The McVie Show Season 4

WARNING! WARNING! SPOILERS APPROACHING! AVOID LIKE KRYPONITE!
(Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

* * * * *

Superman Returns is a fairly well-made summer movie. Thanks to his experience in the first two X-Men movies, director Bryan Singer has proven once again that he can make big summer movies that, despite its size, can still have a solid beating heart inside all that special effects. And he does this by making sure that he has an underlying theme running through the whole movie.

In Superman Returns it’s all about being different and yet being asked to carry a huge responsibility. This internal struggle is the core conflict of Superman in this movie; in other words, Superman as the Messiah. Singer piles on the references throughout the movie: when God-the-Son Superman returns and falls into Mama Mary, er, Ma Kent’s arms in a faint, it’s an instant La Pieta. In the Fortress of Solitude, Lex Luthor and company listen to God-the-Father Jor-El (Marlon Brando in a special post-death appearance) lecturing; when Kitty Kowalski (played to ditzy perfection by Parker Possey) asks, “Can he hear us?” Lex says, “No, he’s dead.” At the climactic battle wherein Luther’s goons are beating up a weakened Superman, it’s super-Scourging At The Pillar. In the same battle, Lex stabs Superman with a spear of kryptonite on his side. And after throwing the landmass into space, Superman falls back to Earth with arms outstretched, like Christ on the cross.

Still not convinced? Lex says, “Gods are selfish beings who fly around in little red capes and don’t share their power with mankind.” And lastly, Superman tells Lois, “You wrote that the world doesn’t need a savior, but every day I hear people crying for one.”

With Lois as Mary Magdalene and her 5-yr old son as the offspring of Superman, this movie has more in common with The Da Vinci Code than people realize.

The good thing about Bryan Singer is that while his religious references are obvious, he doesn’t hit you on the head with them, unlike, say, a younger Steven Spielberg. Singer does not linger, nor does he underline, embolden and italicize his points. Which is a good thing—religion can be such a bummer in an action flick. Besides, summer movies have become so idiot-friendly that they’re now unfriendly to non-idiots.

But enough with the religion. Bryan Singer has made a movie that those over 35 years old who have seen the first two Christopher Reeves originals will get a kick out several sequences. The opening title sequence is an homage to Superman II’s opening credits. The ending scene of Superman flying high above Metropolis is a tip of the hat to the ending of Superman I. And thanks to the John Williams original score, those scenes packed an additional wallop—I was as giddy as a girl while watching the opening credits fly across the screen.

All in all, Superman Returns to the screen with a fairly successful film. Wait for him to return again on screen.

The one with Zanjoe is a sight to behold. But add the others, plus a bevy of belles, and you overload on all those balls, disco or otherwise. Nakaka-turn off actually.

And that’s why I’m not going.

His name is Dominic Lau, and he’s a VJ for Channel V. He’s the product of a British mum and a Chinese pa. In a word: delicious!

The RFM guys should have named their new hotdog after him instead!

Just to set the record straight, even though I’m not: in The McVie Show episode entitled “The Making of Sam Hotdog”, the billboard and the product are real (although I’ve yet to see the hotdogs). Everything else is pure fiction. For the record, I do not know anyone from RFM. I have never set foot in their boardroom. I have no idea who their chairman, marketing manager, brand manager, assistant manager, and R&D head are. I also do not personally know anyone named Minerva.

I am issuing this clarification after a day of being asked by people here in the office and on-line, “Really, is this real? Is that what really happened? How did you manage to get the inside scoop?”

Klaro? Klaro. ☺

Quick, answer as honestly as possible: Who among you thought that the previous episode of The McVie Show entitled “The Making of Sam Hotdog” is a true story? And who among you thought that the said story was just a figment of my imagination?

Be honest with your answer, okay?

…Sam Hotdog

One afternoon in the RFM boardroom, management was pondering what to do next.

