IT’S HARD, BEING JOEY D’s MOM…

Better late than never.

I wasn’t even born yet, and there were countless sacrifices made on my behalf.

I have been told by relatives and acquaintances that my mom was always about good times with friends and family, and was always at home in her native Navotas, yet she agreed to move to a different country and leave all that behind, just to improve the chances of us having a better education, a safe childhood and have a clean, decent environment to grow-up-in… she had that, but she always wanted better for me… for us.

Though a lot of it is a blur now, I do remember a lot of good times. When I was four, I had this dark blue coat-and-tie ensemble which I called “applejacks” for some reason. I’d insist on wearing it on random days… even in the middle of the night, and bug everyone to take my picture. We both laughed right after. It was the stupidest thing, but we had a blast even though I’d take them off right after the flash and she’d pick them up and neatly hang them in the closet for the next day. It was a tireless and thankless task but she did it.

Up until I was around seven years old, I didn’t really want my own room. I just wanted to sleep beside my mom. In the middle of the night, she’d lightly pinch my ears and check if they were cold, because that meant she’d turn the aircon down, or put a blanket over me. She bought me the coolest sets of pajamas: Ghostbusters, Bioman, fucking everything: it was the absolute shit. On bad nights, I’d have nightmares because of the horror movies I had watched earlier in the day… I would squeeze behind her and bury my face into her back while the ceilings creaked and the nocturnal noises outside scared the bejesus out of me, unmindful of the fact that this was such an uncomfortable habit for her… and when I’d have nightmares, I unconsciously kicked or punched and hit her. But she never got mad. She’d still wake up really early and make the best breakfasts any kid could want: the perfect homemade pancakes and waffles, cupcakes… even the kids next door said everything tasted better in our house. I never really thought about it… I just thought it was the way things were everywhere.

I was really jealous when my older sister started going to school when we were in Okinawa. Now we were living on a military base so everything was safe, but instead of letting my sister take the school bus home alone, and because she knew I badly wanted to act like the older kids and go to school, she’d take me there. I was young and had the nerve to manage to slip away from her attention, but she never left me hanging: I would sit-in older kids’ classes and fuck shit up, and I’d see how some of the less-friendly foreign teachers give her disgusted looks and quietly reprimand her. She’d take the flak, but never passed it on to me. She’d let me know it was alright and buy me an ice cream sandwich, and then tell me stories I loved hearing over and over: about how Karen Carpenter was the greatest singer in the world, how we would soon go home to the Philippines and how she thought my crappy drawings had real potential. And when I finally went to school a few years later, she’d always be there when I kicked the white boys’ asses at spelling or writing contests. There were bullies, yes, but then my mom would fucking get medieval on their asses and threaten their PARENTS. I turned into a bit of a crybaby, and she did spank my ass more than a few times, but she made it clear that no one else could touch me, regardless if it was a sixth-grade piece of white trash, sadistic Physical Education instructor or some random dude frowning my way when I chewed gum a little too loudly in church. Jeez, I bet that old guy is still sorry he gave me dirty looks… my mom tore him a new one right after the fucking sermon. I was a kid, so all of this was wildly surprising. I couldn’t understand why she put up with my shit. But it was way cool.

The second half of growing up in the Philippines was a different story. I learned shit the hard way. I went to a retarded elementary and high school run by corrupt nuns, and was flunked by almost every (not all, but a lot…) Filipino, History and Social Studies and math teacher. It was wild. I went from straight- and-smart to dumb-piece-of-shit. Teachers were pissed that I knew about Columbus but not Magellan, one teacher in Filipino made the entire class laugh at me because I didn’t know that the Tagalog term for “rainbow” was “bahaghari.” I was given disciplinary action because I corrected my science teacher who didn’t know that krill and “tiny shrimp” were basically the same fucking thing (that same teacher made fun of me when I told her that chestnuts start off with a spiky exterior and that you couldn’t squeeze ‘em in your hand…). I saw some classmates solve their problems by giving expensive gifts and by “buying” their grades, and I asked my mom if we should try to do the same thing. She refused and put her foot down, and stormed the principal’s office and called-out every teacher who didn’t give a fair chance. She made it clear that her son was not dumb, and practically slapped their faces with all the medals and report cards I didn’t know she kept from my earlier years.

