Bag-o ni nga experience nako. i’m doing a radio show with dj ram sa Smash Fm every wednesday, 9 am to 12 noon. in between bisaya rock songs we talk about what’s going on in cebu’s art scene, especially sa music. but ang main purpose gyud sa show is to give listeners tips on songwriting, recording and related stuff. i’m enjoying it so far.

and i end the show with this extro:

“DILI KAMI EKSPERTO, NAGPAAMBIT LANG SA AMONG GAMAYNG NAHIBALOAN”

tune in sa Smash every wednesday, 93.1 sa dial sa inyong mga radyo. yey, anawnsir na ko. hehe

Let’s start with word definition. What is “staphylococcus aureus”? Like many words in the medical profession, the root word of staphylococcus aureus is Greek until it evolved into a phrase used by doctors today to make us lay people understand less our illnesses. Why can’t they just tell us that we have these nasty bacteria that look like a bunch of grapes under the microscope and are poised to invade our bloodstream until we die of acne?

Seriously, when the ancient Greeks mentioned the word “staphyle,” they referred to a “bunch of grapes,” not the bacteria that can cause pneumonia, meningitis, gastroenteritis and other potentially serious infections in man, like addiction to noontime shows.

These two opposing images evoked by the same word fit perfectly to what I’m going to talk about now. Before I myself will find it difficult to understand what I’m saying here, let me put it this way: the “bunch of grapes” of ancient Greeks is now the modern man’s ubiquitous cell phone. Get it? How can a gadget so useful in man’s daily activities be associated with a cluster of scary bacteria?

I often ignore reports of my cell phone as filthier than a toilet seat. What’s with the comparison? Yes, I drop my cell phone into the toilet bowl every now and then (gross!), but the association should stop there, because if you stretch the comparison further, you’ll soon find yourself touching your face against the toilet seat to check if there’s signal there.

And the way bacteriologists issue advisories against our beloved cell phones starts to be annoying. I first heard about it in 2006. The news said germs multiply in warm places. Between the heat my cell phone generates and the germs on my face and hands, there exists a perfect bacterial breeding ground, a petri dish, the report said. And the places where we keep our cell phones – pockets, purses, bags – provide just the right temperature, darkness and humidity for another life form to evolve.

“You don’t want a thing that filthy to touch your face, do you?” the advisory said. “Oh, my God!” I said in horror. “And I kiss my girlfriend’s picture in my cell phone!” For a second right there, I missed my beeper.

Now, the advisories come more regularly, like it is the war in Iraq that is being reported. Only there are no updates, no additional bodies arriving in caskets, no villages wiped out by bombs, no journalists throwing shoes at a president. It’s always the same poor, innocent toilet seat, and the same staphylococcus aureus that are used to explain how filthy my cell phone is.

And the public (by public I mean the three cell phone addict friends whom I consulted for this article) don’t care. If we take heed, what next? Eating ginabot can cause blindness? The problem here is that we can’t do away with cell phones, they said. Its usefulness far outweighs the potential danger it brings to our health. It’s like the toilet seat… Oh, that comparison again.

So I ignore these anti-cell phone advisories as nothing but an elaborate scheme by some companies that sell anti-bacterial wipes or something.

After scaring me with the same your-cell-phone-is-a-petri-dish argument, one ad said, “These wipes are specially made to clean your cell phone, laptop and other gadgets. They are fast drying, non-streaking, non-corrosive, and they even smell like green tea-cucumber. P220 for a pack is a small price to pay for your health.”

No thanks, but I want my cell phone to smell like the earth right after a rain. Ha! Or do you have the original Greek smell of staphyle? I might reconsider.

(SUN.STAR, MARCH 17, 2009)

We’re going to talk about the basics of melody writing, lyrics writing, musical arrangement and recording.

Award-winning musicians and recording artists Ian Zafra, Jude Gitamondoc and Brian Sacro have initially agreed to join us as speakers. I also invited myself as speaker, and myself said yes  (haha).

We’ll be inviting other established musicians to join us as interactors during the open forums.

Anybody can join the workshop as long as he brings with him an original composition – in Bisaya, Tagalog, Cebuano and in whatever genre.

As a bonus, we might – i repeat, we might – choose a song or two from among the entries to be recorded for free.

Number of participants is limited to 25. You can’t learn anything in a crowd.

The workshop is not for free. We need to spend for the seminar kits and honorarium for speakers. Not a centavo will go to the pockets of the organizers. Proceeds will be used to fund various projects of Tsinelas, especially since another school year is opening.

We’ll soon be posting more details.

Join. Not only you will learn a lot from the workshop, you will also get the chance to help poor kids stay in school.

Rakenrol, Bisayang musikero!

