Archipelago of my affections

This wretched blog has been in a coma for the last three months. Can't say I've been a busy mum, because there are women far busier than myself who blog daily. While busy certainly comes into it, so does distracted, uninspired, undisciplined and most of all, lazy. That's it, mostly. Lazy.

I've lived in Belgium for 23 years and have Belgian nationality. But there's little doubt that my heart's home will always be the Philippines, the archipelago of my affections. I still call those 7,107 islands home even if my last visit was 6 years ago, and a shaky bank balance reminds me that the next visit is far off. I call it home, though I regularly feel desperate and angry about how things are over there: the grinding poverty, the natural disasters, the Catholic church's continuing ban on birth control which is criminally irresponsible given the country's population of 97 million with a growth rate of almost 2%, the shocking corruption of politicians from the President on down, the malaise of the educational system, the non-existence of healthcare, the utter disregard for the environment - the dumping of garbage everywhere, unchecked urban sprawl, the rape of coral reefs and pillage of old growth forests, the unquestioned sway of the West, particularly America, on Philippine culture, and the consumerism that shouts from billboards and gropes pinched pocketbooks in sprawling malls. It shocks me that rich friends think nothing of giving a 9 year old child a 3G iPhone or buying their daughter a $6,000 Louis Vuitton handbag for her 16th birthday, while people who've lost everything in recent floods huddle in shanties closeby. And it saddens me that families spend less time enjoying healthy, home-cooked meals together in favour of eating junk-laden burgers and drinking soulless caramel brulee lattes at Starbucks cafes which have sprouted like a rash all over the place.

Living half a world away and railing about the pitiable state of my homeland does not help much. At most it brings me fleeting relief from frustration which lasts five minutes, if that. In a feeble, angsty First World way, I wring my hands and commiserate with the plight of my fellow Filipinos, for all the good it does them or me. I can get really hot under the collar or feel righteous or shouty or guilty; often all those things all at once. Powerlessness - seeing it in others, and feeling it in myself - is hard.

The joy of seeing comes from being aware that life brings its own little corrections to any given situation, if I take the time to look beyond myself and my overblown judgements.

I came upon this beautiful gem of a video yesterday, and found it starkly moving. It was directed by the artist-activist Mae Paner and shot by Boy Yñiguez, a first rate cinematographer who also happens to be a dear friend. The small group that made it worked for free and produced it themselves. Sadly, there have been no takers for this video among cinemas and TV stations back home because it doesn't have any famous actors or politicians in it. Shame on them. If you like it, please share it with others.

It is simply about a poor boy who finds a paper Philippine flag in the dirt, dusts it off and climbs up an abandoned flagpole with it. The song in the background is the Lupang Hinirang, our national anthem, delivered with sparkling dignity by a children's choir instead of the orchestral bombast that usually accompanies it. That is all. And yet. It gave me pause and made me cry. Everything I love about my country IS in that boy - in the purchase of bare toes on slippery metal, in his unflinching ascent, in the shy smile of victory he allows himself when he reaches the top. He is golden like the morning.

A Brave and Startling Truth

I have always loved this poem by Maya Angelou. In light of recent events both personal and global, its meaning resonates ever more deeply. Maya Angelou was rushed to hospital in Los Angeles yesterday evening. Maya, beloved lioness of my heart, may you make a successful recovery, or find serene passage.



A Brave and Startling Truth 
by Maya Angelou  (1928 -  )


We, this people, on a small and lonely planet
Traveling through casual space
Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns
To a destination where all signs tell us
It is possible and imperative that we learn
A brave and startling truth

And when we come to it
To the day of peacemaking
When we release our fingers
From fists of hostility
And allow the pure air to cool our palms

When we come to it
When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate
And faces sooted with scorn and scrubbed clean
When battlefields and coliseum
No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters
Up with the bruised and bloody grass
To lie in identical plots in foreign soil

When the rapacious storming of the churches
The screaming racket in the temples have ceased
When the pennants are waving gaily
When the banners of the world tremble
Stoutly in the good, clean breeze