And that teacher who made fun of me for my chestnut-claim? My mom brought an actual chestnut to her office and almost forced it down my teacher’s throat; the bitch was no match for my pissed-off mother.

That taught me a lot about principle, and about doing things the right way… the fair way, even though the world was not fair. My mom hardly raised her voice or got mad when she was given shit, but she’d lose it when her son, or someone else close to her was wronged. She taught me about standing up for other people who couldn’t do so. She gave me hell, too, whenever she’d find out that I was being a brat. She didn’t think twice about suspending TV/playground privileges whenever I crossed the line. Like I said, she knew where and how hard to hit me if I deserved it.

As I grew older though, and I swear I don’t know why, I became impossible to manage. I talked back. I questioned rules of the house, I made fun of how she did certain things, got into real trouble, drank way too much alcohol and developed other addictions, disrespected a lot of relatives… the works. I was an abusive prick… an arrogant brat who thought he could shit on his own, and on many occasions, I ran away from home. I left. During my college years, I stayed away from home as much as possible. I resented where we lived, but because I was a prick, I drained my mom’s wallet whenever I’d get in trouble or wanted something, but forgot to greet her on mother’s day, or on her birthday and even skipped going home for more than a few New Years or Christmases, just because I felt I had to prove something… She told me all she wanted was a diploma, but instead, I joined a band, partied and did all sorts of shit during college. She knew about my issues with traditional religion, so she went to church FOR me. I told her I always wanted to be there for my friends and cared a lot about them, and she approved, even though I now realize how shitty that must have sounded for her, who I left alone in the house on more than a few occasions. I criticized her taste in television shows, and her love of telenovelas… it was all a joke, but a cruel, unnecessary one. I realize that the only reason why she watches those telenovelas is because I have failed many times to be good company.

Now I don’t regret any of the good times I had back then with friends, but looking back, I realize that a diploma wasn’t too much to ask after all she did for me, and that I had made some pretty bad calls during those days. And what’s even worse was that I was way too full of myself to admit it. I turned my back on all those soft-spoken reminders. I never apologized. I lost most of those friends along the way when most of them turned-out to be complete morons, but I never lost my spot at home.

Because my mom never snapped – and she still hasn’t given up….

Yeah she did raise her voice and showed disapproval on very few occasions, but most of the time, she remained quiet. I had my friends and our dog as company when I was letting off steam, but she took everything in on her own, and quietly fought those battles alone. She never spoke ill of me to anyone, and on the rare occasions friend or relatives would come over and ask where I was and why I wasn’t home, I was told she beamed of how creative I was, and how I was in this great band and how I was busy following my dreams, and that it was an admirable thing that I knew what I wanted to do. Go figure.

As the years went by, thanks to many wake-up calls and well, the advice of the good company I’ve kept, I did manage to be less of a prick, and do away with a bunch of nasty habits (still got a lot, but I’m working on it, I promise…), but it just seemed like I had gotten used to not being at home. Still spent weekends and holidays outside, instead of at home… still forgot her birthday and mother’s day on more than a few occasions. And because of my insomnia, I’d be home for a few hours, literally having just enough time to eat, sleep and get ready to leave, and hardly have time to talk, except when we were either arguing about something, or when shit was going haywire. Old habits die-hard, and it sucks, I know. During the worst typhoon in the country not too long ago, she and my dad had to live in an evacuation center for a few days because of the terrible flooding and they both had to watch the floodwaters tear apart the home they worked so hard to build, but she wouldn’t allow me to leave my comfortable condo in Ortigas because she didn’t want me to go through the trouble of wading through the flood. That’s the kind of person she is.

And just last night, I forgot to greet her again on mother’s day… after not being home for weeks, or for more than 24 hours in months.