“Minerva, what’s the latest in R&D?” asked the chairman.

The head of research and development, the lone woman in a roomful of men, pushed back her glasses and, in a prim, I’m-the-school-principal tone, spoke up without rising from her seat. “Research has confirmed that, after kids, the next biggest number of consumers of hotdogs,” and here she gave a slight dramatic pause, “are gay men.”

Silence filled the room. All eyes were on her.

The R&D head, wearing a smug smile on her lips, prolonged the silence by just staring back at them.

The chairman had to say something. “Well,” he said.

The R&D head smiled even wider.

The marketing head spoke up. He always spoke whatever was first on his mind anyway. “Then,” he said, in a similar tone that connected the chairman’s previous one-word sentence, “I think we should really tap into the pink peso! I think we should make a hotdog and name it after a hunk.” His eyes widened as he fell silent, shocked at what he just said at the top of his head.

Again silence filled the room.

“Brilliant,” the chairman said.

Then the murmuring started. Some were scratching their heads, others were muttering to their seatmates. The marketing head, his spirits buoyed by what the chairman said, pushed on further. “The hunk should be from showbiz,” he added. “A star that is hot right now.” There were mumblings of agreement across the table.

The chairman spoke, “Who’s the hottest hunk right now for the gays?”

For the third time that afternoon, one could hear a pin drop on the carpeted floor of the boardroom.

The chairman, sensing his mistake, turned to the R&D head. “Minerva, do you know who’s the hottest hunk right now?” Unfortunately Minerva was a forty-two year old miss who had six dogs as her only companions in her apartment after her mother died five years ago. She stammered, “Well… ah… I think…” before the chairman mercifully cut her off. “I think,” he said, “that we should bring our secretaries in here and ask them.”

Suddenly a voice from the far end of the table was heard: “Sam Milby.”

All eyes turned to the assistant brand manager who spoke up. He started stammering when he realized that not only was everyone staring at him, but they also had puzzled, even accusing, expressions on their faces. “Ah, er, I mean… look, even my girlfriend told me she wants to get it on with that guy,” he quickly added. “I mean, I’m insanely jealous because of that!”

Relief swept across the room. The brand manager, who played badminton regularly with his assistant and had stripped so many times in front of him in the locker room after playing, immediately gave his two-cents’ worth. “Yeah, I agree,” he said. And that was the only thing he would ever say in the entire meeting.

“Sam Milby,” the chairman muttered. “Do we have any other options aside from Sam?”

Miss R&D, eager to make a contribution, chimed in. “Richard Gomez,” she said confidently.

“Too old,” said the marketing head. “I can imagine a foot-long that’s wrinkled and cold.” Ewww, said everyone in the room.

“How about Manny Pacquiao?” said another.

“He’s everywhere,” complained the marketing head, “and besides, I see a short, tough, sweaty cocktail sausage. That’s one salty hotdog.”

“What about Echo Rosales?” said another. The marketing head shook his head. “I’m seeing dark, burnt, brownish instead of bright, juicy red. Plus it looks like a long, thin one. We want tender, juicy, big, fat!” By this time everyone was so busy thinking of options that no one wondered how the marketing head could make a judgment call on Echo’s dick.

“Uhm, Rafael Rossel?”

“He’s half-Norwegian, isn’t he? Are we thinking salmon hotdogs here?” sneered the marketing head, “I don’t think so!”

“But ‘Norwegian Wood’ would be such a great name study,” said the assistant brand manager to no one in particular.

“I know! Richard Gutierrez!” shouted someone. “No,” shouted another, “Richard and Raymond Gutierrez! Twin hotdogs!”

The marketing head brightened. “Imagine, conjoined hotdogs! An alternative to the foot-long! We’ll have to make special hotdog buns for them! Think of the additional revenue avenues!”