When we come to it
When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders
And children dress their dolls in flags of truce
When land mines of death have been removed
And the aged can walk into evenings of peace
When religious ritual is not perfumed
By the incense of burning flesh
And childhood dreams are not kicked awake
By nightmares of abuse

When we come to it
Then we will confess that not the Pyramids
With their stones set in mysterious perfection
Nor the Gardens of Babylon
Hanging as eternal beauty
In our collective memory
Not the Grand Canyon
Kindled into delicious color
By Western sunsets

Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe
Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji
Stretching to the Rising Sun
Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor,
Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores
These are not the only wonders of the world

When we come to it
We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe
Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger
Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace
We, this people on this mote of matter
In whose mouths abide cankerous words
Which challenge our very existence
Yet out of those same mouths
Come songs of such exquisite sweetness
That the heart falters in its labor
And the body is quieted into awe

We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
And the proud back is glad to bend
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines

When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear

When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.

..... and I think I've got problems?

Skunk lost his job yesterday. When he got home he told us that the company where he's worked for twenty years no longer needs his services, effective immediately. Yes, just like that. When someone delivers bad news in real time, my senses go into slow motion, my mind blanks and a leaden fear seeps into my bones and settles into a hard, immovable knot in my stomach. That's how it felt when he broke the news yesterday. Noodle, crying a little, said, "Oh well, at least we'll have more time to play board games together." This, from a boy who's never liked board games. Legs began to jabber about mundane things that made sense only to her. We clutched each other for solace and muttered clichéd things that were so lame they fooled no one. Then I fled to the kitchen to choke back tears. I washed dishes that didn't need washing, and then cooked the most dreadful soup of my life. Cream of sludge with cremated bacon, I think. It was vile.

It's morning. I'm clear-headed despite the reckless quantites of vodka and red wine I drank last night. Legs and Noodle are in school. Skunk's gone to the office one last time, to tie up loose ends and wish his colleagues well, including the bastard who fired him, because that's just the kind of person Skunk is. The house is quiet and I'm finally alone. I've wallowed in the luxury of an outraged, self-pitying weep. I needed to. At least a dozen tissues' worth of tears, snot and seething frustration. My bag lady demons are back. Their talons are scritching at the door, they're cackling to be let in. They lie in wait for moments such as these. One wags a bony finger and sniggers that we have no savings. Bitch. As if I needed reminding. Another hisses in my ear that neither Skunk or I will ever find work again, that the fantastic company-sponsored health care and pension package we've enjoyed will dry up and we will grow ill and hungry and poor and end up on the street, that our children will stop loving us because we won't be able to give them the holidays and cool teenage stuff their friends enjoy.

Fuck off, demons. I know you too well. You're not going to win this time.

* * * * * * * 

In other news, people continue to suffer in my beloved homeland. An extreme typhoon packing winds of 220 to 240 kph is headed for the northeastern part of the Philippines and is expected to make landfall sometime tomorrow. The death toll from last week's floods in Manila and neighbouring provinces is approaching 300, with many more unaccounted for. Official figures put the number of homeless at half a million people, although friends actively involved in relief work believe it's much higher than that. Evacuation centres are full to bursting, there simply isn't enough food, water, medicine, blankets or shelter to go around. Cleanup crews are burning out. Peace and order is beginning to fray. While her countrymen drown and starve, Philippine President Gloria Arroyo parties with her sycophants. So many people have lost every single thing they have, and she parties.

All Skunk has lost is a job. I must remember that. I must remember that.

These 3 photos of the flooding in Manila were sent to me by a friend.  Photographer/s unknown.

 

Click on the individual photos to see them in more appalling detail, if you wish.

Music: CPR for the heartstrings

Music heals and redeems. Not just emotionally but also - to my great delight - physically.

The other morning I stupidly got all hot and bothered about Sarah Palin's latest idiocy regarding health care. In need of a Palinoscopy, I listened to music. Later on Twitter I posted a link to that piece called "Stabat Mater" by the Estonian composer Arvo Pärt that had somehow calmed me right down. Someone whose tweets I enjoy made this comment on my post: "What a beautiful piece of music. The human voice has such healing properties - it teases out sadness and restores the soul." I couldn't agree more. We tweeted back and forth about it for a bit, and it led me to this blog post.

