This is my latest artwoork. I was able to get hold of Inseeyah's camera (albeit sneakily, hi-hihihi-hihi!) and took this single light photo of the CLIO award, the highest honor in advertising (which could be construed to mean being the Overlord Satan in the Fiery Pits Of Hell).

This will be sent out to all locally-based agencies in San Francisco as an invite to our school's playing of the CLIO Reel at 491 Post. The evening's secret theme is Hot Damn (tchang-inang init yan!).

It might look like it was really easy to make. And it does. What isn't apparent is the work that a designer has to make so that everything looks and flows as it should.

And when text is added, you have nuance, logic, sense, and a whole lotta letters to love.

"Way, way, down inside/Honey you need ice/ Wanna give you my love/Every inch of my love...Yeah/"

Would You Like the Sense of Sight?

Sure there's tons to see
Sex and violence on national TV
With movies and ads telling me
Who I want to be
I'll skip the Last Action Hero's fight
Give up my sense of sight.

The Big Mouse City

It's easy for the City Mouse in the Big Mouse City to blend in. All he needs to do is grab a suitcase and stop gawking at the tall buildings.

City Mouse in the Big Mouse City

I nervously thought of how I would ask this girl that I just met. We were talking about Cirque de Soleil at 10 in the morning. She was a fine arts student. I am in advertising.

Outside, the momentary center of our attention, the Cirque freeway billboard stood as it did before we talked about wanting to see it. So I figured I would ask to see her either before or after the show, so that we could talk about it.

I rehearsed it in silence thinking that I had a simple goal. To make a connection with someone who was placed there for me to meet in room 501 even though she was a fine arts student painting on the floor designated for advertising.

It was alright, she had said. She started going to the academy in the advertising department but because she had no time to draw or paint, she was made to choose her true love.

Too much concepting, she had said. What?, I had thought.

All I do is draw and paint (in Photoshop) when making addenda to my concepts. It's called putting flesh on the bone, lady!

Meanwhile, I'm cooking up my vague plan to "meet up with" her "before or after the show...so we could talk about it." I'm such a dork. What was she...15? No, about 21 or 22. But I digress. I should have the balls to strike up conversation AND have the mojo on call. And I can't walk away shaking my head...feeling shot down...not after years of experience and having snagged the prettiest, sexiest, least tameable, stunningly smart, most kwela women IN THE WORLD. And this girl with the swollen lips with the newsboy hat laid low over her brow sent me packin wit nuttin.

It's like highschool, I like to say. What I'm really doing is subconsciously trying to invoke the past...which is like the drug that you reach for in the middle of the night. Clawing at it. Trying to catch enough of the blue smoke that it leaves behind when your hand passes straight through it and it disappears.

Enough of that. I'm not in highschool anymore. I love my work too much to let it get sidetracked by heartache, longing, and daydreaming. So let's draw.

And then it was 12:30. And still

My Effin D

This article could also be called My Stupid Mouth, since it was from my mouth after all, that I heard myself habitually pointing out to Unitedstatesans the horrible history they have made. And that they are making. And it has only struck me now...now that my US History Teacher FLUNKED ME with a capital D. All of a sudden I'm self-conscious of how I really find it hard to relate with these descendants of war when all that I can think while they are driving their electric buses down clean fast paced lifeways dotted intermittently with the camouflaged hobo in the perfect San Francisco sun and Western Sea air and beautiful white women with their murdered blonde hair. And I think, you have so much blood on your hands from the bloody money that bought my country and the bloody backs that bore the slavery of blacks. Sunglasses today. ipods tomorrow. Harry Potter and the return of the Cadillac

And I think, even though it's painful and even though it's true, I've just got to say it to you. Because you act like it's not happening. And because of your not acting on its change. And what am I doing? I'm collecting. (Did you know that all machines that take coins in this here city accept peso coins as quarters? Which with the "current exchange rate" at 56:1, the "Change exchange Rate" is 14:1. 'La lang. That's probably how most millionaires from the Philippines make their money. They come to the states with a shitload of pisos and use them to buy all the cans of soda and ride all the buses and trains that they can. It's genius. Can you imagine back to the time that the "public exchange rate" was 2:1? Then we could have used our pisos back then and our currency would have actually been stronger. But only in vending machines, Bart stations, and Muni buses.)