“No.” The chairman’s voice was firm. “No twin hotdogs. I don’t want to deal with the mother. And that’s that,” he said, cutting off any objections from the marketing head. “I think I’ll go with Sam Milby. He’s young, fresh, white meat, and his name is very ‘Uncle Sam’ American, and we all know that the hotdog is as American as apple pie and baseball. Yeah, I’m comfortable with Sam.”

He then turned to the marketing head. “Now, I want you and your team to get cracking. I want every homosexual in the Philippines, from Luzon to Mindanao, to say, ‘I want to eat Sam’s hotdog!’ I want them to stuff their mouths with Sam’s hotdog every single day!”

And thus it came to pass:
(This was taken at 6am when the light wasn’t that bright yet. The copy says, “Swift Sam All-Meat Hotdogs. Bagong sarap, bagong kaibigan.”)

Playing with my new toy while I was sick.

Meet Daniel, Dream's current incarnation. He stands just beyond my bed, watching me when I sleep. Beside him is his sister Death, but she's still encased in plastic. I have no plans of unleashing her in my room.

The books I still have to finish reading. Usually I read two books; when one gets tedious or boring, I switch to the other and so forth until I finish both.

My weekly "bible". People have been telling me to subscribe, saying I'll end up spending less and I won't miss out on any issue. But there's a thrill and joy in finding an issue on the newstand and snapping it up before anyone else gets a hand on it.




Dinner with Leigh at Filos in The Fort. When dining at Filos, you MUST order the sinigang na ham. It's to die for! When I had my first taste, I forgot my name. It's that gooooood! It's better than sex, pramis. The grilled tuna belly is also good, while the gambas are flavourful, but Leigh and I wished it was spicier.

I like this picture I took of Leigh for some reason.

You’ve got to love
To learn to live
Where angels fear to tread.
I did it and I don’t regret the day.
Even now,
I think of how
You turned to me to say:

“Are you gonna go
To the Sodom and Gomorrah Show?
It’s got everything you need for your complete
Entertainment and instruction:
Sun, sex, sin, divine intervention,
Death and destruction!
The Sodom and Gomorrah Show
Is a once-in-a-lifetime production.”

Pet Shop Boys
“The Sodom and Gomorrah Show”
from the album Fundamental

There’s a proposal for billboards to be banned from national highways. One drive down EDSA or South Super Highway and you know why the anti-billboard crew is up in arms: Hideous to the cityscape! Distracting to motorists! Driving hazards!

While I am a member of the industry that’s responsible for their existence in the first place, let me just say that what I’m about to say next isn’t really in defense for something that is partially responsible for bringing food to our tables. In fact, I’m not too fond of every billboard that comes out; most of them are rather bland and boring. And I think there should be regulations so that our city doesn’t become one living billboard.

However, I must disagree with those who say that the billboards pose a hazard to motorists because they’re distracting to the driver. (We are obviously going to limit our discussions to the drivers, because passengers getting distracted by billboards will not cause a vehicle to ram into another, not unless the passenger decides to distract the driver, in which case it’s the fault of the passenger.)

Let us say that the billboard IS distracting to drivers. In fact, it should be: billboards, like any other form of advertising, should be attention-grabbing and memorable. An almost naked woman that’s ten stories high will distract a lot of hetero drivers, while a Zanjoe wearing just Bench underwear and a pout will certainly make me take my eyes off the road and stare at his crotch.

But to put the blame squarely on the billboard maker is, I think, unfair. Because ultimately the responsibility still rests on the driver to keep his eyes firmly on the road. If he cannot glance at it once in a while and still keep an eye on the vehicle in front, then he’s not really a good driver and shouldn’t be behind the wheel in the first place. Yes folks, the really competent and experienced drivers eventually learn how to take in the surrounding sights while never really taking his eyes off the road for more than several seconds.