I've been fascinated to learn through my study of Jin Shin Jyutsu that sound is the one thing that harmonises our endocrine system. Apparently, the ancients knew this. An endocrinologist has confirmed it to me as well, but the whys and wherefores are too complicated for me to understand fully, let alone explain to someone else. The endocrine system regulates stuff like our metabolism, growth, puberty and tissue function. It controls our hormones and helps determine our moods. Diabetes, thyroid disease, obesity, and heart disease are all disharmonies of the endocrine system. Cancers of the breast, liver, pancreas, kidneys and ovaries are also endocrine-related. I've finally stopped wondering why teenagers seem to be surgically attached to their iPods 24/7, or why hormonal people (not just women, mind) go all wobbly when they listen to certain music. Or why the laments of wolves or the callings of humpback whales touch something elemental in each of us. It all makes sense to me now.

The novelty of learning to embed a YouTube video on my blog hasn't worn off. This is how pathetically amateurish I am when it comes to tech stuff, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Feel free to roll your eyes up at my ineptitude, but I bet not many of you can make a killer Peking duck from scratch either. So we're even.

I LOVE this version of "Deja Vu." David Crosby originally wrote it for the first album (of the same name) that his group Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young released in 1970. That was almost forty years ago. In this video, filmed near Amsterdam in the late 1990s, Crosby performs it with his new group CPR, and there's a beautiful story behind it. The video is 10 minutes long, and I urge you to watch it full screen with the volume up. It may be the happiest 10 minutes you'll spend online today.





David Crosby enjoyed great success as a founding member of 2 pioneering rock bands, The Byrds, and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. However, a turbulent personal life ravaged by drugs and alcohol took its toll on his career, health and relationships. Destructive behaviour led to his estrangement from many of his fellow musicians and friends. There was a term in prison for drugs charges. He eventually found sobriety but continued to face grave financial troubles and suffered a near fatal motorcycle accident. An earthquake caused major damage to his lovingly restored home, which he later lost through foreclosure. On top of all that, Crosby's years of substance abuse and an undiagnosed case of Hepatitis C led to serious liver damage. In 1995, he was hospitalised with deteriorating health and unless a suitable liver donor could be found in time, he faced certain death.

What happened next can only be described as the most joyous synchronicity. An eleventh hour liver donor miraculously became available to Crosby, and the transplant was successful. Around the same time, a gifted 30 year old pianist and composer named James Raymond discovered through a search of his birth records that David Crosby was his biological father. Father and son were reunited. They discovered their blood ties forged even deeper by a common love of music. This serendipitous union led to the birth of Crosby's new group CPR with papa Crosby on guitar, James Raymond, his son, on keyboards, and guitarist Jeff Pevar on electric guitar. Crosby's biography also states, "In this same short season of miracles, Crosby and his wife gave birth to a son, Django, and James and Stacia Raymond presented Crosby with a new granddaughter, Grace." Wow. Even Dickens couldn't make this stuff up.

Croz is as wonderful as ever in this video. His eyes have the light of serenity I've seen only in people who've made it through the fire. Watch out specially for the tender look of love and fatherly pride on Crosby's face as he looks at his son at 5:57 and 6:17 in the video clip. At 6:17 he taps his left breast with his fist, right over the space where his heart lies.

In Jin Shin Jyutsu, that exact spot is Safety Energy Lock 13. It is the place that unconditional love and forgiveness call home.

Bad Mama

My friend Pat gave me this very nice but slightly rude t-shirt from a Belgian rock 'n roll band she's friends with. I showed it to Legs and Noodle and told them I was planning on wearing it when I take them to their first day of school next Tuesday.

No. Not really.


The horrified looks on my children's faces made my day. I just can't help myself sometimes.

Fred Astaire equals Joy

Fred Astaire stole my heart when I was seven. My grandmother bribed me with a large bag of M&Ms to accompany her to a double feature of "Top Hat" and "Shall We Dance." I could not believe it was possible for two people to move so effortlessly and with so much joy. I watched goggle-eyed, my head flooding with questions. How did they do all that without missing a beat? How did Fred avoid tripping on Ginger's gown? How did she leap and twirl in those heels without twisting her ankle? Why didn't men dress that way anymore? How many years of ballet lessons - which I loathed - would it take for me to be able to dance that way? Listening to Lola sigh through all the dance sequences, I worried she was going to fall into a swoon and embarrass me. She needed a large Manhattan to revive her after the film and let me have a sip of her drink on the condition that I not tell my grandfather or my mother. That was the beginning of my love affair with Manhattans too.