But seriously, there are good things in this world thanks to the 'cans. Like the internet. And um... hmmm.... anyway, the internet {BBC podcast: http://audio.theworld.org/wma/2005/07293.wma} If there is a tool that breaks down barriers, blurs if not erases borders, and raises the questions of an international governing body/bodies, it's the net. It's really ushered in a big way a level of connectedness that G7/G8, or the UN or the WB or the OC in the WC could never do. Kablam. Toto, I don't think we're in the eighties anymore.

Ah, the USofA. Snake oil salesman who went home with the Rotisserie--As Seen On TV! "You live by the packaging; you die by the packaging." That should be on the lips of every environmentalist in the world. There's no doubt. This is a throwaway plastic society. Recyclable and with a V8 engine... I swear, look at your life. Doesn't matter where you are. In my life, at least, the scariest toys in the world say MADE IN THE USA. Bein a good little Indian.

Running Late

On a normal day at this time, I'm toweling down (or is it up? depends which body part we're speaking of) but instead I start with art.

Before we forget completely

Agosto 21, 1983
Pinatay siya bago makatapak muli sa lupang sinilangan.

Benigno 'Ninoy' Aquino
His words made liars run in every direction.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.henkelsandmccoy.com/corporate/timeline/images/83NinoyAquino.jpg

The Kiss

I wish

When you see me making a wish, do you try to guess what I am wishing?

Well, I wish you wouldn't. Because then you would know that behind that penerating gaze is a shell--thin as a veil and empty as hell.

Catching floating flowers and releasing them on bonds payable next to never; crossing locomotive tracks with a singe stride; a candle on a cake; an eyelash.

Today--what remains of it--the memory of a week and sixty years comes and goes in a flash and the bang of a atomic bomb's mushroom cloud flattening a city and burdening a generation with the evils of their lords and mighty ones; warmongers and Presidents.

This week, I've been listening to the Technology Podcasts of Clark Boyd, BBC in Boston. This week, I've been listening to the accounts of the survivors, the memories that have only in this day and age surfaced. The memories interpreted are like my own. They are now my own.

I live very close to Japantown. In fact, I pass it everyday. Twice.

If I wished a wish, it would be never to hear a word said in anger again. Never to have a word said in anger laid in a fertile mind whereby only hurt and pain would grow. Never to have an idea of hate escalate into violence.



To those who have looked and found nothing new in this space, I apologize. I know what it feels like. I've been visiting stagnating blogs myself. Erch.

But I've also been busying myself with a new original song that I've been composing. An old one. Wrote it in 1999 in CDO. "Mercy me, is that a skyscraper I see lying on the ground?..."

You'll hear it soon enough.

Prepostrophe S

Dear Northern Americans (aka Unitedstatesans),

"Dick's car is red." -- correct
"My friends are all loser's." -- wrong
"The cabin's interior smelled of juniper." -- correct
"I don't like to read book's." -- wrong
"That's entertainment!" -- correct
"It's howl was heard for miles" -- wrong

How, on the other hand, the prepostrophe S finds its way into certain nouns and pronouns based on a clearly guidelined rule of possessive nouns and contractions is beyond me.

I feel like The Oakland baseball team once owned something...but no one knows since it was jacked and they know where you live.

When I see an ad for Adult CD's and DVD's, I wonder why they try to conceal C's and DV's identity? Everybody knows C and DV.

What's going on here? In the Philippines, we used to point and laugh. We'd think about it later that night and laugh again!

Now it's not funny.

And niether are periods. In advertisement headlines and taglines. But that's a rant. For another day.

You're going to he'll,
Carlo's

Para sa Bulol

Funny Thing Happened On My Sketchbook

This is a comic I drew for an empty space that Danni Lim needed filled for the school newsletter. In it is a plug for the new-student guide, The Red Book.

Dedicated to my idol, Senor Sergio Aragones, The King Of Marginal Thinking.

I Ride The Bus At Night

Not a deadhensons follow up, but certainly a title that would unsurprisingly wind up on an LP with a purple monster mouth open.

But I went downtown last night to meet an old friend, Gurr, to recap the last year's events. Looking out the window, under the slightest of intoxication, secretly watching my co-riders' reflection, I saw the people walking on the street, thinking, they looked a lot different from the people I saw everyday on the same bus, on the same street, in the daylight.

I came upon a single, self-telling conclusion.

This is when the freaks like me come out. The suits are gone and all that's left are the straight jackets.

Photo courtesy: www.johnlubotsky.com/ images/bus_by_night.jpg

The problem with language

is that people can speak it without knowing it.