But here’s the thing: there’s always the greatest breakfasts being served here on a daily basis… I mean, even the neighbors (who we barely know) like ‘em so much that they knock on the door and ask “what’s cooking?” before my mom happily shares her amazing recipe/s. And there’s always an extra big portion saved in case I decide to go home (you guessed it, a lot of Tupperware-d food in the in the fridge). And when she’s 100% sure I am coming home, it’s always my favorite, prep-heavy dishes waiting for me (because I’m spoiled like that…). And though my room practically hasn’t been occupied for months, I can tell that it’s cleaned every single day, my books all in order, newspaper clippings and magazine cutouts of articles I’ve written collected brought out every time there’s company, and I run into random homeowners, trike drivers, security guards and even the freaking sari-sari store owners, smiling at me and congratulating me for my “accomplishments…” as if playing in a heavy-ass band no one’s ever heard-of or writing album reviews or playing guitar were in league with rocket science or medicine or whatever IS a big deal. And even though there’s always something that manages to piss me off, I realize that my mom continues to throw the good stuff my way, no matter how reserved or secretive or absent I have become.

I know I don’t deserve it, but she has given me everything, and continues to do so every day. A hundred and ten percent… that, truly is an amazing thing… and because I’m not really the kind of guy who’s vocal about it with her, I guess I’ll just tell as many people as I can in the meantime: my mother is the most remarkable, classiest, lovable, principled, sincere, generous, talented and beautiful person I know. And she continues to sacrifice so much for such a hard-headed son who’s still fucking-up all over the place… And it drives me crazy, and blows my mind knowing she still puts up with me. It’s a mystery – fucking that, and the Bermuda Triangle. 

I’m sorry for being such an arrogant, forgetful prick. I really am.

Bunso e. I have no other excuse.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy.

And yeah, I can smell breakfast… mukhang magic na naman ‘to.

Sincerely,

Joey

Night Cap For An Insomniac

it's useless pointing the finger now.

a thick layer of smoke quickly fills the air,
exhaled outward by tireless mouths yapping,
the last whisp of the summer evening breeze pushing the ghastly, 
soul-less mist into my face –
the once-cloud-like shape bursting and dispersing and 
trickling down the sides of my slouched figure...

i would almost call the habit disgusting 
if i wasn't also under this spell of smoke; 
yet tonight, 
i almost don't notice it as i reach for the glass
("one last time," i tell myself...)
and consume the bittersweet taste of truth
with one quick gulp. 

i think it's funny, how their voices fill this once-quiet space,
screaming for validation, as i reluctantly pretend to understand (in pity)...
i'm hearing everything they say:
how everything lacks something,
how something is too full of one thing,
how someone isn't there,
how someone else is, but isn't right...
how hoping and waiting is often unrewarded,
how permanence sucks,
how trust is overrated,
how faith in miracles took the last train out with the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus
how good guys finish last,
how bad guys rule on earth but burn in hell,
and 
how most of us plainly just don't know shit.      

though that's not the end of it,
i've shut the voices out by now.
i can't possibly deal with all that now.    

i'm too tired, myself.

my eyes are fixed on the cigarette that's quickly devouring itself 
between my fingers.
i almost don't feel the sting of the burn it offers
as the struggling spark of flame consumes the filter.
i've been staring at it for quite some time now,
as the line of ash clinging for dear life proves.
i'm alarmed for a second, but i remind myself this was coming:
yet i struggle for one last intoxicating puff, 
and hope it gets me through the night. 

i almost never have an extra pack on me. 
and this night is no different.

i quickly offer polite nods and excuses 
from people i don't know from adam,
almost bashfully making my way through a maze of 
tables and chairs, 
thinking to myself:
"that was a pretty potent combination..."

the train of thought is interrupted by the blankness
of the commute home (i really don't remember it, at all...)
and i collapse on the couch and continue the thought through the deafening silence:
"...so how is it that i'm wide awake?"

there are things i will remember.
there are things i will forget.
i miss you. 

and so will the ungodly hours of the morning,
until the sun rises,
and forces me to lay quiet and still.  




  
   
 

It Must Be The Venti Talking...

