Menthol-Guy

A phone conversation between two retards. Still fiction. This is the continuation of Awesome’s the word, and I advise you guys to read Part I first to understand the flow and all. Just having some wordplay posts lately. Really busy.

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My Dad bought an antenna for our TV, alright. The thing is, Dad and I are such bookwhores we don’t even watch the TV anymore. A friend went here last week and Dad was all over Khalid Husseini’s Kite Runner; he was completely involved in the book that he gave a quick review of the book. Dad was telling her that he “almost cried while doing his biking rounds” and that “you could feel every emotion” while reading the book.

I couldn’t exactly picture him with a teary-eyed look while biking, his sweat mingling with his tears, his eyes narrowed, his countenance sad as he pedalled. I guffawed at the scene.

She said we were really geeks that way, considering book-reading as a vice. It’s a very good vice, not to mention that “vice” is completely unapt to be used to describe it.

–

Anyway, I was against his buying of the antenna. For one, he’s not even watching anything from the local channels (however, I don’t just prefer not to watch the local channels: I detest them). Our maid is the sole beneficiary of this latest improvement–the fact that she can watch that Koreanovela Boys Over Flowers (which I thought was a rock band hailing from Tennessee or some place) in her attic room or in the living room is unbearable.

Why Dad bought the antenna, I didn’t know. “At least it has Channels 23 and 9,” he said. He’s a recently discovered fan of UFC, which was surprising since he’s the type of Dad who didn’t own a gun or something. “Why have you chosen to buy an antenna rather than a cable subscription!” I pointed out that it doesn’t have Anthony Bourdain in it, or Mythbusters in it, or Matt Damon movies in it, or even the global weather in it (he loves it as much as I love it; don’t ask us, we don’t know why)!

Also, the antenna receives nothing but choppy reception (or maybe it’s in the network’s fault). I was watching a cooking show last night with Janice de Belen in it, at Net 25, and they were squeezing kamias and chopping cilantro, and the next thing I heard was a-o-a-la-ka-ba-na-si and all that weird-sounding choppy syllables. I couldn’t understand why Dad would buy some loser antenna.

I turned off the television. Until now, I’m finding reasons.

–

A while ago my friends and I were watching TV (!!!) and I was stunned by the commercials. “That’s funny!” I would say, and their eyes would cast a very demeaning glance, analyzing if it was sarcastic or not. “Seriously, that was long ago,” one of them said in a very gloomy mood. “Well, I don’t watch TV” would be my brief answer and it all explains everything. I don’t know much about celebrities, gameshows (there’s this new–well, for me it is–gameshow where you’d–correct me if I’m wrong; I only caught a glimpse of it–take a bet on percentage and estimates) or even the commercials (I was one of the last people who knew about the pa-Cheeseburger trend of McDonalds and I felt terrible).

They talked about this Santino guy/kid from some soap opera and I asked who he is. One said he’s from this commercial I didn’t know, then he mentioned another I stiill didn’t know, and he finally concluded my knowledge of him is a hopeless case. They also talk of a certain Pond’s endorser, a Bench model, among others.

So maybe I’m ignorant but I really don’t give a damn about models and artists and the like. It’s my choice not to be updated. It’s my choice that I’m dumb about commercials and gameshows, but reality-wise, these information can’t be very much helpful (except if I’m in a gameshow and they gave “local television shows” or “celebrities” as a category, but why would I be in a gameshow anyway?) in life at large.

Nirvana is bliss. I’ve downloaded three albums (In Utero, Bleach and Incesticide) and so far, they’re really good. All Apologies is a top favorite, though a depressing choice during my late-night soundtrips. It has this unstoppable ring on my head. Not even a day has passed yet I consider their music as something passionate, pacifying yet disturbing.

What initiated my interest with Nirvana–with the emphasis on the late Kurt Cobain–has to be attributed to a book I’ve been reading by Jessica Zafra. Twisted 7. She had written a column about Nirvana and how the greatness of the band resonated during the 90’s, how they came up discovering the alternative genre, among other worthy praises. Reading between the lines, you’d see her fondness towards the band. My eyes itched from the scarce information. Why are they revered by hundreds of thousands of people anyway? How do their music sounds like?

So I researched about Nirvana. About Kurt Cobain. How he looks like. How the band looks like. What they wear. Their albums. They’re American, for chrissake! (I thought they’re British like U2–and I don’t like U2.) Lead singer blew off his brain with a gun, committed suicide. Nothing’s noble with suicide (but I admit: I tend to think that people who committed suicide are brave; I know it’s paradoxical–some could presume they wanted to leave the world because of some insurmountable problem, maybe depression, among other things, but their damn-the-torpedo bravado must have reigned and must have decided to pull the plug and do such an irreversible thing, so I think it’s brave) but why are suicides dominant among great artistic people? Say, Ernest Hemingway! Sylvia Plath!

