No Stopping Us

Today, I will let Jason speak for me.

We may not yet be on the top, but nevertheless, there's no stopping us.

Tell me what you want (what you really, really want)

WARNING: This blog entry contains sexual and drug references. Reader discretion is advised.

    Amsterdam is one of my favorite places in the world. I have this strong feeling that I'm meant to live there even for just a short time in my life. I mean, what's not to love? It's the home of Van Gogh. of Rembrandt. Cannabis Cup. Clogs, windmills, tulips. Gouda and Edam. In Holland, they don't give roses when they're in love. They give sunflowers. Everything tastes better in their coffee shops. The air smells sweeter. Virtually everyone's got a bike. And to top it all off, the Dutch are friendly, chilled out, and they speak English.

    Last year I visited my favorite city with my favorite people-  my husband Chippy and my brothers Patrick and Mike- in a dad-sponsored, no-parents, all-adult European holiday. There were a lot of happy memories from that trip, but today (to celebrate Patrick's birthday) I want to share a particularly funny and embarrassing story from our Land of Sex and Drugs adventure: the day my brother participated in a live sex show.

    
(At this point I need to advise that due to my altered mental state at the time of the event and pretty much for the duration of our Holland stay, I may be a little hazy on the details.)

        Watching a live sex show was in our list of things-to-do in Amsterdam. It's not everyday you visit a city where prostitution (among other things) is not just legal, but is really out there. I wouldn't be surprised if they had more sex shows than cinemas of the non-sex variety. We scouted the streets for the perfect theater and settled for a reasonably-priced venue walking distance from our hotel which was smack in the middle of the red light district. We got in before the first show started (yes, we're eager beavers) and the usher sat us on the front row (which made me nervous because I didn't want to be so close to the stage in case body fluids started shooting out of the performers).

    The first act was a dominatrix. She stepped onto the stage, eyed the audience, and pointed to Patrick. Before we even knew what was going on, he was already being led by the ushers toward the stage. Now in theory, I would think being playfully whipped by a dominatrix is probably not something guys will decline, especially if the dominatrix looks like this:

But when the lady who just singled you out as the submissive in a public role-playing game is old enough to be your mother and looks like this:

well, let's just say it's a totally different story.

    Now, a little backgrounder on my younger brother: he's a 27-year old med student who graduated Molecular Biology and Biotechnology cum laude. He's half control freak, half typical boy-next-door: polite, friendly, good-natured, dependable. Don't be fooled, though. He, like a lot of guys, is into porn and the gym. Like, really into porn and lifting weights and the whole body beautiful thing. 

    Anyway, back to the story at hand. At first the act was tame enough. The mature and really healthy dominatrix made him bend over and struck his bum a few times with a leather whip, later on with a mini-paddle. Then it got stranger. And funnier.

    The dominatrix took off his eyeglasses and put them aside. Then, she pulled out a strange-looking hat... no, wait. It wasn't a hat. It was a strap-on, and she made him wear it on his head. As if that wasn't embarrassing enough, she made him lie down on the stage with his back on the floor and then stood over the huge synthetic head that was belted on his real, well, head. (At this point we could feel worse things to come and were practically falling off our seats laughing). And then, she began to lower herself and before we knew it we couldn't see the strap-on anymore. Then she started to raise herself. AND THEN, she started doing the whole cycle again, this time faster. She was riding the dildo on Patrick's face. (Please. Take a moment to truly fathom what you've just read. Just close your eyes for a few seconds and try to imagine it.)

    And it didn't end there. After the whole bobbing-up-and-down thing, she continued to stand over him and made him do sit-ups. SIT-UPS. The goal was to get the dildo in her vag everytime. She made a sport out of the two things Patrick was really into: porn and fitness. It was priceless. Once the dildo-on-the-head routine was (thankfully) over, she took the strap-on, gave him his glasses back, and asked him to lick the dick. She had it in his face, forcing him to put it in his mouth. You can tell Patrick was really grossed out with the idea. I wouldn't even be surprised if he threw up a little in his mouth. If it was Mike or Chippy up there, they probably would have thrown in a "fuck off" and stormed off stage. But classic Patrick, ever the gentleman- appropriate and considerate- just smiled and politely refused.

