In praise of B-movies

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Tomorrow we can drive around this town

For all its worth, The Gin Blossoms are still the same way I remembered them eons ago when I was still struggling with homework done in the middle of school halls and rest rooms. Not counting singer Robin Wilson’s obvious progression from a fresh-faced contender for the new alternative poster boy of the 90s to a scraggly-haired middle aged performer, guitarist Jesse Valenzuela’s weight, and absence of drummer Philip Rhodes, the music is pretty much what I expected to hear. Their appearance and lineup may have changed but the sound---despite the new singles from their latest album (No Chocolate Cake) pretty much sound the way you’d expect from something by the Gin Blossoms.


Whether the band will take that as an insult or a compliment is not relevant. Personally I like that they never deviated from what formula they used in crafting songs. There are just some bands that look and sound stupid (Chris Cornell’s “Part Of Me”, anyone?) when they tinker with the approach on how to create music. Gin Blossoms belongs to that category. Doing what they did best and snagging new fans out of evoking nostalgia from the old ones. The same catchy, hooky pop songs you wouldn’t mind humming to or hearing from the nearby coffee shop or PUV and tapping your hands along to the beat. Thank God the band has a good head on its shoulders and enough sense not to overstep their capabilities just so people would take them ‘seriously’ as “artists”. 

When I first heard about the news of the concert I surprised myself by not being too enthusiastic about it the way I’d probably had been when I was still in high school. I knew my high school version would kill just to see the concert. Two worn-out cassette copies of New Miserable Experience (1993) would attest to that. I was just a little apprehensive that they might not play a lot of their early materials because when I recently Googled the band I found they had a bunch of new albums after Congratulations I’m Sorry (1995), their second album and the last collection of tunes from the band I’m familiar with. I figured it’s okay if I missed the concert since they’ll probably promote the latest album anyway. And I’m only interested with the singles I knew.


Then the 18th came and I found myself with my wife in the middle of Araneta Coliseum yet again for a concert with another band that belongs to our generation (NIN: Wave Goodbye Tour last year.). 


The band launched into “Follow You Down” and the entire place turned into a massive karaoke sing along complete with the token howls and shrieks from the female fans. It was followed by other lesser known singles like “As Long As It Matters”, “Until I Fall Away” and a whole batch of new materials nobody knew because every time the band played them everyone kept quiet and sat down. I was waiting for the Douglas Hopkins-penned singles like “Hey Jealousy”, “Found Out About You”, “Lost Horizons” and “Pieces Of The Night”. Those were the songs I came for. As long as they played them, I couldn’t care less if they played a Linkin Park or April Boy single afterwards. And they did, with “Hey Jealousy” saved for the encore. 


For a few minutes it felt like it was the summer of 1993 again, somewhere in an old town with a big looming water tank standing before the mountains.

Seeing Red

The gist of it is that you'd be branded as the town leper.


Sore eyes---Conjunctivitis if you'd like to come off like one of those pompous sorts who always insist on using  "Photocopy" instead of the very proletarian "zerox"---can really hurt you in many ways. And I'm not talking about waking up in the morning feeling as if your eyeballs are about to pop out of their sockets like that disgusting film sequence in Gov. Schwarzenegger's Total Recall. 





Like getting stuck inside a bus in a 4 hour trip with  no possible means of stopovers, and it hits you: A subtle tingling sensation at the very core of your stomach; nudging, even playful at first., like a fart that's itching to get out as silently as possible. Then a sudden gut-wrenching pain that demands your full attention. And you're barely 45 minutes into the trip.


At first I thought it was just your average, shampoo-irritated red eye after bathing. I mean how would I know? The handbook says you'd have to wake up with your eyes sealed off by a disgusting sticky discharge with enough adhesive strength to repair broken vases. I went off to work thinking it'd just disappear like most of my bathroom mishaps. When a colleague commented on the grounds for termination because of smoking grass, I knew I was in trouble.



That the damned things stated itching only confirmed it. Before you know it, everyone starts telling you to go home lest you contaminate the workplace and spoil everyone's great time. Fine, it gives a sort of notoriety and fame that can't be achieved by endless preening and name-dropping like most guys at the office do, anyway. 


The eyes are the windows to the soul. 


I'm using tobramycin to heal my soul.