I guess they have their own reasons, fine, but why, of all people?

Well, Kurt Cobain did it. What saddens me the most is the fact that I’ve come to appreciate his band’s music (which was only yesterday) long after his death. He shot himself in 1994. I was three years old, sitting on a bean bag reading My Big Big Book Of The World or something. All I remember was my brotha’s music of Bone Thugz N’ Harmony like break-it-down-ya’ll. No Nirvana, no nothing about rock.

It was such a hypocrite of me to even hail other alternative bands without listening to Nirvana. I think it’s hypocrite the way you might think of people liking… spaghetti without liking Italy (though pointless arguments say that spaghetti was first made in China–the name Marco Polo popped in my head, so maybe he’s related).

My roommate–who’s interest is of band profiles, specifically the personalities behind a band (say, Escape the Fate’s former vocals was jailed due to drug use–he knows those things by heart; we tune on the same wavelength, by the way)–has been telling me things about Nirvana ever since we’ve met. He was telling me that they coined the term “alternative”, that they have this concert hosted by MTV and they got rude and all–these are among other trivial facts he could share–but I simply shrugged it off.

Back then I thought: Who cares!?

Oh, sometimes you’d rather exchange your knowledge of Westlife during your boyhood with your current knowledge with Nirvana. Maybe you’d be tougher (though the more I think of their songs, it hits you in your weak spots), or maybe cooler. But whatever. The thing is, I’m loving Nirvana.

Quoting Chuck Palahniuk, “Our goal in life is not to live forever, but to create something that will.” Without any doubt Kurt Cobain has achieved that–big time.

“So what are your plans?”
“Oh, I’ll be visiting my grandmother.” Then I hesitantly added, “…She’s an American citizen, alright.”
“Where ex–”
“Mountain View. I’ll be visiting her for Christmas.”

I will be expecting this huge American Customs representative to fill the gaps of silence with conversational sentences, but they’re snob like that. Homeland Security, fine. I’m not a suicide bomber.

“Now look at this webcam for a moment, we’ll take a snapshot of you.”
“Put your left thumb here on the device.”
“Next, put your right thumb.”

“Welcome to San Francisco International Airport,” while giving my passport back. “Enjoy your stay.” He would say this without any hint of emotion. His tone might not even be mechanical; his words will be airless, intentionally flung not to be suggestive of anything.

Perhaps the time then will be around 8:30 in the evening. My other plane ticket is in my pocket. 10 PM. United. As usual, I will brace myself for ten, twenty minutes of security. I need to untie your shoes, put them in a tray. Jewelries: watch, bracelets. Laptop checking: sometimes they turn it on, sometimes not. I have to load my travelling backpack–the kind usually worn by Amazing Race contestants–in some device for X-Ray and all. Plus my suitcase.

Then I will be reading some random book while waiting for the flight. Probably Delano by John Gregory Dunne. If unfortunately distressed with where to find the gate, I need to find the concierge or a customer assistance counter.

“Excuse me, where is, uhh, Gate 9B?”
“You have to get to that escalator upstairs, then you’ll see signs there. Gates 9-11.”
“Thanks.”

This is ridiculous. Traveling alone is not my thing, I would say. It isn’t exactly a xenophobic case; it’s more of a foreigner-intimidation case–particularly Americans. Once I was in a Continental flight and the guy sitting besides me have only eaten the carrots in the salad. He munches it in perfect satisfaction. He didn’t touch the dressing, the lettuce leaves and all other vegetable assorments, just the carrots. I wasn’t scared or anything but I find it peculiar. Carrot-munching isn’t my thing.

The voice overhead would speak in very fast English I couldn’t comprehend. “G’morning this is Jane Doe I’m speakin’half of the Cont’nental crew, please fast’n seatbelts get ready for take-off.”

It will happen this December. A very special Christmas visit I’ll make. I’ll wear winter clothes and traipse the streets of Manhattan with Mom, probably eating a pizza someplace, taking pictures of three-feet snow and her galoshes and all. I’ll kiss my niece, Gabbi, in the forehead. I’ll cook the spiciest Tika Masala and Mapo Tofu madly sprinkled with Szechuan peppercorns. I’ll watch movies with my sisters. We’ll have turkey and mashed potato in Christmas night and I’ll be bloated enough to ask for medicine against impacho.

Gabbi once told me during the withering days of my summer stay in New York, “I want you to stay, Ninong. I really want to. You’re like a brother to me.” I winced. It felt sweet and sincere. I cried for two minutes upstairs, in my room, seriously, just because it felt goddamn sweet. It seared and penetrated deep within me. I felt like the rebellious Holden and she’s Phoebe. Catcher in the Rye. Next time I’ll ask her where the goddam ducks go during winter when the lake freezes and all. Maybe she knows the answer by heart.