Who can watch this video and not be gladdened by it? Not me. Do turn up the volume and view it full screen. The Vienna-based duo dZihan & Kamien's downtempo beat on "Stiff Jazz" from their album "Gran Riserva" provides the perfect backdrop to Fred Astaire and Ginger Roger's dazzling footwork. However, I think that it might be Astaire's sister Adele with him in some of the dance sequences, although I could be wrong.

No matter, it's all very uplifting. Especially on days when Facebook is littered with the irritating flotsam of Mafia Wars scores and quiz results of addle-pated friends in their 40s or older who are hell-bent on informing me that they have nothing better to do with their lives apart from using sundry Facebook applications as a monumental time-suck. Friend's sample quiz: What Chocolate Are You? Result: Mars bar. Me: Mars bars are NOT chocolate, you pathetic, muttonheaded galoot.

All right, I'll stop grumping about Facebook lameness now and look at this again. Ah, if only I had the fixings for a Manhattan.




My thanks to the clever person who put these film clips and this music together, and to my lovely friend Mnemosyne who patiently explained how I could embed this video onto my blog.

To live as flame

It all began with this picture. It was sent to me by my photographer friend Lito Tesoro who took it at the Los Angeles Arboretum. He said it reminded him of my mum Daisy. It is the most beautiful photograph I have seen of a daisy, ever. Click on the image to see it in all its glory, and you'll see what I mean. On July 19, the anniversary of my mother's death, I posted it on my Facebook Wall together with this poem by Mary Oliver, one of my all-time favourite poems.

DAISIES
by Mary Oliver

It is possible, I suppose that sometime
we will learn everything
there is to learn: what the world is, for example,
and what it means. I think this as I am crossing
from one field to another, in summer, and the
mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either
knows enough already or knows enough to be
perfectly content not knowing. Song being born
of quest he knows this: he must turn silent
were he suddenly assaulted with answers. Instead

oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly
unanswered. At my feet the white-petalled daisies display
the small suns of their center piece, their -- if you don't
mind my saying so -- their hearts. Of course
I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and
narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know?
But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;
for example -- I think this
as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch --
the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the
daisies for the field.

After seeing that, another dear friend, the poet Luisa Igloria left this response to the Mary Oliver poem on my Wall.

(after Mary Oliver's "Daisies")

But if, then, we knew
everything there was to learn,
neither the mockingbird nor the field
overgrown with daisies would move us;
not the sun that sears overhead
in summer, nor its other tokens
that we carry into the year's
different seasons, reminding us
of loss. Having crossed
from hour to laborious hour,
neither do I know what the world is
nor what it might yet be; only
that for the moment it is sweet
to live as flame, to touch and
taste and turn one's face to another's,
grateful for the company.

by Luisa A. Igloria, 19 July 2009

In the Facebook conversation that unfurled, it turned out that Luisa and Lito knew each other decades ago but lost touch. It was a joyous reunion for the two of them. The daisy chain had worked its magic yet again.

A Flower Falls

the petal fell, falling
until the only flower was the falling itself.

from "Water" by Pablo Neruda

My mother Daisy was killed 19 years ago in a powerful 7.7 magnitude earthquake that trampled Baguio, my hometown in the northern Philippines. She was just 50. I was already living in Belgium at the time, and returned home to bury not only the woman who had given life to me, but also large chunks of my former life.