After A Train, A Cab and A Car Ride...

it could have been any ordinary place
where dreams came and went, 
and so did friends...
but the few of us left who've chose to 
see things through,
and keep running the race,
who chose to endure sleepless nights,
wasted time and burnt-out lights...
i sing my thanks to you.

the knee-jerk conversations, sarcastic quips,
the words we'd rather keep to ourselves,
knowing that silence would explain things better:
i couldn't ask for more meaningful discourse...
And though we are all weighed-down by heavy hearts,
there's just a few more reasons not to be bitter.

our windows are tainted with stains of decades 
and past-pain,
the blood-soaked floors witness to our self-inflicted wounds,
the holes in the roof over our heads,
revealing a glimpse of tiresome days 
and endless nights,
and the even bigger holes in our attempts to explain why we choose to even call this "life."

this is where we can choose to be lion over lamb,
this is where we dance for rain to extinguish the flame of wanting anything more,
this is where we we're encouraged to play with knives and suffer the consequences,
this is where we ignore the smallest joys and revel in the biggest catastrophes
this is where we listen above the horrendous din of fists hitting faces,
this is where we godless souls see the light and find faith in each other,
this is where we call each other "brother" and "sister,"
this is where we embrace imperfect mothers and fathers, us bastard sons,
and this is where we live, 
and where we would want to leave-from when time comes.

cheers to this chosen path of red wine principles and non-judgmental
bouts over smoke and alcohol,
of bruises and scars left exposed for us chosen few to see and ridicule like it was nothing of great consequence...
those broken bones, the weary feet, our tired egos, our beaten hearts,
and whatever else insecurities we joyfully push aside,
even for just a second or two,
knowing each other is all we have... and all we need.

should i ever stray too far, 
and begin to wander off elsewhere,
or should someone else convince me otherwise 
about this hard-earned place i'm still learning to love, 
i only ask you to call for me... and remind me that this is home.

both broken and beautiful,
dysfunctional but always respectful of who i am,
and who we are.

there's absolutely nothing quite like it.
and i hope you find it.

because this is where you'll find me.    

   
   





 

The Little Things... Part I

May not be a big deal to you, but it sure as hell pisses me off.

Okay I fucking admit it... I'm probably one of the most impatient guys on the planet: and most people wouldn't even think twice about calling me an asshole, even. As much as I try to be nice, or polite, or generally try to make this world a little better in my own small, private way, there are just some things that tick me off way too easily. Now I try to avoid fights or spreading bad vibes really hard, but there are just some days – and some people – who deserve the looks of disgust and harsh judgement; there are those people who are just asking for it. Don't you agree?

     Now I notice that all my pet peeves have one thing in common: actions or words or anything that involves the lack of common sense, and/or sensitivity for other people. Now I'm not going to go real deep with this one: I'm just going to list down shit I witness on a regular basis, or everyday even. Go on and check for yourself if you agree with me.

1. Customers at fastfood joints who take fucking all day to order, even if the line is long.Why? First of all, THE LINE IS LONG. I can't believe how some people fail to realize that the reason why menus are lighted, have extra big pictures and descriptions and prices in big letters and numbers is to speed up the process of accomodating everyone's order in the fastest, easiest possible way, especially during the lunch and the dinner rush. But what do we usually get? Fucking customers who spend their entire time in-line either talking to people they practically spend the whole day talking-to, or peeps who just can't seem to get enough out of playing with their iPhones or gadgets... and when it's their time to order? That's when the only begin the process of deciding what to eat. They read the menus slowly, take forever to decide whether or not they want large or regular fries with that, make stupid requests and ask dumb questions like "can I get a meal number 2, but without this and combine it with this instead?" The customer is always right, but fucking Christ: when will people learn that set meals are, well... set? When will they realize that the solution to getting exactly what you want isn't by forcing your way and coming up with your own, unique menu, but by buying ala carte? It's not like fucking McDonald's or Jolibee has new products freaking everyday... so it shouldn't be hard to think ahead of time what you're getting since most fastfood menus are pretty simple to figure out. But no, all a guy or girl decides to do is ask questions or challenge what's written on the menu board. Jeez.      

Small Talk When You Live in The Middle of Nowhere

...or as some people may call it, "the province of Bulacan."

