DANCING IN THE MF STREETS

Have you seen this documentary by celebrated photog David La Chapelle called RIZE?

It’s a stunning piece of cultural investigation that is at once comprehensive, visually impressive (on oh so many levels), establishes emotional rapport on both a micro-storytelling and character development and socio-political macro level and is just all around wasak na wasak.

The first time I watched it I was mesmerized, then, at the end, I was shaking in my chair, a blubbery mess of indignation and wrath, astounded at the execution and crescendo of the narrative that nigh attains an apotheosis of all that’s great about this verite medium. I mean, there was nary a voice-over through out the two-hours plus running time. How’s that for organic storytelling? Wish I had the time and enough funds to do something like this.

Anyway, RIZE chronicles how the aggressive hip-hop dance now known as Krumping (or Krunking) came out of Southern Central LA’s inner city streets (that’s “ghetto” for you, bub) that’s plagued by gangs, violence, drugs and a history of catastrophic riots (remember the response to the 1992 Rodney King beating?).

Strangely enough the whole thing evolved from an upbeat, positive and decidedly comedic form of dance performed by party clowns known as, well, Clowning. I kid you not. Clowning was such a welcome alternative to gang banging and drug hustling that kids took to it with abandon. Eventually, the kids got bored and branched into their own style, naming it Krump.

If you’ve ever seen a Krump routine then you’ll see why having the muscular black physique is definitely an advantage in performing. The speed, aggression and fury of the dance reminds me of the But’oh (I think the Japanese call it the “dance of darkness”) and the film also posits that it bears resemblance to African tribal duels, ritual dancing and shamanic ceremonies that involve the community. But it is gaddam fast. There's even a caveat at the start that flashes: "The images in this film have not been sped up in any way."

Whatever. In RIZE you can see how it’s become not only the dance de jour but also an intrinsic form of spiritual communion as well as a way of life. This thing has saved them from selling cocaine. This thing has saved them from getting dragged into the Crips or the Bloods. That it's a lifesaver is an understatement when you contrast it against the background of gang-controlled neighborhoods.

While I saw this docu a second time with Tanya a month back I only thought to write about this now because, today, I saw L’il C (one of the docu’s characters) in a replay of So You Think You Can Dance? teaching one of the contestant pairs how to bust Krump moves. Krump has become such a phenomenon it's crawling out of the ghetto and getting legit. Well, I guess a variation of the Krump stripper dance being done by Beyonce was a sign.

That and a week ago the filtered water delivery guy (with offices next door, as in literally the next house) got shot in broad daylight by a guy on a bike a block from the shop. The shooter rode away clean. Plus, there have been long lines for the government discounted rice for weeks now. Plus, four days ago the street got woken up by the neighborhood tambays catching a thief in the act of burgling a house from a rooftop ingress. Yes, I live in the ghetto. No, the thief did not get caught but the tambays chased him away. It was 11PM.

“What we are is oppressed” says L’il C in one of the docu’s cutaways. Because oppression tastes the same in any language or country. Because you can taste the desperation in the air clear as fizz in a soda. Because a method of catharsis is a lifesaver whether it's horror or krump or heavy metal.

If you listen to the Youtube clip’s lyrics there are lines by Red Ronin that go: “You ever get so deep in poverty’s dirt the grid on your navigation won’t work?”

I remember eating nothing but fish balls for weeks in college because I couldn’t afford a decent rice meal `til my OFW mom sent us our monthly chunk of cash.

“What you know about rappin’ just to keep sane and selling coke or keep from killin’ you man?”

I remember writing scenes of violence and gore and darkness on a battered typewriter as a way out of the consuming hatred and loathing I felt at the world back then. See: http://www.theminimag.com/feb04/karl_de_mesa/karl_de_mesa.html. I remember feeling horror at my own ability and total knowledge to say: yes, yes I could.

“I send a message to the distressed adolescent barely made it out of the hood on the wing of prayer and blessing.”

Watch the docu. We shall fucking rise.

WHO WATCHES THE WATCHMEN?

Geddemit, it's finally here.

After much hoo haa and debate in hipster mags and geek publications (Wired, Wizard and Paste come to mind) about casting, directors, etc for the last few years, the WATCHMEN movie (incidentally, also directed by the guy who did 300) is going to be a reality in March 2009. And no, Doc Manhattan is not Brad Pitt. Sorry, girls.