( 2nd distribution of children’s books to colonia elementary school, tuburan, cebu, february 22, 2009 )

I have two confessions to make. But we’ll go to them later.

It took me weeks to decide to mention in this column the most puzzling singing group of all time: Village People. The mere mention of the group here will alienate younger readers who didn’t have the misfortune of enduring songs like “Macho Man” in their childhood. On the other hand, failure to do so will disappoint older readers who look up to Village People as the personification of their gay fantasies. They’ve been emailing me to please write about George Michael too.

I said puzzling because Village People’s greatest hit, “YMCA,” which was released in 1978, supposedly extolled the virtues of an international Christian association but at the same time was hailed as the ultimate gay anthem of the disco-dancing 70s. How could that be? YMCA volunteers themselves didn’t know what the hell was happening when they heard the song for the first time. You can imagine them huddled in prayer asking God what horrible sins had they committed to deserve Village People’s endorsement.

Anyways, this is not about “YMCA” and the let’s-spell-out-the-letters-with-our-arms-and-look-stupid gesture that goes with it. This column is about something that has far greater significance. It’s just that whenever I think of the global economic crisis, which a serious columnist like me should be writing about (ha ha), my thoughts lead me to the line “they want you as a new recruit” from the group’s 1979 hit “In the Navy.”

It’s like this. The news last week said the number of young Filipinos who want to join the military has doubled since the start of the global economic crisis. Accompanying the news were footages of young men and women with application papers in hand waiting for their turn at the recruitment office.

Confession Number 1. I want to give military service a try. I grew up imagining myself as a soldier, protector of the country, an Armalite-toting defender of freedom, democracy and canned goods. I will look hot in camouflage. I will send my friends photos of my war wounds, especially the ones inflicted by fellow soldiers during drunken brawls.

Confession Number 2. I want to be in the Pinoy Big Brother.

It’s like this again. The same newscast featured a monstrous traffic in Manila caused by a huge crowd of young people wanting to be in the voyeuristic, let’s-fool-the-people-by-saying-this-is-not-scripted reality show. I grew up dreaming to be in showbiz someday, at the same time I dreamed of being in the army.

At the Bahay ni Kuya, I will do anything for the ratings. I will dance. I will sing. I will pretend I’m not on primetime TV and cry over my painful experiences in an orphanage. I will get mad at the housemate who laughs at my Bisaya accent, fall in love with the one who laughs at my jokes, whisper to her sweet nothings and cozy up to her as if there are no cameras around.

I checked the Internet and found the age requirement to be my only problem, whether in the military or PBB. But they said they are willing to waive the age restrictions for me if I have skills that prove invaluable to the military or the showbiz industry.

I’m mastering the YMCA dance now.

SUN.STAR CEBU, MARCH 10, 2009

EVERY COLOR EVERY HUE IS REPRESENTED BY ME AND YOU – Francis M, Kaleidoscope World

So for a change, I’m now going to talk about something that is really political: Menstruation and Sanitary Napkins. Email me if you’re happy now.

I don’t like watching TV. The only reason I watch news and current affairs is that my job as a serious journalist requires me to regularly check if it’s actually Korina Sanchez, not Kris Aquino, who is the most annoying woman on local TV. This means I also have to endure the one great proponent of non sequitur in Philippine television: the commercials. And if there’s any type of commercial that really amazes me with its utter disregard for truth, it’s the ones for sanitary napkins.

You can’t miss these commercials. They always have girl models wearing white, tight-fitting jeans to emphasize the absence of a leakage. The models always jog, jump, roll in bed, go skateboarding, or ride a bicycle to convince viewers that this brand of sanitary napkin is so effective it can absorb the Yangtze River. These commercials fill our TV screen with flowers that float in the air to send the message that whatever tumultuous flow of events a girl is experiencing down there, it’s never yucky.

If it’s not flowers, it’s the model’s butt that fills your TV screen. Remember that commercial depicting a scene inside a movie house where the girl who has her period excuses herself to maybe get some more popcorn, and the camera zooms in on her butt? Everyone in the scene is happy, especially the boys in the next seats, because as the girl makes sure her butt sticks out in front of their faces, all they smell is sampaguita.

In these commercials, the girls are having a happy period.

I don’t know with you, but I still have to meet a girl who goes around town happily telling the boys she’s having a joyful period so come let’s play skipping rope. What my female friends tell me is that when they have their period, they gear up for a fight with their boyfriends for reasons not in any way related to infidelity. They want to fight for the sake of fighting. They arrive at their date late and sulky. If their boyfriends ask them what’s the matter, they say, “Why don’t you have your hair cut yet? You look old!”