Using me as an example, I should have the discipline and will power to wrestle my eyes off Zanjoe’s crotch and focus back on the road ahead. If I allow myself to continue undressing Zanjoe with my eyes, then it’s entirely my fault if I end up rear-ending the vehicle in front of me. Why blame Ben Chan? Or even Zanjoe, the poor, almost-naked kid?

If we ban billboards because they distract drivers, then why stop at billboards? Why not ban any and everything that may distract drivers? Let’s ban bus ads. Let’s ban sexy women from waiting at bus stops or crossing the streets. Let’s ban Porches and other head-turning cars from the streets. Heck, while we’re at it, why not issue to drivers those view guards they put on horses to block their peripheral view? If they only see what’s in front of them then we’ll have less road accidents. Too bad though for Zanjoe, Alexandra de Rossi and the other Bench models.

Let me digress a little: the latest set of Bench billboards on the upcoming Bench Underwear Fashion Show is, I believe, tacky and an eyesore. Okay, at the start I could take it: the ever-delectable Andrew Wolfe, the yummy Zanjoe—the billboards were few and far between one another. Then I think Ben Chan decided to buy every other billboard along EDSA. So now there are disco balls, skimpy-dressed girls and brief-clad boys all over the metro. It’s not just pervasive, it’s already invasive. Billboards already make their subjects momentous because of their sheer size. To overdo what’s already an unsubtle medium is overkill.

Okay, back to billboards in general.

Some of the best billboards for me are those that are simple, easy-to-grasp, yet impactful. Like the ones of Folded & Hung, when they first came out with Claudine Baretto looking like Beyonce Knowles. Who knew Claudine could look like that? It immediately changed the way I looked at F&H. After they came out with their series of Illegally Low jeans billboards, I went out and bought a pair. That’s the power of the billboard. (Unfortunately F&H’s latest endorser, Polo Ravales, leaves me cold.)

Then again, there’s this one billboard by Lucky Me! along EDSA that’s a sad example of badly-crafted copy. The main visual is a bowl of Lucky Me! Supreme tilted 90 degrees to the side; its headline, designed to be read by tilting your head 90 degrees to the right, reads: “Gising na!” (“Wake up!”)

What’s bad is that it took me several viewings to realize that the billboard was oriented that way because it was meant to be read by people lying on their side; in other words, those still in bed. It’s already a bad sign if the billboard isn’t immediately understandable. To make it worse, the copy would have been better if it read “Bangon na!” (“Rise up!”) instead of “Gising na!”. It would have made the reason for the side-view orientation more obvious and easier to understand. Besides, one can be awake and still be lying in bed, right?

The billboards along the North Luzon Express are actually sources of entertainment—it’s fun to make fun of billboards of livestock feeds with their pun-filled copy and their kitschy visuals. “One Latigo, all bulate go!” screams a headline for livestock de-worming medicine.

I think that there should be regulations so that the proliferation of billboards won’t go overboard. But please, let’s not blame the advertisers for incompetent drivers.

I rarely get sick, so when I do I really take time out to rest. What I also noticed is that I tend to recover faster than most. Part of me wishes that it is really some mutant power of mine, but the reality is I think more boring: I’m just lucky that way.

But for today I’m not so lucky. I’m at home coughing my throat out, or so it feels. I’ve had this cough last week, and I was on my way to drowning it with lots and lots of water, but last Saturday I got wet walking under the rain to my car. Liquid versus liquid, and I guess the rain won. By Monday I was coughing non-stop, and Tuesday I had a bit of fever going.

So today I’m taking it easy. I just need to rest this off. I have no excuse to be bored silly: there’s the computer, some books that are begging to be read, and DVDs that are still encased in plastic. But there’s also the bliss of just doing nothing.

It’s a rare luxury, not having to do anything. It’s a luxury because too little of it is frustrating, while too much is tedious. But when it comes, one must embrace it wholly. It’s as if the world decided to stop for you, but actually it’s you disengaging from the world.