If you haven't read the graphic novel by Alan Moore then do yourself a favor, stop reading this post and buy one. You know those idiotic stickers posted at artsy clubs swank or otherwise that say: "Around the corner a piece of art is going to change your life?" Well, stuff like WATCHMEN is what it's talking about. After reading it, you'll think: that's it, I'm never going to achieve something this Chinese puzzle-complex, this obsessively researched, this flawlessly executed and so mind-numbingly excellent. Makes you want to get a ton of cement blocks, tie `em to your legs and jump into Pasig. Mamumura mo talaga si Moore. Neil Gaiman ain't got nothing on this, bub. In fact, when Gaiman was starting out, he looked to Swamp Thing Moore to guide his direction and scope.

Sci-fi writer CJ Javier has mentioned that, in TIME Mag's 100 best books of all time, WATCHMEN is the only graphic novel the critics included. Forget Peter Parker, forget tin-can Tony Stark, forget flying mammal-obsessed Bruce Wayne -- this is how the superhero genre grew balls and gained grit, angst and transgressive glory.

Here, watch the geddem trailer (and tell me how to pronounce Rorschach). Thanks to Tanya for breaking the news to me and the original link: http://screenrant.com/watchmen-trailer-2984/

SKINNED ALIVE IN THE SUB

Clive Barker has been one of my heroes ever since I started writing dark fantasy and horror way back in the 1990s. Even if his recent works have suffered from alcohol and drug abuse he stands right up there with Peter Straub, Poppy Z. Brite, dear old HP Lovecraft, Black Sabbath and Ray Bradbury.

The short story where the upcoming movie below is based is one of his most powerful, allegorical and awe-inspiring -- though I much prefer the story "In the Hills, The Cities" from the same book.

In any case I hope Hollywood doesn't ruin this one like it did the Hellraiser sequels. I wait for this with bated breath. Mind the gap. Beware of the collector in the boxcar. Ladies and gents: welcome to the "Midnight Meat Train."

YOUR AXE IS SMARTER THAN YOU, BUB

I find this new tech developed by Gibson totally fascinating. Tamad ka bang mag tono ng gitara mo? Have no fear the Gibson Robot Les Paul is here. Gusto mo ba ng Standard? Dropped D? Half Step Down? Open G? No problemo.

Watch this shit. While it’s not exactly cheating, and it’ll probably lower the barrier to entry of learning the darned instrument, it’s kinda scary. Next thing you know your guitar will play your solos for you.

Funny about the Fender allusion (and slight diss) on the Psycho ad.

GIBSON ROBOT LES PAUL AD (PSYCHO)


GIBSON ROBOT LES PAUL AD (ESCAPE)


GEAR FEST DEMO 2008

FANTASTICA EXOTICA

. . .OR WASAK NEW RELEASES WITH ME IN THEM
Friends and comrades, please go check out FHM Erotica, Ladies Confession Special (Summit Publishing) and Tales of Enchantment and Fantasy (Milflores Publishing). Available at all major bookstores, magazine shops and wherever discerning smut is sold.

I have a story in both books, albeit the FHM antho is in magazine form and was privileged enough to head the literary content of the former -- what I did was ask a few writerly pervs and sickos to cross-pollinate their genre specialties with an erotica forefront for an extra spicy, extra sexually charged gathering of tales. The final output not only has our stories (and a short screenplay from Andrew Paredes) but also inserts of sexual confessions culled from past FHM issues, plus spreads of some of hottest babes you'll see, and know you can never have, this side of the world.

When I bought mine at Filbar's, the display copy on the rack actually had a piece of bond paper taped on the cover, obscuring the girl's chest down to her crotch. I guess the thing was too steamy to be displayed normally. That's always a good sign, eh?

Many thanks to Dr. Jing Hidalgo for accepting my weredog story for her collection. And mucho gratitude to FHM Phils Editors Alan M and Alan H for giving me and the writers the chance to put out an exquisitely sexy product that, I'm sure, is now being read by men and women all over the country for the, um, juicy narratives and used in private, truly special ways.

In an SMS discussion with one of the contributors he said: "I saw [the FHM Antho] being sold at a hardware store. I realize this gets me more readers than all the books I've been in put together." Wasak talaga. I do hope Summit greenlights more creative projects like this one.

You can check out tasty, very artsy sample fotos of the featured Erotica girls here: http://www.fhm.com.ph/fhm-babes/erotica/

And see a review of the Tales of Enchantment and Fantasy Anthology here: http://milfloresonline.blogspot.com/2008/04/tales-of-enchantment-and-fantasy.html

THE NIHIL AWAITS ON YOUR PAPER TRAIL

TYBS#31

Art by John John Jesse

It’s a fact that every journalist or editor worth his salt will tell you: this town is full of shady publishing deals. Like magazines and books. Especially magazines. Making one of those things on the rack with the glossy pages and the perfect binding is way harder than making a monster.