Or maybe the problem is people are too smart for their own good.

I was sitting at a the SFJAZZ Summerfest, a free concert held in Union Square this afternoon, having randomly decided to sit and wait there while waiting for 6:30 to come. Up on stage was the Arlington Houston Quintet. As expected these talented musicians take turns doing their solos.

Okay, keep in mind while I'm recounting this that I was completely sober when I was watching. But it totally bugged me when the crowd would robotically clap after every solo.

Were the musicians blowing our minds?

Were they making us laugh with odd turnarounds or familiar hooks?

Was someone in the crowd whooping infectuously to the language of the brass...or the stand up bass...or peaking on E as they tickled the ivory?

No.

Mankind has just been puppy dog trained to be courteous. Okay, perhaps appreciative.

Here's the thing though. A society that prides itself in its predictable social niceties is grinding itself into the ground, smoothing jagged edges and wearing down distinguishing features so that no one gets hurt, and so that nobody stands out and gets the nasty look. The Evil Eye.

The last note in a sax solo (especially sax/trumpet/drum) is like a flashing APPLAUSE APPLAUSE APPLAUSE sign hanging over our heads, telling us that something is not only funny or entertaining that lauging or whooping is enough, but something is moving us with the holy spirit of performance to clap! and double our audible signs of approval.

If you prick us, do we not bleed?
If you tickle us, do we not laugh?
If you poison us, do we not die?
And if you bust out an awesome solo, shall we not ovate?

For Pop, 1938-2005

For he would truly understand.

Ah, me!

So ladies and germs, I am officially into this blogging thing. I have scoped out the necessary tools to make this a more friendly place for tourists and thrill seekers to explore, frolic, and stay. If that plug doesn't get them through the proverbial door, then I'll start to promise money.

I figure it will start to happen anyway. I'm not aware that blogspot.com has any sort of spyware, but I just registered on myspace yesterday so I could view Angie's ...space, and I get an email from Aida asking if I had an account with myspace!?

Aliens? Natural Born Citizens? Well well well. Look do we have here, 'ika nga (or as they say..."As They Say").

Comic Relief Muna

Munuh-munuh

SAN FRANCISCO (CG) - The Dead Hensons--the latest Muppet Show Cover Band to sweep through the town since Furry Socks With Mouths Sewn Into Them (Patent Pending). This multitalented band of 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12...no seriously, 8 players, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah! (krgzzzzzsh! boom!) has won the heart of this 70s kid.

With improvised gag lines in loving memory of Waldorf and Statler (W: There's nothing like a good Rock Band S: Yes, they were nothing like it) embedded in the most sensational inspirational celebrational Muppetational theme, songs from Sesame street --Lowercase n and the anthemic Capital I-- and of course, the flippant but complex jazz tune, Munuh-munuh, these guys were Drive, drive, driving their car of polka, funk, and soul gently down the street of creative ditties that captured generations on end that had some of the shortest attention spans in pre-adolescent history.

Two of my favorite songs played tonight were "My First Day Of School" by The Count, CTW-ASCAP

(excerpt)

(Creepy organ music begins)

The first day that I went to school yes, I remember clearly
My mummy made me leave at home the spiders I loved dearly
I felt a little sad as I walked through the classroom door,
But then I saw more children than I'd ever seen before.
"Ah ha!" I cried, "this new school will be fun
For I can count all of the children one by one"

not to mention "Ladybugs' Picnic"

They talked about the high price of furniture and rugs
And fire insurance for ladybugs
The ladybugs 12
At the ladybugs' picnic
12!

which was (of course) by Don Hadley (words) and by William Luckey (music). (Of Course)

Deep in my heart, and I know my sisTer will know this just as deeply, I wanted to hear The Alligator King, which you can hear on http://members.tripod.com/Tiny_Dancer/alligator.avi. God Bless! I'm getting goosebumps listening to it now.

(Okay, I'm not THAT old. I was born in 1979 but I had 354 days of it to enjoy as a 70s kid.)

These guys onstage though, they were a class act, with a drumming cutie who could tapdance and play the washboard, another bass playing hunny who kazooed her way to the top, the sleazy 70s beefcake who did the creepy vocals to the Nightmare Band song (he also wore a pastel plaid suitjacket and played trombone that was sprouting sunflowers, but I think only I noticed) and the rest of the band who could play the clarinet, accordion, and the banjo.