When I get obsessed, I really get obsessed. Last weekend I spent Independence Day going around the metro looking for this particular digital camera: the Nikon Coolpix 5700. But I soon found out that the Philippines is Canon country. Well, Sony and Kodak too. So after several malls I saw only one 5700—in Market! Market! Unfortunately it was the display unit and the salesperson was honest enough to refuse selling it to me because it had already sustained some scratches.

I called Columbia, the official Nikon distributor in the country, and I found out that the 5700 is already being phased out. So I decided to go buy instead its cousin, the 8700. It isn’t being phased out, but I wouldn’t be surprised if soon it will be. It’s a line of cameras that Nikon calls pro-sumer cameras: they are squarely in between consumer-friendly click-and-shoot cameras and professional cameras. The 8700 is 8 megapixels, something which I don’t really need but I’d find a way to make use of eventually. I think the only major difference between the 5700 and the 8700 is the megapixel size; otherwise they look identical.

My old Coolpix 3200 will go to my sister. Meanwhile, I may get trigger-happy in the days to come. So for the viewers of The McVie Show on dial-up, my advance apologies: downloading pics may cause some delay in viewing the Show.

Here is a test shot:

I have been quite busy the past two weeks, and the first casualty is The McVie Show. It’s not that I don’t have time; I can always make time to write. It’s just that I don’t have the energy—by the end of the day, I’m just too tired to put my thoughts in order.

Thank god for Britney Spears.

* * * * *

Britney Spears may have second baby in Namibia
Posted on Friday, June 16, 2006 (EST) in MSN.com
Pregnant pop diva Britney Spears may follow in the steps of Hollywood couple Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie and have her baby in Namibia.

WINDHOEK, United States (AFP) – “Deputy Tourism Minister Leon Jooste confirmed that he received a telephonic enquiry from Spears’ office to have her second baby born in Namibia,” the Namibian Broadcasting Corporation (NBC) said Friday.
A tourism ministry official told AFP: “Our office received an enquiry from the staff of Britney Spears,” but did not elaborate.
The 24-year-old star is six months pregnant with her second child with husband Kevin Federline, although entertainment tabloids have been hawking reports of an imminent split. The baby is due in September.

This was a tabloid’s editorial cartoon.

Thanks to Alyssa Keys, the following viral is experiencing resurgence in popularity (or I should say, notoriety).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQUECz_EwSg

I saw this earlier this year and I thought it had died a natural death. Because of Alyssa Keys, Michael Fajatin will have to live down his 15 minutes of infamy all over again.

The hottest viral going around these days is this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=leW9nn8ZCAM

Unverified sources claim the poor girl is Alyssa Alano of Viva Hot Babes. Given local showbiz, it’s likely her career will get a boost from this.

She should call herself ALYSSA KEYS. And when she introduces herself to her audience, she should say, “Hi! Alyssa Keys me! Kamusta na u?”

Get her a new manager, quick!

Even before hearing a note from the Pet Shop Boys’ latest release, Fundamental, I read several glowing reviews about the album. Generally the verdict is similar: “a smashing return to form by the Pet Shop Boys” is the almost unanimous assessment.

Glowing reviews tend to elicit two reactions from me. Either I end up liking the reviewed because of preconditioning, or I run screaming in the opposite direction. I must admit while listening to the album I was vacillating between the two the whole time.

Most critics refer to the Boys’ return to form as their return to electronic synthpop versus their previous Release, which had guitars all over the place; that album was generally panned by many. But part of me suspects that “return to form” is also just a subtle backhanded way for the critics to say, the Boys are repeating themselves. A mid-album musical breaker like God Willing? Been there with The Samurai in Autumn from their previous album. Spelling out the title in the chorus with “M-I-N-I-M-A-L, we are minimal”? Done that with “We’re S-H-O-P-P-I-N-G, we’re shopping” in their very first album.