    Patrick had a weird look on his face throughout the ordeal - it was a mixture of embarrassment, disbelief, amusement, nervousness, and a hint of disgust- but he took it all in good fun. We couldn't stop laughing the moment he stood up from his seat. We left the theater with well-defined abs and tired cheeks. We tripped on him endlessly. He was such a good sport about everything, though, he really was the perfect candidate for this type of embarrasing moment.

    Oh, did we promise not to ever re-tell this story? EVER? Oooops.

Trick, I hope you're not irritated that I blogged about this. It's just... it's one of the funnest moments of my life, and one of the happiest memories I have with you. I wanted to relive it on your day. Happy, happy birthday younger big bro. I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I admire you. A lot. And a lot of times I wish I had more of your qualities. You're my idol.

I have a whole list of songs that remind me of you, but this one took the cake. Just in case you don't remember, this was the first single of the first tape you ever bought with your own money. And you got it not because of the music, but because the chicks were hot (well, maybe not Scary Spice).Good Times!

The Gambler

    My dad is a huge fan of Kenny Rogers. Of all his songs, The Gambler, I must say, is my favorite. I've always felt a connection to this track. I know my dad made me listen to it carefully when I was a child, and since then I've thought it was his way of giving me a life lesson- he was the gambler, and I, the narrator.

    I'm a self-appointed daddy's girl. Needless to say, I've always put my dad on a pedestal. He's my hero. I admire his big heart, his sense of responsibility, and more recently his humility. He's smart, well-read, and I thought he knew everything. And because he was so high up there, so unreachable, I tried to understand when he missed my performances in school or important debate meets because to me he was off somewhere saving someone's life - being the hero that he was. And as a daughter of the hero, I had to learn to make sacrifices. Sooner or later this constant lack of attention became an unsaid competition between me and my brothers. Who can please my dad the most. Who can impress him the most. I don't even think we were aware that we were in that contest. As kids, all we knew was we had to do something spectacular for our dad to show up. And when he didn't, it probably meant it wasn't important enough. Not as important as his work.

    When I was about thirteen my dad said something to the effect of "once you are able to know what I'm thinking, I'll give you anything you want." From then on I think I've unknowingly committed a part of my life to understanding the gambler. I did everything I could to get a glimpse of the enigma that was him. I read the books my dad liked so we had something to talk about. I practiced playing chess for the sole purpose of trying to beat him. He told me to study "Gone" by Jim Chappell on piano and I did; and when he said "once you finish that piece I can die" I stopped learning it. Dropped it completely. 

    Then some years back, my hero totally fucked up. And I was shattered. Still, I tried to rationalize his actions. I tried to understand him. Every hero has a tragic flaw, I thought,  just like my dad has his. For a time though, I must admit I thought it was hypocritical of him to be the gambler, teaching someone how to play a hand and yet carelessly wrecking his. The surgeon, who once said "If we cut, we cut clean" couldn't have butchered this hand any worse than he did. I was angry, confused. I felt betrayed. But then, amidst all the emotional chaos, sleepless nights, and sudden bursts of tears, I had an epiphany. I realized there was a flaw in my thinking. See, my dad isn't the gambler I always thought him to be. He's Kenny, just like me.

    Since then, I've started to see my dad in a different light. Suddenly he's no longer that infallible, all-powerful being. He's just someone trying to traverse through this rough road we call life- like me, at times stumbling along the way; sometimes lost, sometimes hurt. And for the first time I felt that I could connect, really connect to him. I could tell him my worries and problems without fear of being judged. I can freely voice my thoughts and volunteer my assistance on certain matters because I finally feel that maybe I can offer something... that maybe, he can learn from me, too.

    My relationship with my father now has never been better. My understanding of him has never been deeper. You know that "mother's instinct" that people talk about? Lately, it's been "father's instinct" for me. My dad seems so attuned to me these days he sends me a text message whenever something "significant" is going on with me. And as much as a lot of nasty and painful stuff had to happen for us to get here, I guess the important thing is that we're here. Finally.




Poppish, you have always been and will always be my hero. I don't think anything can change that. I love you and I am proud to be your daughter. Happy Father's Day!

    

Just Sing. Sing a song.