Mama (seated) and me, circa 1983

photo by Wig Tysmans

Much of Baguio was in ruins. The airport runway and all major roads leading to that mountaintop city were heavily damaged, hindering rescue efforts because heavy-lifting equipment and essential supplies could not arrive. The city's 3 hospitals were badly hit and without power. There was no electricity or running water for weeks. All telephone lines were down. This being before the advent of the internet or mobile phones, Baguio was essentially cut off from the rest of the world. The sickly-sweet stench of decomposing flesh was everywhere; that smell still clings tightly to my memory. Crushing as our loss was, we were some of the lucky ones. Mama's was the second body recovered from the rubble of the Hyatt Terraces hotel, where she lived in an 8th floor apartment with Heiner, my German hotelier stepfather who was the hotel's general manager. Many others were not as fortunate. They waited days, weeks, even months before the bodies of their loved ones were recovered. Still others lost their homes. A cousin and a poet friend lost brand new homes into which they had invested all their life savings and unlived dreams.

Grief unhinged me in odd ways. I remember nothing of my hurried trip home or indeed the return journey to Brussels, except that I amassed a collection of 21 Lufthansa coffee spoons which I apparently stole whilst in flight. I had not dabbled in petty theft as a pastime before that. Nor have I taken it up since. Severe insomnia emerged as a more serious side effect of my loss. It dogged me mercilessly for 18 years until Jin Shin Jyutsu released me from its stranglehold last year.

I have only vague memories of Mama's wake in my grandparents' house. Lolo, my grandfather, bore the loss of his firstborn child with great dignity, losing his composure only once to roar at the cups and saucers (which, bizarrely, remained unscathed) in my grandmother's china cupboard, and ask why God couldn't have taken him, an old man, instead. Lola, my grandmother, was the reverse. She crumbled frequently, often surrendering melodramatically to the pain of her bereavement. Lola's blood pressure rocketed off the scales, demented as she was by grief, and yet frantic that all our visitors be welcomed and properly fed. Lola's younger sister, a doctor, occasionally had to sedate her with Valium to stop her from becoming too overwrought when relatives and friends came to call in the afternoons and evenings.

Most heartrending of all was watching my stepfather Heiner soldier on. Although devasted by his wife's death, he was very conscientious of his duties to his hotel, his fallen ship, where over 50 hotel guests and employees had died. None of us could imagine what it must have been like for one person to become homeless, jobless and a widower all at once and, against the most hellish odds, find ways to rescue others who lay trapped alive in the rubble. Although his corporate bosses told him to take time off, he refused to hear of it. Heiner remained on site to supervise the rescue and recovery effort until the last body had been found. He also stayed on to oversee the demolition of the hotel, a process that took months. Natural disasters create heroes; he was mine and always will be.

Noemi, a feisty young woman who worked as our cook for many years before leaving to start a family with our driver Romy, astounded us when she showed up a few days before Mama's funeral. Her wraith-like form appeared at the kitchen door one sodden afternoon, hungry, bedraggled and shoeless. She had walked alone for three days up a mountain entombed in shock, fog and landslides to pay her last respects to my mother. Until then, I thought I knew what loyalty meant. Noemi's unexpected arrival redefined it for me. After a wash, first aid for her wounded feet, and a long nap, she threw herself into cooking and cleaning and organised the rest of the help who were walking around in a daze like the rest of us.

Of the funeral itself I have scant recollection. We were astonished at the number of people who showed up at the cemetery, a considerable distance outside the city. It was difficult for anyone to get around because many roads were impassable, and strict petrol rationing kept people housebound save for vital journeys. In post-earthquake Baguio, the social obligation to attend other people's funerals was no longer considered compulsory. Besides, with so many dead, how did one prioritise whose funeral to attend?

At Mama's funeral, strangers clasped my hands in theirs and spoke of her kindness to them: a seminarian she had sent to theological school, hotel staff whose children's birthdays she never forgot, a struggling painter whose work she sold without taking a commission, a flower seller whose ailing mother she used to visit. Even in death our Daisy continued to bloom. As the hearse containing her coffin drew close to her burial plot, a tremendous aftershock shook the ground. From behind a large rock close to where I stood emerged an enormous cloud of white butterflies. I shivered as their wings brushed against me. In that instant, I remembered that Mama had loved butterflies and bees. She had always filled her garden with plants that attracted them; she'd watch them for hours. She often said the simple white butterflies symbolised her best. Suddenly, there they were. It was a moment of sublime synchronicity that thrilled my heart and my imagination.