But while the Boys do repeat themselves, they’re smart enough to rise above the sound of rehash. They still write some of the smartest and sharpest lyrics around (although one song, Numb is written by Diane Warren). The critics are also praising the Boys for being more overtly political in this album, although their very British concerns will be lost to those who don’t tune in regularly to the BBC.

Plus they were astute enough to get Trevor Horn to co-produce the album with them. Having him onboard is like getting a third ear—everything sounds familiar yet one can hear a newness pulsing just below the surface.

The songs certainly evoke the sounds of electronic past. The album starts strongly with Psychological, whose instrumentation recalls latter-day Depeche Mode. Towards the end of Minimal the guitars come in above the electronic beat ala-New Order. Plus the Boys evoke their own sound as well. The Sodom and Gomorrah Show opens with a dramatic bombast that’s so PSB; plus there’s the Paninaro-like opening of “Sun! Sex! Sin! Divine intervention! Death! And destruction!” Integral is a strong album ender in the vein of Go West or Saturday Night Forever. Meanwhile I Made My Excuse And Left is a successfully mournful number that recalls the Boys’ more morose musical musings. And even the song Indefinite Leave To Remain still has guitars strumming in the background.

While far from perfect, Fundamental is a strong contribution to the Boys’ oeuvre. The Boys smartly dip into their synthpop strengths while letting Horn tweak their sound. The result is a subtly surprising album that at times sounds frisky and fresh while remaining fundamentally PSB.

Tuesday I brought Orlando to the casa for his 80,000-km maintenance. He’s already five years old and for the past few months you can feel and hear his age. There are numerous creaks and his response has become more sluggish. So I hesitated for only about half a second when the guy at the casa told me that Orlando’s maintenance fee would reach… gasp… more than twenty kiyaw… double gasp! I just bit the bullet and mentally computed the number of tricks I have to get on weekends in Quezon Circle for me to pay for Orlando’s upkeep. Plus I had to leave him in the shop for two days; good thing I was able to use my brother’s car for the meantime.

This morning I picked up Orlando from the casa. The moment I pulled out of the place I knew Orlando was a changed car. I felt it the instant we hit the street. Gone were the creaks and the matagtag sound and feel. Plus the feel was a lot tighter yet smoother, like everything is well oiled. It didn’t exactly feel like driving Orlando the first time, but it came close. Suddenly all that money spent was justified!

So now Orlando feels sexier to drive. I’m so excited to go behind Orlando’s… ah… wheel and take him for a spin.

Sex and cars—what a classic combination.

First, my apologies to the viewers of The McVie Show. The past two weeks were quite hectic with us making two uber-major pitches or bids. (A pitch is when we present to potential clients and hope they are sufficiently impressed to hire us.) And during the weekend in between the McVie family went to The Forest Club in Puypuy, Laguna to relax and unwind in their hot spring pool. In my ngarag state I forgot to bring my camera, so sadly there are no pictures of that beautiful place. Argh.

But great news at the end of this week—we got both clients! Boring news to everyone else, but that’s the reason why I haven’t been able to entertain you guys recently. Sigh.

* * * * *

The movie Superman Returns is about to open in theaters nationwide, and the billboards are all up. Curiously, all the billboards have the logo of HANFORD on the bottom area; the garment company must be a major sponsor for the movie billboards. It’s funny though that an underwear manufacturer should sponsor a movie about a superhero who flies around wearing a red pair of briefs.

* * * * *

Long weekend. Three out-of-town invites. One McVie. What’s a guy going to do?

One time when Leigh hitched a ride with me going home, Erasure’s Victim Of Love was playing on my iPod. I turned to her and said, “I think this song ruined me.” I explained that when I first heard it, I was immediately struck by the lyrics and I remember really taking them to heart. Leigh admitted she wasn’t familiar with the song, so I recited the lyrics to her:

“I don’t wanna look like some kind of fool;
I don’t wanna break my heart over you.
I’m building a wall, every day it’s getting higher—
This time I won’t end up another victim of love.”