   
    My mum is my first musical influence. The earliest memory I have is of us singing together. I remember it was the same song, and everytime it ended I'd beg for us to start over. When I was three she bought me my first keyboard. Incidentally, she doesn't even remember ever getting me that; as far as she's concerned she got me a piano at that age. And well, as much as I know my mother loves me with all her heart, I am quite sure that a) she got me a Yamaha Keyboard first, because b) she wouldn't buy a three year-old an upright piano. I started researching, hoping I can find something that will help jog her memory. I found this:

    If I was indeed three when my mother bought this, that means the memories I have of us singing together was when I was around two years old. Two. I was TWO when I first fell in love with singing. When I first started my love affair with music. I was hooked before I even realized what was going on.

    It means something to me that I responded to music at such a young age. I'd like to think that my love of music is almost instinctual, and this sort of validates that. I don't know if my musical ability is genetic, or if it was a mother's interest being copied by her toddler, or a toddler's interest being encouraged by her mother. Whatever it is, I am thankful that it happened. And this Mother's Day I'd like to celebrate my mum- my first musical influence and my biggest fan- by posting a music video of the first tune I remember singing with her: "Sing" by the Carpenters.

    I know you won't take just any generic video, Ma, so I made you a special one. Happy Mother's Day! I hope this reminds you of simpler times. Love you, Ma :)

      

I won't cross these streets until you hold my hand.

    When I first moved to Australia in 2005 to be with my now-husband and then-boyfriend Chippy, I told my parents that I had it all good and that I was old enough to live without their support. The thing was, I went into the country on an ETA visa (I was a tourist) which meant I couldn't work. I didn't exactly spell that out to them back then because there was no way they'd let me leave if they had known. And to me, it wasn't a choice.

    Chippy was also having a hard time finding work. Being raised in the Philippines where everything was handed to him on a silver platter, there was never any difficulty starting out and making money because he had a network. He knew people. But in Melbourne, it was a totally different story. His qualifications weren't recognized and he had to work in unfamiliar environments just to get by. Needless to say, it was a struggle.

    It became so bad that there was a point we were being evicted from our one-bedroom place. Whatever money we got our hands on we spent on rent, bills, and food. We couldn't really keep asking his family for help because they were starting out as well. I couldn't ask mine because I had, just a few months back, declared my independence with such arrogance and flair. They would send me money once in a while, but I tried hard not to show them we were struggling. So we had to find a way to feed ourselves. I would walk at least two kilometres, from the grocery to our apartment, with 10-15 kilos worth of canned goods and instant food, since there was no more money left for transportation. We would spend our weekends outside outdoor arenas listening to our favorite artists because we couldn't afford to pay for tickets to actually SEE them. We would walk around our neighborhood, checking out luxury cars and admiring the mansions, promising each other that one day, we would get there, too.

    Then things got worse and we couldn't even buy food anymore. We were at the darkest point in our relationship; a time when our will and commitment to being together was really tested. I had the option to just call it quits and ask my parents to fly me back to Manila but I didn't. I stuck it out with Chip because that's what you do when you love someone. And he stuck it out with me as well. He did what he could to feed us. He would wake up early in the morning and walk four kilometres to the Salvation Army and back. He would start at five o'clock to get there by six when the shelter opened. They only gave food out once a week and you had to be there early to get the good stuff, otherwise you'd be left with cans of beans and spaghetti. Yep. We were so down we asked Salvos for food.  
 
    To this day, it is still difficult for me to re-tell this story, not just because it was one of the hardest times of my life, but because it's very personal to me. I choke up whenever I think about it because I remember exactly how much Chippy and I have been through in our short time of being together. It reminds me of the connection and overwhelming love I feel for my husband; and how overcoming this challenge really glued us together. It made us believe that if we stick together, we can get through anything. Maybe, even conquer the world.

Happy anniv Bun!

I originally chose a different song for today's occasion with a totally different entry, then ended up typing something a little less cheesy and a little more 'real.' But since this a special day, I decided to put in an extra song - the one I originally chose - my song for you, sung by your favorite artist. Enjoy Dave Matthew's version of 'In My Life' by the Beatles.    

In My Life

There are places I'll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends, I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life, I've loved them all

But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life, I love you more

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life, I love you more

I'll just keep on dreaming 'til my heartaches end.