I mean, Dr. Viktor Frankenstein only needed lightning, magazines require millions of pesos, an iron will and the ability to work around or withstand stupidity you can’t believe is possible in a race that invented the airplane and the condom. In the face of that, well, lightning is peanuts.

To make a monster: sew body parts, go mad in the process, add lightning. Voila! To make a magazine: get funding, assemble mag, go mad. No voila. Just errors. This system is non-operational.

I’ve lost count of the meetings, brainstormings and power lunches I’ve attended over the years for magazines that supposedly had solid funding, a great concept that balanced the commercial with the artistic and publishers willing to take risks. I’ve lost count of how many of them have never seen the light of the printing press.

Recently, my band mate told me the term in the TV industry that’s the equivalent of this vanishing act: cancelled. Cue Krusty the Clown clutching his curly Jewish hairdo and stomping his tiny boots, “Cancelled! What do you mean cancelled?! I already bought five dozen pies” Yeah, cancelled. Succinct. To the point. Perfect as a pie in the face.

I say this because yet another publication in the works led me to believe that their dealings were honest and transparent, and that they sincerely wanted to make a different kind of glossy. Of course, I was wrong. After a month of meetings, they asked me to come in regularly (timed bundy clock hours, mind) without having seen a shadow of a contract or a peek at a terms of employment. Regular editorial management without a contract? Promises of a fat check at the end of the month without having signed a thing? No effing way.

While you can chalk it up to experience and say that it goes with the territory it still feels like falling for the wrong women. Somehow you can’t shake the feeling that, by this time, your instincts should be more sophisticated, professionalism in those you deal with equal to yours, and the notion of employees assessing the employer just as stringently as it is in the vice versa being a given.

You take pride in your ability to sniff out bullshit. You tell yourself that your sixth sense acts like a polygraph for detecting charming but hollow pitches, classic signs of deadendom by the second issue, increasing compromises to vision, field insurance and trust that finally lead to a reduction in the promised salary. You say to yourself: this will not happen again. Shame on me if they fool me again with their grifter methods, con men tricks and shylock fast talk. Like falling for the wrong women ad nauseam, I tell you.

In retrospect I should have been tipped off by the fact that my prospective boss didn’t say a word when I asked him which articles he wanted to write for the first issue. Guy, just because somebody gives you the position of editor doesn’t mean you ARE one. For one thing, it assumes you can write. And not just your own name either. But hindsight is always 20/20, so perhaps my glasses need a higher grade.

I don’t even blame the magazine people for trying to pull a fast one -- though they can shove their ideas right where the empty husk of their heads are – because it’s just in their nature to do so. Just because the world is not fair. Just because the Ari Golds of this world outnumber creatives.

What I feel most upset over is that I feel I should have detected this sooner. That it never should have gotten to the point that I felt complacent enough to hang everything on it and not have an immediate escape plan, a point of egress, a fall back option.

If I didn’t love these creatures of glossy tree bark, jumbled alphabet and pictures I would say no to any kind of magazine deal and go into pure porn. But I continually put myself out there because I love starting something from scratch and being version one point oh of something. The chance to make something “new” (or at least relatively fresh) is something I will not pass up, two-faced publishing people notwithstanding.

It’s like getting a try at Goliath. Bringing down the giant is the reward itself. Yet, the void lies in wait like a coiled predator on each and every writer’s, journalist’s and editor’s paper trail and the trick is to never break eye contact as you scribble away against its entropic force.

What’s the moral lesson? Once in a while, like the inevitably of a driver crashing his car, the good guys will fall in (and the hardy will come out with stories and scars) but there is a special hell reserved for the magazine trickster who promises ghostly contracts. A very special hell.

For young journalists dreaming of being the next Hunter S. Thompson and making the local equivalent of Rolling Stone, remember that HST blew his head off. You’ve been warned.

P.S. This essay ends the official Philippine Chronicle run of TYBS. This site is now a horror writer's blog.

~ 30

UNEMPLOYED

TYBS#30

Photo by Max Yavno, “Unemployed”

The end of July (2007) marked the termination of my contract with the company I’d been running for the last seven months. For reasons I still can’t go into, the editorial arm of said company closed down.

