A Nightmare Come True

On one of our sojourns to the Ice Vodka Bar in Greenbelt 3 on an early Friday evening, three of my friends and I reacquainted ourselves with Liza, one of the bar waitresses, and dunked our collective angst in booze and cigarette smoke. We were, once again, taking horrible advantage of the bar’s PhP395+ (roughly around US$8.78+) drink-all-you-can vodkatinis, which are headily combined with a salmon pizza that’s good for one’s supper. You oughtta tell by now that my MadDoggerz and I spend plenty of time and money on this awesome promo package that the bar offers its patrons during its lean hours, 1800H to 2100H.

However, it was on this fateful Friday that I heard one of the weirdest songs I’ve ever heard. Ne-Yo sang his hit tune “Irreplaceable,” which he had originally written for Beyoncé. When the song’s Intro beats started blaring from the bar’s humongous speakers, everyone on the dance floor started their usual bump and grind, but instead of the normal “To the left / to the left” lyric, Ne-Yo sang:

“To the right / to the right
Everything you own in a box to the right
In the closet / Yeah, that’s my stuff
So, if I bought it / Bitch, don’t touch…”

It was already 2200H when Ne-Yo assertively screamed these words through my fuzzy brains (I wouldn’t blame me for being a wee bit buzzed by this time – I’d started on the vodka drinks at 1800H, for cryin’ out loud). So, I then happily pointed out to my friends that Ne-Yo f***ed up his own lyric, resolutely sang my own completely indecipherable words in time with the song’s beat, and purposefully struggled off of my bar stool to dance drunkenly in front of two very sexy guys.

I was told that no more than two minutes passed when my companions (read: ex-friends) forcibly pushed me out of the bar door, hailed the first cab they saw, and dumped me with the poor, hapless taxi driver. I distinctly remember waving goodbye to the two aforementioned hotties, but I don’t think they waved back. I also think I ruined a pair of good fuck-me shoes that night, but I don’t remember where I’d put them now.

…

Come to think of it, I don’t even remember if all these things really happened to me on this supposed Friday night. Gawd, I hope not, coz I just blogged about it to the whole wide world.

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On the Intellect and the Beauty

I just started learning the Spanish language quite recently, and I started to develop a fascination for everything Spanish: music, film, art, culture, food, people, geography, history, and books. In the Instituto Cervantes (www.manila.cervantes.es), the library is the one place I frequent to check out the latest textbooks for students who are learning Spanish and for available audio CDs and DVDs they have available.

Two of the CDs I'd recently borrowed were those by Joaquin Sabina (www.jsabina.com) and by Chayanne (www.chayanne.net), two men who exemplify opposite sides of the "ideals" that women could possibly want. For instance, Sabina is a Spanish social activist, singer, songwriter, author, illustrator, and poet whose outrageous antics, lyrics, and political views echoed the sentiment of his people. His raspy singing voice is not his appeal, oh no, definitely not. Instead, it is his points of view that are sang to the strumming of an acoustic guitar that attract millions of Latin American and European fans. The titles of his albums are likewise reflections of his artistic, socialist, and political statements: Malas compañías (Bad companies), La mandrágora (The mandrake), Esta boca es mía (This mouth is mine), Diario de un peatón (A pedestrian's log), amongst others. Personally, though, I appreciate his musical rhythm (especially since I'm often lazy to decipher his Spanish lyrics) and beat. It's so "individualistic" (I hate to use the word "unique" because I haven't heard a lot of Spanish singers), I can almost hear a "f*** off, world, I'm doing what I like doing, so shut the h*** up and listen to what I have to say" undertone in each song.

Puerto Rican hottie Chayanne, on the other hand, is part of a different male-spectrum altogether. His looks are soooo worth drooling over; the voice is okay; his bod's to die for (based on the picture I googled on the left here - I don't know, though, if that's really him); and his acting skills are passable (judging from the way Hollywood's latched onto him once upon a time). His songs are typical of the modern pop culture - ranging from ballads to Latin-based dance beats. The "passion" so apparent in Sabina's songs, however, is somewhat lacking in Chayanne's own beat. His albums are entitled to attract the masses, those pop-loving fans who really "own" the Billboard Hit Charts: "Chayanne es mi nombre" (Chayanne is my name... although his real name's Elmer Figueroa-Arce!!!), "Sangre Latina" (Latin blood), "Atado a tu amor" (Tied to your love), amongst others. His appeal is physical - his fame almost ethereal. According to Wikipedia, there's a highway (in Puerto Rico, I suppose) 'that connects San Lorenzo with Gurabo, named Chayanne.

Mierda. This is one of the truths that I've learned so far in my life: beauty trumps intellect... every time, all the time. Now, I gotta go... the treadmill's calling.