    When I was a kid I listened to a lot of local music. We didn't have cable in our household so there was no access to MTV and those other "cool" channels like HBO or StarWorld. Instead, I watched local TV- noon time variety shows, soap operas, local singing competitions. Before I hit first grade I didn't really think much of it. They were shows I enjoyed watching, and I enjoyed the songs they played.

    Awareness set when I entered elementary. Not a lot of other kids could relate to whatever I was saying because they didn't watch the stuff I did. I couldn't relate to them because I couldn't watch what they did. I felt I was ridiculed because I idolized these local TV personalities- which incidentally, were aunts or uncles or parents of my schoolmates. I didn't really understand why it was funny. I mean, our helpers at home seemed to like them. They watched these shows all the time. 

    Soon, and I don't know when exactly although I'm pretty sure it was before I hit third grade, I started to keep my enjoyment of local pop music to myself. I felt embarrassed that I was listening to them. In high school, I called them my "guilty pleasures." That way I could still keep my dignity whenever I had to admit to being familiar with them (or knowing the lyrics by heart!).

Then in college, I met Sandy. 

    

    Remember when I said I am not a golden goddess of song no matter how I make myself out to be? Well. Sandy is. Without even trying, too. A vital member of Picnic 101, she's one of those girls that can do the harmony to whatever is coming out of your mouth. I'm sure she can make a boring speech sound better by just adding soprano vocals to it, or reading it in bad English- on purpose- while keeping a straight face (this only works if your first language isn't English, btw).

    Sandy was my first close friend who had a bigger, more expansive repertoire of local pop songs than me. She knew MORE cheesy, cringe-worthy songs. And to top it off, she wasn't embarrassed about it! She was as excited as me talking about how Smokey Mountain (first album, of course) changed our lives when we were eight. How we sang to Donna Cruz's songs complete with headbands. It was so refreshing being with someone who was unashamed to be listening to tunes others branded as "uncool" (in our local vernacular, we call that baduy). In a way, she gave me the confidence to be true to my musical self. She, together with the rest of my Picnic 101 friends, opened my eyes and ears to the world of local rock and roll. (And that, will be a whole different story altogether.)

    So to my coolest baduy friend, Sandy- aka Frutti- Thank you. You are a beautiful singer, and an even more beautiful friend. Happy Big 3-0!  Here's a song I'm sure we both know and have sung over and over again. Cheers!

Power of Two

"Friends are there for you when you are sad... but best friends already have a shovel to bury the loser that made you cry." - anonymous

     
    There are some songs in my soundtrack that aren't love at first sound- I didn't like them initially but they've grown on me through the years because of the memories they hold. This is one of those songs.

    I don't really remember why I disliked "Power of Two." I think in high school someone told me it was a lesbian song (not that I had or have anything against lesbians) and for some reason it made me think that liking it would make people think I was a lesbian, too. (Yeah. Very logical.) I also found the song just a teeny bit cheesy. (I mean, the closer I'm bound in love to you, the closer I am to free? Really?) At the end of the day, though, it's in the soundtrack of my life. It's there for one reason, and one reason alone: it reminds me of a very important person in my life- Cheska.

    I've known Cheska since June 1999 during our first semester in university and we've been close friends ever since. We were in the same tiny class majoring in Molecular Biology and Biotechnology. I was hesitant to talk to her at first because she looked like a snob and a bit of a bitch, only to discover later on that I was mistaken with my first assumption and was completely right with my second. She was my kind of girl! And more than a decade since we first met, she's still my kind of girl. (She will later on be instrumental in the founding of Picnic 101, but more on that some other time.)

   I think Cheska was the first girl friend I had that I felt really understood me. It was very easy being with her. She was one of those people everyone liked. She was so well-liked, actually, that sometimes it became a nuisance- everyone wanted to talk to her about their problems. We talked about this topic once, a decade ago, how she found it funny that a lot of people regarded her as their best friend and expected she felt the same when she didn't. The label really amused her. I don't remember how the whole conversation went but that part really stuck. Since then I've tried so hard not to put a label on my relationship with her, for fear that she might not reciprocate.