Leigh looked at me and sighed. “Well!” she said. “There’s no way we can go back in time and fix things now, is there?”

But this isn’t really about my views on love. Rather, that exchange made me realize just how influential certain songs have been in my life: shaping the way I think, forming my views on love, life in general, and the world we live in.

So I turned on my mental music jukebox, switched “rewind” and started looking at the songs that made an impact on me when I was growing up. Here are the ones that made it on my list.

Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, The Beatles. My earliest memory of any song, rhyme or ditty is the chorus of this Fab Four classic: “Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, bra!” As a kid I always thought they were referring to the female underwear, which made the song somewhat of a taboo for me. For a kid growing up in a semi-conservative household, it was shocking to hear a pop song be that blatant.

Yesterday, The Beatles. This song holds the record for most number of remakes made, but my most memorable version is the one by Andy Williams. When I first heard the line, “There’s a shadow hanging over me,” I had nightmares thinking that a shadow in the form of a hanged man was hovering over my head whenever I’d fall asleep.

Eleanor Rigby, The Beatles. Even before I realized that the Lennon-McCartney lyrics were pure poetry, I was already struck by the plaintive, “Ah, look at all the lonely people.” Whenever I felt that I was all alone in the world—as a teen, one can feel that way a lot—I’d look to this song to validate what I was feeling.

For No One, The Beatles. One of the saddest songs by The Fab Four. Call me masochistic, but I always liked downer songs because they echo and reinforce the deep sadness I’d feel from time to time. “You find that all her words of kindness linger on when she no longer needs you” kills me every time I hear it. And the final blow: “And in her eyes you see nothing, no sign of love behind the tears; cried for no one, a love that should have lasted years.”

You’re In My Soul, Rod Stewart. It’s a cheesy song, but growing up in the 70s I had no concept of cheese. I just know that it spoke to my need for someone to share my life with. “You are my lover, you’re my best friend—you’re in my soul” was such a powerful concept. I’d imagine hugging someone while singing that song to… him or her? Hmmm, that’s weird. I think at that age I was still hoping I’d end up like everyone else, a guy who’d end up with a girl. Ewww.

I Don’t Wanna Talk About It, Rod Stewart. Another serving of extra thick mozzarella from Rod “Don’t Cha Think I’m Sexy?” Stewart. “I don’t wanna talk about it, how you broke my heart….” As you can see, I gravitated towards songs of love lost.

Boogie Nights, Heatwave. Then again, one can only have so much of sappy heartbreak songs. Whenever Heatwave’s dance hit would play on the radio, I’d stop whatever I was doing and stick my ear close to the speakers. I remember switching stations up and down the AM dial just to be able to catch that song. “Got to keep on dancing, keep on dancing….” The call to dance your troubles away was irresistible.

Weekend In New England, Barry Manilow. Now we’re entering the heart of Sap City and Barry Manilow is the mayor. To be fair, this song is one of his most evocative. The opening notes on the piano alone is enough to warn the listener that more drama and bombast is yet to come. Then he askes that heart-wrenching question: “When will this strong yearning end?” By the time Barry ends with, “and when will I hold youuuu…” and he holds that note until “…again…,” you wanna start screaming at him for an encore: “Again! Again! Again!”

Ships, Barry Manilow. I thought this song about the distance separating a father and a son echoed how I felt about my father. I found the line, “I said, love’s easier when it’s far away. We sat and watch a distant light…” so evocative. I viewed my dad as a distant father, and I wished he’d be more demonstrative. But that was before I realized he grew up without a father figure. After making peace with that, I eventually found the song irrelevant to me.

Knowing Me, Knowing You, ABBA. The Swedes scored with this excellent break-up song. “We just have to face it, this time we’re through” (and echoed by the back-up vocals: “We’re really through”) is such a great example of abject resignation for a relationship that has truly run its course. It made me realize that “til death do us part” doesn’t happen to all of us.