True to form, they sold their album on 7" vinyl, probably to escape royalty violations and yellow t-shits with their band name and Ernie and Bert with Groucho Marx facegear. Why that makes so much sense...I don't know.

But one thing is for certain...this is what they call the Muppet Show.

courtesies:
http://sesame-street-lyrics.wonderlyrics.com/The-First-Day-Of-School.html for The First Day of School
http://members.tripod.com/Tiny_Dancer/ladybug.html for the Ladybugs' picnic
http://pbskids.org/sesame/images/count_tunein_3.gif

James Doohan 1920-2005

"Ah've givun 'er all she's got, Cap'n."

Aye, Scotty. We hardly knew ye.

Photo courtesy:http://www.startrek.com/startrek/view/series/TOS/cast/69073.html

When Twelve Fools is Better than One

1. Love Fool - the Cardigans
2. A Fool For You (Live) - Ray Charles
3. I'm A Fool to Do Your Dirty Work - Steely Dan
4. Kissing A Fool - George Michael
5. What A Fool Believes - The Doobie Brothers
6. Lemon Tree - Fool's Garden
7. Chain Of Fools - The Commitments
8. Why Do Fools Fall In Love - Frankie Lymon and The Teenagers
9. Fool To Think - Dave Matthews
10. Victim of A Foolish Heart - Joss Stone
11. Fortunate Fool - Jack Johnson
12. The Fool On The Hill - The Beatles
13. At Last - Etta James (No Fool)

I'm glad DMB made the list and well done. I'm not the biggest fan of late, though his lyrics and breaks and turns did make some great moments awesome. This is a good song out of some failures in DMB's latest.

I'm a huge Sting fan, and I was determined to find lyrics of his including his Police days, but I guess he doesn't fancy himself a fool.

#s 3 and 5 are favorites, as well as the two songs that started the compilation, actually.

At Last, I dedicate to Jenn, who pointed me to that part of the universe that bulges and conspires generosity and abundance.

The Addictive Predictive

They call it predictive messaging. But, if it were really a supercognizant program, then why do we have to even touch our phones to get the message typed and sent?

And why isn't there predictive calling? That would sure be half a blessing. Then, I would be able to call the people that I've been putting calls to off. Like right now when I should have called Kevin, who's at the North Beach Jazz Festival. Maybe once in a while, whilst dialling the number of a girl I want to ask out, I should get a recorded message saying, "Save your saliva Carlos. She didn't pick up Sunday. She didn't pick up Monday, She didn't pick up Tuesday, and she didn't pick up yesterday. Here, call your sister. She thinks you're seceding from the family."

But I'll have to admit, there is something positively intuitive about this predictive messaging software that allows it to discover pairs of words that have synonymous relations or sybolic allegory.

Try this one for example:

Type in George Bush.

While you're typing (G)4-(E)3-(O)6- and then (R)7 the word that comes out is 'hemp'. 'Hemp'? 'Bush'?

It works. It *is* predictive.

I've seen this happen with much more precise and glaring predicting brilliance. Another example is when you're typing 'home' the word 'good' is the first to spell itself out.

I'm flabbergasted.

My Outbox

Every so often, I get moved by an idea so wonderful that *not* writing it down would be criminal. Usually, I get this wind of inspiration with the pipe variety. And so I find myself on the bus or walking in the street, tripping out on the way the world works and finding little bits of insight here and there. I would love to get these moments down for future meditation and extrapolation, but sheets of paper or pen are out of reach.

Meanwhile, the next best thing to letter-writing and keeping a correspondence with my friends and relatives is using my old Nokia. It's an old piece of junk, a hand-me-down from my sister's old Cingular wireless phone plan. A klunker as this old phone is, it will *not* go away. I've flung it across the room from bruschetta-stained fingers onto pebblewash ten feet away and into peoples' lunches to see it discharge its parts like a space shuttle going into it's third stage of burn.

But it won't die. And it won't delete my correspondences with my thumb pals or with myself. I have this outbox with dozens of little parables I pick up on the way to Kate O'Briens or waiting for the BART underground. Before my 3310 or whatever PoS model this is, I think I ought to download all these little proverbial jots, these stabs at literature. I've begun to copy my phonebook onto my computer. (Word to the wise, this will pay off later on.) It's not a hardcopy which can get lost or burn. It's on a hard drive memory disk of 80 GB which can get lost or burnt just as easily.