    The thing is, as much as I try so hard not to put a label on it, she's THAT friend to me. She was my maid of honor, she's the first friend I tell about stuff that matter, she'll be the godmother of my future offspring. I trust her with my life. And the physical distance between us doesn't change anything. This song, as cheesy or as sappy as it is, reminds me of our friendship throughout the years. Of the things we've been through. It reminds me of how instrumental she was in helping mold "present me." (If it wasn't for her I wouldn't be introduced to the wise words of Calvin and Hobbes - the perfect life-lesson publication.) She's been there for me during my darkest hours, she's seen me at my worst. And she's stood by me. Always.

     So this is it. What I've been wanting to say all along:

    Ches, I don't care if I'm your THAT friend. But just so you know, you're mine. You're my THAT friend. Happy, happy birthday!   

OFF-TRACK: Celebrating Music, Earth Hour Style

   I never thought it was possible to enjoy a musical event without the whole shebang: proper sound amplification, good lighting, great performers. Tonight I was proven wrong. Tonight the "Ballarat Acoustic Music Festival" reminded me that smoke machines, Intellabeams, and million-dollar stages are just bonuses. That really, a music fest is all about one thing - music.

    When I was told that we were attending an acoustic music festival, I expected completely-lit stages with acoustic/electric instruments, boom mics, etc. I thought the whole "in keeping with the Earth Hour" thing meant they'd be using less electricity. I didn't realize that less electricity meant basic lights, no speakers whatsoever (there were mics... connected to video recorders), and candles. A lot of them.

    It was a pleasant surprise. There were four stages all around the Ballarat Observatory- one in a hall that could comfortably seat about 60 people, another in a cafe that could accommodate around 30, and two tents- one bigger than the other. The paths that connected the venues were lined with candles. There was no need for microphones nor fancy lighting. Their absence actually made the event feel warmer and more intimate. There was no alcohol in the premises; instead there was a mobile coffee stand that kept the audience warm this unusually cold March evening. Some brought their own foldable seats. Others relaxed on their picnic rugs strategically placed beside heaters, snuggling with whomever they were sharing their blankets with.

    There were several different acts throughout the night including a vocal quintet, a harp-and-guitar duo, a Gypsy dance band, and an Iranian duet (with a side of belly dancing). My favorites were the lady who sang and played the upright bass, and the cello-and-vibraphone duo. (I can't help myself. I love the deep sound of bass strings. It's so damn sexy.) I sat in the halls they were playing in and just closed my eyes, listened, and lost myself in sound. It was pretty magical.

    As low-key as it was, I truly enjoyed this festival. It was exactly how I like my music on a cold night - with blankets, a heater, and lots of candles.

'Coz I'm saving all my love for you...

    I love to sing. Give me an opening, any opening to hold a mic or any mic-like object (i.e. a brush or a ladle) and I'll take it. Gladly.  Bathroom concerts complete with blow-away kisses for my adoring fans: check. Jam sessions in our home studio aka the garage: always. I even volunteer to sing for church mass even though I don't actually hear mass (or go to Church at all).

    Needless to say, I am a sucker for karaoke. I love it. L.O.V.E. it. The very capable and creative inventor of Magic Mic was a godsend and a true genius. Thousands of songs crammed into one microphone? How awesome is that?! Gone are the days of constant rewinding and fast-forwarding. Gone are the days of mismatched cassettes and cases (who put the Gloria Estefan tape in the "Love Duets of the 80's" minus-one box set??) Singing your guilty pleasures accompanied by polyphonic music, topped with incorrect, sometimes senseless lyrics, has never been more entertaining.

    My love affair with karaoke started at a very young age. Growing up, I remember my parents having regular weekend chill sessions with their friends at our house. All their gatherings had the same ingredients - food, alcohol, laughter, song. One by one my parents and their friends would unleash their karaoke-fury. Some hit the notes better than others, some simply felt like you've been hit by a big, fat, concrete note. At some point in the evening either one of my parents will call for me and ask me to sing. And I, the obliging daughter, will do as her parents pleased. I always pretended to be shy and unwilling, that way I'll be prodded and showered with praises until I caved and chose a song from our epic collection of multiplex tapes. Oh, how I craved the attention. I loved being told I had a good voice. I loved the "ooohs" and the "aaahs." I loved the limelight. I still do, actually. (As if that fact wasn't obvious enough. But really, who doesn't?)