When I was growing up in Okinawa, I was pretty normal – I got good grades, enjoyed afternoons on a playground behind our house, ate mostly junk food and wanted nothing more to be a ninja. Though I wasn't exactly cool, it didn't matter that much since I always found ways to pass the time: I tried skateboarding, then learned how to ride a bike, and even got into a lot of reading and writing. It wasn't nobel prize shit... just shit that was fun. I always had ideas for short stories, or whenever I thought a show or some movie I had watched had a pretty crummy ending, I'd type the entire summary of the movie and change certain details. In short, I was never bored. I was actually almost productive.

This is what mid-day looks like. In the evening, same shit... except everything's fucking black.

     Then before high school, we went back here to the Philippines, and since we lived in Obando, Bulacan, it was a big adjustment. Flooding. No fucking phones/landline services until I was in college. And people in our small barangay were asleep by 9pm. I felt like we were stranded on a desert island. Luckily, I grew up wit good friends who'd always urge me to go out and explore other places. Though Obando was a ghost town, if you had 50 bucks in your pocket, you could make it home at any ungodly hour via trike: all I had to do was make it to Malabon, the nearest hint of civilization. By the time I was attending University at USTe, it was no longer a problem since I was renting an apartment which was real close to the campus. It was party central. Me and my buddies did everything there except two things: sleep and study. Fuck, it was college. I remember even spending Christmas and New Year's in that apartment... it was that fun. It was very much like ruin-your-future fun. 

     Fortunately, years later, I had the pleasure of working regularly for PULP. 12 years. And the great experiences and (mis)adventures and friendships I've built during those years made three things sure: 1. I'd lose more sleep, 2. I'd really love the city life and 3. There was always something happening nearby... always something to do or somewhere to go. 

     Recently, I decided I wanted to take a slower pace and move into our new house, even further in Meycauayan, Bulacan. I liked everything about it: new house, a pretty impressive internet connection (except when it storms like a motherfucker...), my own fucking rec room with all my guitars and amps... I mean, it seemed like I had it made and I could bum-around forever. But it was after the second month of staying here that I sort of got... bored. I had shit to do yeah, but just the vibe of the place seemed... dead. It's pretty much pitch black after 8 pm, people in the village don't go out much except for the village morons who like to have a shot of gin (or two, or three, or four...)and sing karaoke EVERY FUCKING NIGHT, and worse, the jeeps, shuttles and trikes seem to end their trips for the day by 9pm. So unless you have a car or a bicycle (or the preferred mode of transportation, the scooter...), you're pretty much shit out of luck, and will have nothing else better to do than, well act like a moron and drink alcohol all night, or well, smoke your lungs out as you stare into the vast, pitch-black nothingness. Believe me, you can only spend so many hours a day watching youtube or fucking socializing on facebook. If you disagree with me, then YOU are probably wasting too much time. Get the fuck up off your ass.

     Anyway, after one of my infamous all-nite Friday hangouts with my buddies in Manila, I made it home shortly before 5am one Saturday morning. Now in case your city-ass doesn't know, people in the province wake up pretty damn early. As in before the roosters. I still had an extra cigarette, so before I opened the gate, I decided to sit down in one of the vacant lots beside our house, light up and take a look for myself what all the fuss about sunrises were (I haven't seen a sunrise in ages... I mean, I hardly sleep so I like my curtains thick n' dark...). It was still pretty dark, and I admit, a little creepy, so I almost shit my pants when I heard something walking through the bushes and saw a big fucking shadowy thing heading my way. Right before I was about to shriek like a little bitch, my pupils adjusted to the darkness and I shook my head in disbelief: it was a carabao. A fucking carabao. 

      At that exact moment, I told myself "fuck... I do live in the province. I am in the middle of fucking nowhere. It's true."

