26 May 2008
Shit Jr.
Thing is, a favorite TV show says, there are some things people refuse to admit because they don’t like the way they sound. Like, “Monday.” Or, “Payday’s still a year away.”
Or, “I have neighbors.”
I spoke too soon. Just when I thought our 10,001 BC-native neighbors had finally shut up after sensing the world’s—my—utter loathing towards their barbaric 24/7 sound-making of brawls, pot sessions and sex talks, no shit, here comes the evolution: the kids. Apparently, while the adults were staging unnerving aerobics sessions to the tune of Barney’s in the morning, dreadful videoke rounds in the afternoon and absolutely pathetic drunken fights till the next aerobics crap, the fledglings were watching attentively, taking notes and learning the ropes and some. Now their Day has finally arrived.
I know I should blame it on raging hormones, but an all-out “band” practice at 1AM? Shouldn’t they be in the dark masturbating or making out or something? And why is it always Parokya Ni Edgar? Well I guess I should be extremely grateful it’s not Hannah Montana they’re humming out but come on—ONE A-M? By the front gate? THREE INCHES FROM MY ROOM WINDOW??
In high school I was also a Parokya fan. Although my thoughts of Chito usually involved me resting in his arms after a concert or us exchanging green jokes over cocaine. The band’s songs are like the local, less dramatic-but-still enjoyable versions of Maroon 5’s or Daughtry’s. Or straight versions of Kylie Minogue’s. The songs are closer to the heart, because of the language used, and as one who spent some teen years tapping desks to PNE’s beats, I kind-of-understand how today’s pubescents get mesmerized and think of nothing else but singing Buloy and feel astig.
Except when they pound drum sets and endlessly set up electric guitars—and yelling “Tara, inom tayo (Let’s get drunk like our grandpas)!” every 5 minutes—from midnight till the first rooster sings. And yes, the sex talk is there as well.
The kids are taking over. I’ve to wait 7 years for my plans to be non-child battery.
Or, “I have neighbors.”
I spoke too soon. Just when I thought our 10,001 BC-native neighbors had finally shut up after sensing the world’s—my—utter loathing towards their barbaric 24/7 sound-making of brawls, pot sessions and sex talks, no shit, here comes the evolution: the kids. Apparently, while the adults were staging unnerving aerobics sessions to the tune of Barney’s in the morning, dreadful videoke rounds in the afternoon and absolutely pathetic drunken fights till the next aerobics crap, the fledglings were watching attentively, taking notes and learning the ropes and some. Now their Day has finally arrived.
I know I should blame it on raging hormones, but an all-out “band” practice at 1AM? Shouldn’t they be in the dark masturbating or making out or something? And why is it always Parokya Ni Edgar? Well I guess I should be extremely grateful it’s not Hannah Montana they’re humming out but come on—ONE A-M? By the front gate? THREE INCHES FROM MY ROOM WINDOW??
In high school I was also a Parokya fan. Although my thoughts of Chito usually involved me resting in his arms after a concert or us exchanging green jokes over cocaine. The band’s songs are like the local, less dramatic-but-still enjoyable versions of Maroon 5’s or Daughtry’s. Or straight versions of Kylie Minogue’s. The songs are closer to the heart, because of the language used, and as one who spent some teen years tapping desks to PNE’s beats, I kind-of-understand how today’s pubescents get mesmerized and think of nothing else but singing Buloy and feel astig.
Except when they pound drum sets and endlessly set up electric guitars—and yelling “Tara, inom tayo (Let’s get drunk like our grandpas)!” every 5 minutes—from midnight till the first rooster sings. And yes, the sex talk is there as well.
The kids are taking over. I’ve to wait 7 years for my plans to be non-child battery.
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