    (At this point, I think a disclaimer is necessary. I am NOT a golden goddess of song no matter how I make myself out to be. For a while, though, I thought I was. But that's a different story altogether.)

    Singing was the first thing I was sure I could do well. When I was about five or six I didn't really feel like I fit in anywhere. I was constantly told off by my teachers for being lazy or hard-headed, I always felt insecure around my classmates because they had more stuff than I did, and I was regularly laughed at by my cousin (who was my constant companion then) because I couldn't speak English as well as her. But when I sang, everything changed. I was well-received. I didn't feel inadequate. People were envious of my talent.

    So thank you, Miss Whitney Houston. Your karaoke hits were instrumental to my self-discovery. Thank you for helping me achieve the greatest love of all. Thank you for paving the way to my one moment in time. Thank you for encouraging me to dance with somebody. You will always hold a special place in my heart, crack or no crack.

    Here's "Saving All My Love for You," one of my first minus-one hits and a shoo-in for a spot in The Soundtrack of My Life. 

There's no such thing as the "real" world. Pt.1

    Yesterday I posted a link of John Mayer's "No Such Thing" in my FB page for my former students (I used to teach high school, but more on that some other time) who are mostly graduating college this year. As I was listening to the lyrics, a flood of memories and thoughts came crashing back to me. I realized that this short, four-minute song encapsulated about two decades of my life. (I also realized that this song is the first musical memory I have of my university friends, officially called "Picnic 101," but I'll save that for Pt. 2.)

    My parents are both successful doctors. They came from working families who valued a good education above all else. They worked hard to send me and my brothers to school, and they sacrificed a lot for us. To them, the key to being successful is to study hard in school, go to a good university, get a job, work hard, save up. They hammered us to excel. They pushed us to be competitive. They were adamant at preparing us for the "real world."

    Even at a young age I had a real passion for music. So real that when I was about eight or nine, I told my mom that I wanted to take up Voice Culture and Drama when I grew up. Her response to that was "there's no money there. Take up something that will pay a lot, like Actuarial Science." So for a while after that, I did tell people I wanted to become an actuarial  scientist and work in the insurance industry, without a clue of what the hell I was talking about. To me, they were just big words that impressed the adults and made me sound older and  more mature for my age.

    Fast forward to high school when I only had privileges if I was running for honors in class. I could go out on a weekend, once a month, if I could keep up with my grades. If my grades at the end of a term were mostly G (Good, as opposed to VG which is Very Good and E which is Excellent), my privileges would be revoked. I was told, over and over again, that when I got into the country's Premier State University I could go out as often as I liked (A LIE!) and do all the adult things (ANOTHER LIE!) but until then, I had to prove I was worthy to be called "scholar of the nation." By then I wanted to become a Genetic Engineer - I got inspired by Michael Chrichton's Jurassic Park and wanted my own Dinosaur Island. I was set at getting accepted at a double-quota course (translation: only the top 40 applicants around the country get through), THE course if you're a science geek: A Bachelor of Science majoring in Molecular Biology and Biotechnology, BS MBB for short, MBB for shorter. That had the approval of BOTH my parents. Ha.

    Fast forward to college. There will be many more future blog entries on this subject, but for now we'll stick to the basics.

    I got into the course of my dreams. I was on my way to becoming a Dinosaur maker. I found myself amongst the brightest minds of my generation, and I found myself slowly realizing that I wasn't as smart as I thought I was. That all the praises and awards in my little exclusive all-girls' school of fourteen years didn't mean crap to this crowd. It was ironic, actually. I did really well in general subjects like History or Humanities but sucked at Math and Science. And if you're taking up a four-year course where two-thirds of your load are Maths and Sciences, you have a big problem in your hands.

    The thing was, it wasn't because I didn't understand the subjects. It was because I was so busy with my full-blown social life that I didn't want to spend my days and nights hunched over books. I told myself that enjoying college was my reward for working hard in high school. I gave my parents fake grade cards so they'd think I was doing better than I really was. (BTW, I didn't do bad. I never failed, never repeated a class. But I could've done so much better. And I regret that I didn't.) I told them that I spent a lot of my nights in libraries researching when in reality I was drinking with friends at the corner store. By the time I was a senior it'd be "working on my thesis 'til 3am" when really I was singing at a nearby university bar (and getting paid for it, too!).  