Proficiency

I recently had a lengthy discussion in Facebook with a cousin based in the US about the medium of instruction to be used on schools in the Philippines. It started with a status message I posted about a local TV program that featured a debate whether to use Filipino or a combination of Filipino-English in selected subjects. It was an interesting topic and allowed me to discuss my stand about most Filipinos's fascination and awe with English-speaking people. Hence the disturbing practice of forcing children to learn a foreign language at an early age where proficiency for their own tongue is still in the developing stage. What you'd eventually end up with is a person who's neither good at both and grasping at straws as far as clearly communicating what he wants to communicate properly. And it doesn't help that the so-called English "teachers" who guide the said children have neither the aptitude nor skill in English to effectively train people in the first place.

The explanation was so long I figure I may as well have blogged it.

The conversation in its entirety:

Roman: Interesting debate on Mel and Joey tonight about whether to just stick to Filipino or Filipino-English combination as the medium of instruction in schools. I think that's a very minor problem considering the guest science teacher they have at the show defined 'photosynthesis' as the green component in plants.

Jing: Roman, what's your take on this? (just curious hehe)

Roman: Personally I'd go for Filipino as the medium of instruction in our schools. And by that I mean teachers can explain their subjects in the language they and their students have no problem relating to or understanding. The debate has sparked an extreme form of mentality that references Gestapo-like directives that seem to constrict the use of language exclusively for only the medium chosen. As if foreign and common terms that do not have Filipino counterparts cannot be uttered in class anymore because, like the naysayers have been saying all along, it is not Filipino. Like mathematical concepts that have no known Filipino counterparts---specially complex subjects like Trigonometry or Calculus. But I came from a science high school and one of the best Trigonometry teachers there was able to explain and make us understand the difficult concepts in the subject because he explained the most difficult points and related it to their practical/realistic applications in our local dialect. 

I am no expert when it comes to Linguistics but the difficulty I see and have observed with imposing an English-only policy in some subjects is that 99% of the time, the teachers themselves have no command or aptitude whatsoever in that language. And 'Filipino' itself does not automatically mean 'Tagalog' either. It is a lot more dynamic than people think. If the boo boo above is any indication, I'm sure the teacher knows what 'photosynthesis' means. But look what happens when she explains it in a language that requires her to exert an additional effort just to get her point across. Now imagine that scenario in a classroom setting filled with bored and uninspired students. English is good, no doubt, but I think it should be a supplementary resource instead of the glorified entity people perceive it to be. And there is the mistaken idea that Filipino is limiting. On the contrary, it allows more freedom for teachers to express themselves better than when they are strictly adhering to an English -only policy during class hours.

Big talk about Filipino and here I am explaining myself in English right? True. But school has very little to do with this than my parents (your uncle specially), comic books, and television. I even sucked at grammar when I was in school. The thing is, before I started with this 'inglisan' crap I devoured hundreds of Pinoy komiks, endless reruns of Dante Varona, Lito Lapid and Chiquito movies on Channel 13 and Eat Bulaga. All before I even started first grade. The only reason I gravitated to English materials is because I wanted to read The Fantastic Four and understand what the hell Darth Vader was saying to Luke Skywalker on Cloud City.

Jing: Very well thought of and perfectly written :) I am glad I asked your take on this subject since I am not fully aware of what the debate is all about. I do not think converting the language of instruction to Filipino is limiting; learning EVERYTHING in English is limiting. As a health care worker here in U.S. it is (almost) embarrassing that I cannot translate medical procedures and anatomy in my own language.It would have been great to learn proper Filipino terminology, that would have saved me from explaining to my co workers my inability to properly and effectively translate..tsk tsk tsk..Thanks Roman.

Roman: Salamat Ate Jing. I don't think its your fault for not literally translating certain medical terminologies and jargons to Filipino. I doubt if there are literal translations of most of those in Filipino, anyway. And secondly, you are geographically located in a place where English is the dominant language. Of course you have to adapt. You see, the point is not the blow by blow literal translation of terms---that seems to be what everybody is so focused on when it comes to this topic---but the CLARITY of the message with which you wish to convey to the person you're talking to. 

It has always been about clarity and ease. If you can teach mathematics and science comfortably without worrying that someone will report you for not "ispokening ingglis" during class hours, then good for you and your students. Just because the textbooks are in English does not mean you can't discuss productively using Tagalog, Bisaya or whatever dialect you happen to find yourself belonging to. Just because you watched a Hollywood movie with friends does not automatically mean you should discuss the merits (or lack of it) of the film in English. You say "Hanep talaga lightsaber duel nina Darth Maul, no?" and not "Ang ganda ng ilaw-na-espadahang eskirmahan nina Darth Maul." Not only is the latter statement annoying and stilted, but that's how the majority of Pinoys view the topic of using Filipino as a medium of teaching. I think you get the drift of what what I'm trying to say.