Seriously, you can’t be happy if you’re suffering from cramps, if you’re having an acne attack, if you’re feeling bloated, if you’re feeling puffy, if your breasts are swollen, if your breasts are sore, if you feel ugly and fat and extremely sad, and if you crave for certain foods, which you have made sure can only be bought in the most expensive restaurant so your boyfriend can’t afford it and that would be another reason to fight him.

I’m not an advertising expert, but there must be a more honest way of selling sanitary napkins on TV. Menstruation has full of trivia that advertisers can use in creating napkin commercials. For example, it might be a shock to see all that blood, but do you know that the amount of loss is only about two tablespoons for an entire period?

You say an eating utensil has no business to be in a napkin commercial. But napkin companies can give it a try and they might come up with something. In the meantime, the only period I know to be really happy is the one at the end of this sentence, because it means I’m so out of here.

( SUN.STAR CEBU, FEB. 24, 2009 )

AMONG the many reasons I don’t last in a relationship beyond three months is that I don’t give flowers to my girlfriends during Valentine’s Day. I can’t understand how flowers mean the world to girls on this very special occasion.

One Valentine’s Day years ago, I tried giving flowers for the first time to a girlfriend. I sneaked inside her room while she was out, placed the flowers on her table and hid behind the door to observe her reaction once she’d seen the deepest expression of my affection. My plan was to spring up from behind and kiss her while she’s smelling the flowers, just like in the movies.

Just when I was about to sweat profusely from all that hiding, she entered the room and froze! She stared aghast at the bouquet of roses on her table like they were some vegetables from the Department of Agriculture. Right that very moment, I knew something was very wrong.

She exclaimed: “What the f__k! Sto. Rosario???” I froze too. “What’s wrong with flowers bought at the Sto. Rosario sidewalk?” I told myself. I was tempted to shout, “Hey, those flowers are blessed!”

If you are not familiar with a Sto. Rosario bouquet, it is roses encased in that film-like material your parents attached to their black-and-white television set to protect your eyes from the direct glare of the screen back in the ‘70s. And there’s Scotch tape and staple wire all over to symbolize the bond between the flower giver and the flower receiver. This elaborate arrangement of roses, ferns and adhesive cost a whopping P65.

Knowing the situation to be irredeemable, I shifted to plan B: I shrank back and crawled my way out of my girlfriend’s room, while she opened her computer presumably to google the subject “Why Boyfriends Are Such Jerks on Valentine’s Day.”

Last Saturday, Valentine’s Day 2009, I vowed not to commit the same mistake with my present girlfriend. I couldn’t concentrate on my work from excitement. It was all flowers in my mind while I was doing headlines. “US Congress Approves Obama’s Pink Mums.” “15 Dead, 161 Hurt When Orchids Derail.” “Belmonte Denies Aspiring For Tulips in 2010 Polls.”

After work, I took a cab to that area near the BIR building where all these flower shops are located. Inside one of these shops I told the flower arranger, “White lilies, please, and a supporting cast of carnations and dancing ladies, and any cute, green ornamental plant except ferns. And please wrap it in abaca sinamay, not that film-like material your parents attached to their black-and-white television set to protect your eyes from the direct glare of the screen back in the ‘70s.”

A few minutes and the flower arranger handed me my bouquet. The bouquet’s size was something I hadn’t anticipated. It was so huge I had to hug-carry it like it was a five-year-old baby. I couldn’t find a taxi and I was running late. So I ignored the drizzle and walked the distance from the flower shop to the mall.

This proved to be a bad idea. The area teemed with istambays whose idea of celebrating Valentine’s Day was taunting men who were obviously in a hurry to see their dates. “Siyaro’g di pa ka sugton ana bay!” they hooted. Sometimes, I caught myself burying my face in the flowers I was carrying.

I arrived at our rendezvous drenched and beaten-up from the experience, again just like in the movies. But it must be the rain or Air Supply’s “Making Love Out of Nothing At All” on the loudspeakers that the date turned out to be just perfectly right.

Or it must be the flowers.

( SUN.STAR, FEB. 17, 2010 )

I mean, what academic benefit is there to gain from dancing naked with only a piece of cloth barely covering your pubic area? As a rule, a male college student is lanky in a funny, angular way, such that when you ask him to execute body movements, like the Igorot dance, all educational and cultural benefits he is supposed to gain from the experience is offset by the embarrassment brought about by an exposed underdeveloped butt.

So you choose ROTC, only to return to the G-string Ensemble in the middle of the semester because you’re too frail to bark “Ser, yes, ser!” as you do the pushup. You believe your generation is really being singled out when shortly after graduation the school authorities abolish ROTC and send thousands of happy freshmen and sophomores out in the streets with gardening implements. Between ROTC and a silly dance troupe, you’d go for cleaning the city’s sidewalks.

I mentioned this because yeste r   day eaaawa ss…

SUN.STAR, FEB. 10, 2009