         Fast forward to when I realized that after four years of studying it, I didn't want to make Dinosaurs after all. I did have some thoughts of shifting to another course before I graduated though, but out of pride, I stuck to what I committed myself to. Because that's what I've been taught- to decide and stick to it. So when I graduated, I was honestly lost. I had no idea what to do. All the stuff my parents and I had been planning for years just went down the drain. Suddenly, my whole future seemed uncertain.

    I got a job at a call center because it was convenient, then as a teacher (I did a stint at a Master's Degree in Special Education, too, but that didn't last), then went to Australia and worked again at a call center for Insurance (haha), then in the claims department of another insurance company, and now I work in a bank and co-run a music promotions business. Yes. I am in music. I ended up in the same industry I originally wanted to be in 21 years ago but was constantly discouraged to pursue.

    And yes. There is a point to the story. Points, actually.

    They love to tell you 'stay inside the lines.' That 'something's better on the other side.'    

    Truth is, this lot is just as green as the next one. Or just as smelly and polluted if that's your thing. And sometimes, you have no use inside the lines. You have no purpose and no business being there.

    So the good boys and girls take the so-called right track - faded white hats, grabbing credits, maybe transfers. They read all the books but they can't find the answers.

    Just like me. Still searching. All the studying, advanced classes and preparation didn't and still doesn't make it any easier to figure life out. (The Scientific Method helps, though.)

    I just can't wait til my 10 year reunion. I'm gonna bust down the double doors and when I stand on these tables before you, you will know what all this time was for.

    This song was written by John Mayer and Clay Cook in 1999 as a response to the standard high school practice of guidance counselors telling students to "stay inside the lines." When it's better to follow the path you want and not do something you don't like to do just because the odds aren't in favor of it (Wikipedia). Now that I think about it, during career week in high school we had doctors, lawyers, and even actors as speakers but not a musician. Music was a "hobby" and not a career. Well, John Mayer followed his dreams and look at where he is now.

    I've said several times before that if I could do it all over again I'd still choose the same things. I think I wanted so hard to believe that so I could show people I was regret-free; that my life was going exactly as planned. But really, now that I'm thinking about it, I probably would've done things a bit differently. I would've started with MBB, that way I still would've met Picnic 101. I'd have shifted to Music by junior year, applied as a Music teacher, and followed my passion.

    But that's the thing. Life doesn't give do-overs. If I had taken Music instead of MBB, would I have still met my greatest, best-est friends ever? Would I have gotten to know the same people?  Would our relationship be the same? I'd like to think  that things happen for a reason, and that sometimes it takes a whole lifetime to figure out what those reasons are.  All I can really do now is work with what I've been given and continue to follow my passion and see where it leads me. I'm turning 30 and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I have a good idea, I just don't know how to get there. And really, that's OK.

Return of the Mack

    

    I remember dancing to this song when I was about fourteen or fifteen and I had just started going to bars and clubs. It wasn't legal for minors to go clubbing, but where I grew up businesses weren't really concerned about how old you were. Their only concern was if you had the money. I'm not saying I had a wad of cash to fan myself with. Quite the contrary, actually. I was in high school with a fixed, "reasonable" allowance from my very reasonable and hard-working parents who were against the idea of their underage daughter spending her Saturday nights in an aclohol-infused, testosterone-fuelled environment. In short, I wasn't only deprived of weekend "night out" allowance, I was also not allowed to stay out after 12am. And of course when you're fifteen and a group of car-driving, credit card-swiping, Ralph Lauren-wearing cool boys invite you to go out clubbing knowing you won't be home 'til 4am (and you won't have to pay for anything), you go. By hook or by crook you go. It's your coolness at stake. The risk of getting caught is worth all the stories you'll be telling your classmates on Monday.

    So I went. And I didn't go alone. Most of the time I had a partner in crime - Mac- the only one in my group of girlfriends who was as fun, gutsy, and crazy as me. (Some might put it as reckless, selfish, and dangerous, but like I said, when you're a teenager, such words were only uttered by evil people like parents. Your own flesh and blood whose only goal seems to be to destroy your life and damn you to eternal uncoolness). Mac was awesome. She was cool, funny, smart, and charming. I loved the confidence she exuded. Guys thought she was hot. She was the perfect stowaway companion.