It's also the reason why you react more strongly to "PUTANGINA MO" than "YOU SONOFABITCH."

There's just something about your own language that sticks and refuses to leave when spoken to you.

Ant-like

I always assumed most atheists are people who simply say they are one just because they don't believe in any otherworldly entities/deities overseeing everything.

You know, the old man sporting a white beard sitting on a throne up in the sky surrounded by cherubim and harp-playing angels with a propensity for singing in high octaves; and a predilection for belting  "Amazing Grace" on cue and in varying harmonics whenever someone who just died walks in through the pearly gates.That is of course the popular Christian cliche that people from this religion form in their heads whenever the subject of religion comes in. As a born Catholic I can say that that is definitely the first collage of images that comes to mind whenever anything remotely connected to my own religion is brought up. Even if I do not subscribe to that kind of perception about the afterlife, anymore. It is corny and overtly simplistic generalizing the concept of GOD like that and ignorant at times, specially when information about theology is readily available to most people these days; you'd assume that people would have a little more sophistication in understanding the dynamics of the human  behavior and historical errors of the faith they chose to follow. But like I always believed, to each his own.

There is no doubt that as far as providing naysayers ammunition to debunk religion, Catholicism is at the forefront. And it is also the most controversial and one of the most obviously flawed among the bunch. From the inquisitions to banning innocuous works of fiction like Dan Brown's books, to opposing the reproductive health bill, the list goes on. I have a lot of complaints about it myself but I won't deviate from it. Because it is the only way I know how to acknowledge whatever it is out there that I still believe to be the prime mover and architect of our very existence. Just because science and reason debunked the existence of anything utilizing human methods does not make it a universal truth. That is one conceit of the human race I truly do not trust. As if humans are the only authority in intellectual prowess in all of creation. As one major alien character from an Arthur C. Clarke novel said, "You'd be like an ant trying to count every single grain of sand in the world." That statement just about sums it up for me. Clarke, ironically, is an atheist. The video below presents controversial feminist/atheist/writer Camille Paglia on a very refreshing and informative discussion about religion, art, and atheistic sentiments.

And this thing about atheists---the garden-variety that is: These people share the same deluded self-importance with amateurs who proudly proclaim themselves 'artists' just because they wrote several lines of crappy poetry (if you can call it that) or doodled images in a canvass that would make every "Last Supper" portrait in every dining hall in the country seem like priceless Vermeers in comparison. I personally have no problem with anyone, whatever school of thought or religion they belong to as long as they keep their unsolicited opinions or beliefs to themselves. But what I have noticed is that people with very limited understanding of what they proudly espouse to others are the least knowledgeable about it---be it the endlessly annoying fundamentalists who think they have a one way ticket to heaven and are God's gift to mankind or the snide, so-called atheists who think they are paragons of common sense and higher thinking.

Everyone wants to sound smart.

I wonder what's for dinner?

Seen and Herd

He's the one

Who likes all our pretty songs

And he likes to sing along

And he likes to shoot his gun

But he knows not what it means.

- Nirvana

I’m not a trendy asshole

I do what I want

I do what I feel like.

- Offspring

Whenever I'm asked why I like what I like, I usually respond with a blank stare, a shrug, or just a dry “what's it to you”. It’s like asking a person why he likes blue over orange when the latter is obviously the best color in the spectrum, and then wondering why the hell the other person picked the other. What kind of answer are you looking for when you ask questions like these, anyway? It’s one thing to be genuinely interested about another person’s preferences, and entirely another to ask questions that are seemingly harmless at first glance but are pointed accusations that always come across as how could you? Or to be blunt: How could you like it when it’s not the popular choice?

Like in music: someone asks me what I enjoy listening to and I mention something even my parents were partial to (by that I mean they liked when they were young) and suddenly the person looks as if he was speaking to a leper or someone with a bizarre sense of humor. Add +100 damage if said person is younger than you. And then comes the all too-familiar “Luma na yan, a.”  ("That's old.") And I’m always tempted to get back with something like coercing the guy to join MENSA for that phenomenal observation. Of course I can always lie and give something very generic like the ones I see every time I tune in to some music video channel to save myself from ridicule but why bother? Oh, I see. It was a tasteless joke about my age. Stupid me. And by the way, pu+@&^@ mo rin. I’d take an idiot’s heckling anytime over being known for liking crap disguised as something else just because it’s “new”.