The Name Of The Game, ABBA. Love is a game. And in the game of love there are ruthless pros and naïve beginners. “If I trust in you, would you let me down? Would you laugh at me, if I said I care for you? Would you feel the same way too? I wanna know the name of the game.”

Calling Occupants Of Interplanetary Craft, The Carpenters. This is the most un-Carpenters song in their entire oeuvre. And because this song was released just after the Steven Spielberg movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind, it helped increase my fascination for the stars, UFOs and science fiction.

Everlasting Love, Andy Gibb. At the time this song was on air, I saw the movie The Wild Geese and fell in love with most of the men in the cast (and it was an all-star cast headed by Richard Burton, Roger Moore and Richard Harris). I was especially smitten by a supporting cast member (I forget na who, basta blonde siya) and I remember imagining that I was singing this song to him on the movie set! Weird. What fantasies one can have when you’re young and silly.

You Should Be Dancing, The BeeGees. I remember I was so fascinated with John Travolta and Saturday Night Fever. One night I was riding my bike along the neighborhood when I heard this song playing on the TV and I saw through the windows of a neighbor’s house that they were showing a scene from the movie. I rushed home only to find out they cut the song shot. It’s the kind of song whose opening beats alone could give me such an adrenaline rush.

If I Can’t Have You, Yvonne Elliman/The BeeGees. It has a straightforward sentiment: if I can’t have you, I don’t want nobody, baby. Sung with plaintive precision by Yvonne “Mary Magdalene” Elliman, it was a song of desperation disguised as a dance ditty.

Emotion, Samantha Sang… this song written for her by the BeeGees. It’s a deceptive song—the melody is so rich and lyrical, you’d think it’s a sappy love song if you don’t listen carefully to the words. But it’s really about a brokenhearted girl who cannot find anyone to replace her former lover: “It’s over and done, but the heartache lives on inside. And who is the one you’re clinging to instead of me tonight?” I love the seeming incongruity between music and lyrics.

20 years ago I...
1. Participated in EDSA Uno and helped kicked out Marcos
2. Admitted to my college best friend that I had a crush on him, which put a strain on our friendship
3. Tried to cry on-cue onstage and failed

10 years ago I...
1. Participated in a TA tour in Iloilo and Roxas City and had probably one of the best experiences of my life so far
2. Directed my first play ever—and it’s by Shakespeare
3. Tried to have a career as assistant director for commercials and failed

5 years ago I...
1. Enjoyed my first year of work at ABS-CBN
2. Changed the name of Rupert Jr.—in honor of my previous car—to Orlando
3. Frequented Burgoo, Aresi’s, and Chili’s in Tomas Morato for lunch or dinner

3 years ago I...
1. Launched The McVie Show Season 2
2. Became a card-carrying member of F
3. Carried my dead father from the living room sofa to the car to the clinic bed where he was pronounced DOA

So far this year I...
1. Went back to advertising
2. Enjoyed a threesome with a couple
3. Bought—along with my mom and my sister—a Mac!

Yesterday, I...
1. Presented in a new biz pitch—wearing a chef’s outfit
2. Flirted on the net
3. Accompanied Leigh to Tiendesitas

Today, I...
1. Got my car’s registration from Raffy
2. Went home via the MRT then via FX
3. Tried to finish a blog entry I’ve been working on for a couple of days but failed

Tomorrow, I will...
1. Go to work
2. Flirt some more on the net
3. Work out cuz I’m getting fat, argh!

In the next minute I will tag...
1. Anyone interested in answering this. C’mon, you’re all grown-ups, you can choose on your own.

Thanks Phillip for tagging me. At least I had a quick and painless blog entry I could easily post online.

I saw this shirt on a guy this afternoon, and I fell in love with the message: Cancel my subscription. Because I don’t need your issues.

Woo-hoo! Clap! Clap! Clap!