      Anyway, since then, I decided it was time to make friends, or at least acquaintances in case one day, I'd need help from a rampaging carabao. Or a swarm of tukos (small,  nocturnal lizards that make a weird sound, my western/coño friends...). Or run into an aswang or some shit. People here in my village are pretty okay – they mind their own business when they can, they work hard, don't party as much and go to church on Sundays like all Christians do (and did I mention they fucking love karaoke?!!). You know. Regular people who go to the mall on weekends, eat at some fastfood place, buy basic groceries and that's that. Now usually, I'm just mister hi-hello-how-are-you-just-trying-to-be-polite-bye, but I did start noticing that since people here have pretty simple routines, conversations are a pretty big deal, and they can't seem to get enough of asking everything about you. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the gesture and know that they don't really intend to ask the wrong questions or say the most fucked-up things just for kicks, but it's been a riot and I can't remember how many times I've tried really hard not to crack-up and erupt in a fit of laughter whenever some people try to get information, or make an honest comment about me. It is fucking hilarious. Hysterical.

      So I decided to compile a list of the most memorable questions/statements I've gotten over the past few months of attempting to socialize with my fellow village people (what the fuck do you want me to call them?! I can't call all of them my "neighbors" since technically, they all don't live next to me in the same piece of land, and well, it sounds a little too Christian...). I don't mean to mock these ding-dongs, I just thought it'd be fun to share this shit, especially since everyone who has asked me these questions are adults, none younger than 30 years old:

THE TOP 10 MOST RETARDED (BUT FUNNY) STATEMENTS/QUESTIONS PEOPLE IN MY VILLAGE HAVE ASKED/TOLD ME

 

10. "Kalbo ka pala ano. At may tattoo ka pa pala."

+ Thank you for stating the obvious, genius. I mean, am I the only bald and inked dude they've seen? 

9. "Madalas madaling araw ka na umuwi ano? Saan ka ba nagpupunta?"

+ I think this is a question only moms, wives and girlfriends get to ask. I think trike drivers should concentrate on driving safely. That's just me.

8. "32 ka na?!! E ba't 'di ka pa nag-aasawa?"

+   Again, a question maybe grand parents can ask, but not the best thing for non-relatives to inquire about. I mean, Jesus Christ, isn't there so much else one can do after college?

7. "Nag-gi-gitara ka pala. Ano 'yang dala mo, electric guitar?"

+  Again, I sincerely appreciate the interest, but isn't it easy to tell? Bulky soft case = acoustic guitar. Slim soft case = electric guitar. No case = manginginom na human karaoke machine na may akowstik na binili sa Sta. Mesa or Raon.

6. "Sabi ng mommy mo may banda ka. Bakit hindi kita napapanood sa TV?"

 +  I don't even want to answer or comment when I get asked this. Usually, I just smile. Or try to. Or walk away. I don't mean to be an asshole, but it's...so...hard... to... explain.

5. (follow-up to question #6) "Ano ba tugtugan niyo? Rock? Parang Bon Jovi, or Siakol, ganun? Meron ding magaling maggitara dito tulad mo... puro Bread at Air Supply piyesa niya. Kainuman lang namin noong isang gabi... nalasing, suka ng suka...

+  Again, I don't mean to meddle with peoples' tastes. But come on... 

4. "Dito kasi sa atin, 'di uso 'yung mga picha-pie at hambur-jer (sic)... 'di ka ba nakain ng kambing? O aso?"

+  Obviously, I made the mistake of talking to the resident drunkards, partying at the sari-sari store steps. I should have kept my mouth shut and just bought the damn pack of cigarettes. Suits me.

3. "Writer ka pala ano... ano sinusulat mo? Magasin? Ah parang songhits! Dati may ganyan kami e, 'Jingle' pangalan."

+  I admit, I'd rather people think I work for a songhits publication, than say, them think of me as Xerex Xaviera.

 

2. "Lagi kang may lakad ah. SM ka ata ng SM e. Wala kaming pera para sa ganyan e... 'pag may okasyon lang."

+ Last I checked there was fucking more than 5 other malls I could have gone to... and a million other places I could have went. Do I fucking look like a mall rat?

1. "Ah ikaw ba anak ni Mrs. Dizon? Ang taba mo pala!" 

+  Horrible way to start a conversation, right? Maybe one day, when they finally open a 711 here in our place, they could sell these people some, I dunno, tact?

+++

Anyway, in all honesty, it's all good. Fuck, at least they ARE funny, and those questions/comments did make my day somehow. I dunno. 

Fuck, now I want to go to SM.