits.

The Night’s Watch

Some nights you wish you can push back the morning. Last Wednesday night was one of them.

The event: the soft launch of news and lifestyle website Coconuts Manila. The place: Kasbah at The Fort Strip, a hip and trendy place that was, until about three beers later, an assault to my proletarian senses. The company: Interaksyon’s Boojie Basilio (not in photo), Business Mirror’s Jonathan Perez, Coconuts Manila’s Jonathan de Santos (standing), GMA News Online’s Carmela Lapeña, and her husband Manix Abrera, the noted cartoonist. Crazy bunch.

Crazy night, too: 90s alt rock music, soft lights, free-flowing booze. And girls, too. Tall, leggy types puffing coolly on their Marlboro Blacks, conspicuous even in semi-darkness. Were they really exchanging side glances with me, or was it just the drink in my hand? In any case, by the time my friends and I disbanded, roughly about 2 a.m., I was like Jack Kerouac atop Desolation Peak: drunk, blissful, without a care in the world.

Photo courtesy of Boojie Basilio.