Well, it was a good run. Still, when I signed the “Quit Claim” document there was a palpable weight lifted from my shoulders. Something I always feel when I cut ties with a full time job, something which I don’t sign up much for, having preferred the freelance trade for a good long while – I detest being tied down to a single corporate entity (without the pay off of prestige or enough monetary counterbalance), am very easily bored, plus I have a reflex loathing for authority.

So now, for the whole month, I am officially unemployed. In reprieve until the new full-timer kicks in by September.

This is old territory. The mental space of it is so familiar that the dull ache between my shoulder blades signals my body pulling out the red carpet to welcome back this state like an old-friend long unseen. I feel comfortable down to my bones; even after the rain-induced throat infection that had me on antibiotics for five days.

Throughout the years I’ve probably worked on hundreds of projects but have only signed up for five full-time jobs in all. It’s odd. I have to explain myself to potential full-time employers every time but the urge to move, especially if the three aforementioned pet peeves come to a header, becomes well nigh overpowering.

Having been raised in a family with Marxist-Leninist-Maoist leanings, I also had a natural distrust for doing work under corporations and other huge organizational entities that, for some reason or another, furthered the cause of the rat race. And that without a smidgen of advocacy or support for the usual pet causes that activists and their placards always waved at three-piece suited men in a strangely agitated manner.

Soon I’ll republish the essay that explains my whole coming of age in the Left, but now suffice it to say I grew up with professions that were either purely advocacy centered or function-obsessive. So the “real world” jobs of my NPA parents went along the lines of NGO worker, community organizer, environmentalist, anti-debt activist or other such cause-oriented job and the jobs of my aunts and uncles on the mother’s side were middle-class and salt of the earth that ranged from dentist, doctor, engineer or teacher.

Meaning the discussions at the dinner table ranged from the calm debate of “it’s not a real job if you don’t make something or do a concrete service for people” to the vehement “how can you take THAT job with the kind of slave wages they pay and the damage they do to the environment?” Though my grandfather was a lawyer there was nary an intellectual among them.

It was in early 2000 that it came to me. I was subconsciously trying to please both sides of this demand without actually losing my identity in my job choices. Psychologists will probably call this a moment of realization.

My friend explained it to me this way: I was a creative and imaginative person who’d be quite content just doing academe work (he probably meant teaching) or writing genre-specific books, but the twin pressures of the two sides – meaning working in a profession that actually made something or did something concrete (and not just a mental construct either) plus affecting social change or having social relevance – had me stumped and so a life of the mind frolicking in fantastic, made-up worlds and just flicking nuggets of dorky wisdom at students just to get by was out of the question.

Well, I didn’t have any inclinations towards the medical or dental professions, I couldn’t do math for shit hence crossing out any actuarial, architectural or engineering jobs and I certainly wasn’t going to just work exclusively in NGOs, wear drab, neo-hippie clothes, sleep in ratty house cum offices or go to demonstrations on a regular basis just to get beaten, firehosed or arrested. There’s got to be a better way to change the world than to tediously sacrifice your body day in and day out.

Journalism was a way out of this dilemma. Through it I could work on as many socially relevant assignments I wanted, still be creative and still be writing. That would be my public face. The actual art would be practiced in secret, like midnight witching rituals that included blood, grand gestures and corpses of small creatures. A life of the mind in two parts.

These days I still think of my journalism, essays, reportage, what-have-you as “Stuff I do for others.” Meaning, a profession. Meaning, I have no ego with them. Meaning, I am an employee at the end of the day when I write them and, like any other job, is subject to the demands and parameters of what the work entails.

The fiction is my private art, written to please nobody else but me. It first has to entertain me before it can even move out to being published, I rarely revise an old story just to fit a particular anthology. For story requests with specifics, I just make a new one. But still, my fiction is built to be read, with the thought that one day it’ll be fit to stand up, go out in the world and shake hands with other minds. But that is done to no one’s standards but my own.

The poetry and other little literary things aren’t even made with that in mind. They’re quite abstract and stay unread except for the rare request for a reading from friends I can’t refuse. When that happens, I usually pick the poem with the most flesh and strap on a guitar for a security blanket when I go on stage.

These confessional essays, that are the meat of the TYBS column (not counting the interviews, features and reviews), fall somewhere between the private and public areas. Like the songs I make for the bands I play for. What you read is a slightly caricaturish me, defined by the causal stuff produced when I move in real life, the unbeheld plot the Great Storyteller is arcing out as you read this.

This is what’s nice about being vagabond and unemployed. How you can just start someplace and end up completely elsewhere. I feel like Spider Jerusalem.

~ 30