It is amusing. This general assumption that anything not commonly spotted in the radars of contemporary pop culture are automatically regarded as a waste of time or, at the very least, ugly, boring, or nonexistent. Of course this is true to some degree. Popular is popular no matter how defiant one is regarding that definition. And some---most, actually---of what I like has been popular during their time as well. So who am I to say that today’s collective taste is bad? But then I’ve always held on to the adage that popularity isn’t always in direct proportion to quality. Or perhaps my headstrong revulsion toward latching on to trends because it makes me feel like an idiot---because that’s how I perceive people with no identity of their own to fall back to. It’s a bit tricky, as well. All a person has to say is that the Beatles were the largest pop musicians in the planet; so does that mean I’ll snob them had I been born a little earlier and lived through the height of their popularity just because they wrote corny love songs designed for teenaged girls? Probably.

But then The Beatles innovated—they reinvented their sound, subject matter and even their very image to grow from singing about puppy loves to singing about Eastern philosophies, mind-altering substances and even looking through the eyes of a 64 year-old. And I am more familiar with their later works like Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, The White Album, Revolver, etc. I have been exposed to their music since kindergarten (due to my father’s bootleg cassette copies) but my interest toward the band came when I was in high school. About the same time when puberty demands listening to subversive music by bands with the least surplus of sappy love songs in their catalogues. They went from being top 40 poster boys to serious artists.

Ah yes. Artists and art. As much as it makes me cringe at sounding like a pretentious poseur I'd have to admit that it is the main factor I look for as a spectator. It is very hard to define or peg because most of the time, shock value or nauseating attempts at cuteness are often received with more enthusiasm than the real thing. This is unnerving to put in one's journal. Especially when everyone nowadays seems to have a delusion that automatically gives license to proclaim themselves as artists just because what they do requires a level of creativity even a trained chimpanzee won’t have a problem attending to. But I digress and that’s a separate topic, altogether.

The point is how can it be unfashionable to like something like A Clockwork Orange or Kraftwerk or Led Zeppelin during these times when they have already proven their value to the world? The Police’s Reggatta De Blanc was released in 1979 and I have yet to listen to the entire album. You can argue that it sounds dated, but so what? Truly good songs are timeless. If what’s being played now sounds good because it’s new, then why bother liking it? It would be passe in a year, or maybe within months, anyway. Give it a few more years and someone with an IQ of over 15 would inevitably mumble “Luma na yan, a.” You’d be better off not liking anything, if that’s how your twisted logic operates.

And I am aware this is sounding more and more like the intergenerational grousing that typical old people like grandparents usually do. That people were more sensible in their time than today’s society with corrupted values and reckless youth, and so on until the cows come home about everything that’s right about theirs and everything that’s not in the present. To a person, pretty much everything about his generation is the best compared to the rest. And I am guilty of that to some extent, except that I also appreciate most of what they said that was great about their generation. And my parent’s generation. And mine, of course. I try hard to see any redeeming qualities on today's contemporary landscape and the only thing that struck me as totally original these last few years was William Hung.

Even guitar-based bands not only sound alike, but also talk of the same lovelorn woes or how they’re gonna slit their wrists because, well, they just feel like doing it; because they are overtly emotional. As if Weird Al Yankovic does not have emotions due to his irreverent humor and approach at creating/parodying songs. Or maybe I’m just not looking. Even films that are being peddled nowadays are just bloated, but ultimately hollow versions of their original 80s incarnations: The A-Team, Predator, Aliens, even the upcoming Tron Legacy and The Transformers.

If consumerism was already bad enough in 1979 to warrant a stinging criticism via George
Romero’s Dawn Of The Dead, it sure as hell no different now. If anything, it only got progressively worse. Music, film, literature and other branches of the creative arts are reduced to products with a definite shelf life designed for today’s generation with an attention span relatively comparable to that of a jellyfish.

I guess this is the inverse of a previous topic I posted a few years ago (Indie-Indiehan). In that I touched on one of the most extreme form of snobbishness in the guise of liking something, anything, not popular or known to at least five people because of a weird form intellectual arrogance; and here I’m ranting about an extreme form of intellectual inadequacy that is abysmally annoying because most people seem to be suffering from it. Hard to believe that herd mentality, coupled with the dependence toward Google and Wikipedia to do the thinking reduced most people into mindless cows content on eating what the media shoves down their throats.

FURTHER/RECOMMENDED READING: The Dumbest Generation, Mark Bauerlein