    Our modus operandi was mostly the same - I would arrange for one of my guy friends to pick me up at around midnight (when everyone at home was sleeping and I could sneak out), then we'd pass by for Mac, then we'd hit the clubs. We'd dance and drink and drink and drink. Barfing was a regular occurrence. Double is what you should be seeing by the end of the night (or the start of the morning). If things went as planned, we'd be safe and sound in our own rooms by 5am with no one knowing any better. If we weren't careful enough, we'd be greeted by our parents (or kiss-ass helpers) as we attempted to crawl back to our beds.

    I don't really remember a lot of the details from those days. I know Mac and I got caught a few times. I know we got dobbed in once or twice. And I know we got grounded a lot. Now that I'm older, I can understand why my parents did what they did. God knows what I'll do to my future daughter if I catch her sneaking out in the middle of the night. I don't even think I actually scored cool points for all those stunts I pulled. But as much as I know now that it was wrong, and as much as I will never, ever condone a minor doing the same thing, I can't really say I regret what I did. It was such an experience. It was a time when I could do things and not worry about consequences. A time when my worries were confined to what to wear, what time my parents would go to bed, and how I could leave and return without the dogs barking their lungs out. It was fun.

    Mac, here's to your big 3-0. Cheers to all our crazy memories!

I'm not completely insane. I'm maybe just a little bit crazy.

    Music is a very powerful force in my life. It is a stirrer of emotions; a key that opens a dusty treasure box filled with stories of times I've laughed, cried, loved, and on occasion, died. Road trips with friends and family holidays would be less memorable without their own tunes. The first time I got drunk and my first heart break would be less bearable. Really, life would be less fun without songs to enhance the experience.

        Lately I've been thinking about my life's soundtrack - a collection of songs that, in a nutshell, tells the story of me. I'd show off my own tunes if I could, but well, I can't. I do sing a little and I play a little of this and that, and I have been wanting for years to perform my own songs, but I've never really been able to. I mean, I do write them. I just can't make anyone else listen to them. I can give a million reasons why, but the truth is, I'm just plain scared. I'm scared to be judged. I'm scared to pour my heart out only to be criticized.

    Someday, hopefully, I'll get over that fear. For now I have to make do with telling my life story using other people's songs, to a virtual audience that may or may not exist. And as much as this venture of mine is as judgment-prone as any other, at least in this wide web of a world (almost) no one knows who I am.

    It is only fitting that the first post of a blog about music contains music. So, let me end this entry by introducing the first song in The Soundtrack of My Life - a song that in my opinion, accurately describes me. Enjoy "Crazy" by Alana Davis.

Alana Davis
Tags:
Alana Davis, MTVHive

You've got your home of the brave and I've got my land of the free
You conform to what society says and I conform to me
Looking for light in the corners getting caught in the spider web
You look at me as if I'm giving a performance when I'm just feeding my head

And you know that I'm doing all right
And I won't explain myself to you just to avoid a fight
How I'm living ain't correct but for me it's just right

I'm not completely insane, I'm maybe just a little bit crazy
There's no one to blame, got no shame about my game
Don't want nobody to save me

I've got a pair of ruby slippers that I don't wear much anymore
And if I had the nerve I'd click my heels and return
To the wonderland I knew before
I'm waiting to slow boat to China, want to sail away to the sun
I've been searching for myself and I know I'm gonna find her if I break away from everyone

So the way that i act may not fit in
Just because I've got a mind of my own doesn't mean it's a sin
I don't ask you to give up; don't expect me to give in

'Cause I'm not completely insane, I'm maybe just a little bit crazy
there's no one to blame, got no shame about my game
Don't want nobody to save me

Some like to live for the moment taking life into their own hands every day
And if they don't get killed they get so high off the thrill
They could float to heaven anyway
And others want to save for tomorrow thinking money is security
Well I understand the need but I don't get the greed
And they all seem pretty crazy to me

You can tell by the expression I wear
Though I seem a little strange to you ,I don't really care
I got the freedom to be and there are others like me everywhere...