After the funeral was over, the heavens opened and torrential rain came down thick as stair rods. My grandmother finally collapsed, wailing that her daughter would be soaked. The fact that my mother was dead and buried in a coffin six feet in the ground meant nothing to Lola. She could not be consoled. I held my grandmother's prostrate body in my arms, neither of us able to fully comprehend the loss of the woman who bound us together with a chain of kinship, history and love.

Only then did I remember it was my birthday. The day the earth claimed my mother a second time, I turned thirty.

Neurosceptic Unblogged: Stapled To My Seat Watching Funeralapalooza

A brilliant, scathing and very funny review of the TV coverage of Jacko's memorial service can be found here:

Neurosceptic Unblogged: Stapled To My Seat Watching Funeralapalooza

Highly recommended!

OFF THE WALL: The Night The Gloves Came Off (a Facebook good-bye to Michael Jackson)

Because I tend to do most things arse-backwards, this post is a retroactive tribute to Michael Jackson, who died sometime last week, or was it the week before? Celebs tend to irritate me, so I don't follow them on the news. But it was impossible not to know that the King of Pop had popped his clogs. Hearing the news while I was at my Jin Shin Jyutsu class in Ireland, I shrugged and said a prayer for his soul. And idly wondered whether his record label had engineered his death to boost sagging record sales. With all the extremes Jacko had put his body through - it being no secret that he was plastic-surgeried, botoxed and over-medicated to hell and back - I often thought he was headed for an early grave.

Common sense tells me that if we don't love ourselves, our bodies respond in kind. This has nothing to do with looking buffed and coiffed, or wearing designer labels, for most of that is vanity, and vanity is not love; it is fear. I'm talking about simply accepting ourselves, respecting ourselves, and being grateful each day for the miracle of our bodies and our minds. I had to make peace with my chins, my gray hair and all my love handles before I could write any of that. It wasn't easy, but it was necessary.

So anyway, there was no escaping the hype around Jacko's death, even without a TV at home. It was all over the bloody web. I tried to ignore the noise made about him on Facebook, although some of it was getting altogether too melodramatic for my taste. I mean, these people don't even make that much fuss when their own grannies croak. From a previous post, you all know about my allergy to gushy people, so it's no surprise that I don't suffer the maudlin ones gladly either. It all came to a head on Monday when I read somewhere that the Rev. Al Sharpton, that slimy opportunist, was calling for nationwide ‘love vigils’ to honor Michael Jackson on Tuesday, the day of his funeral and memorial service. Love vigils?? For that kiddie fondler and inter-galactic wanker? Pass me the bucket, quick.

In typical low-key, diplomatic fashion, I wrote a status post on my Facebook profile the day before Jacko's memorial service. Having vented my annoyance at the tawdry public reaction to Jacko's death, I thought nothing more of it and got up to cook dinner. I did not forsee the Sturm und Drang that would break out on my Facebook Wall later in the day.

The responses to my post were humorous and light-hearted until V.Rago, an old but not close friend from my party animal youth back in the Philippines, jumped in. I still have no idea why she reacted with such splenetic fury to what I or the others had to say. Especially as she claimed she wasn't a big MJ fan. I'm offering the whole nine yards here for your horror and/or amusement. Names have been changed to protect the guilty and the innocent. All comments are unedited.

My Facebook status post on Mon, July 6 at 18:20 was this:

"Megatonlove is fucking fed up with the deification of the sick, over-spending pervert that was Michael Jackson. Can they please incinerate him already, and throw Rev. Al Sharpton in the flames as well. Thanks."

And these are the 31 comments that followed. [The annotations in blue are my opinions alone.]

Non-linear Tippler at 18:29 on 06 July
They have to perform ze alien autopsy first 'no?

Latin Cowboy at 18:44 on 06 July
You're back! :)

Mojito Lizard at 18:48 on 06 July
They're selling tickets to his memorial. Holy mother of crap.

Latin Cowboy at 18:55 on 06 July
How much for a backstage pass?

Auntie Bellum at 18:55 on 06 July
"Fantasy Suttee Couples" - now there's a thought!

Babyface at 19:11 on 06 July
Wow, finally someone I can relate with.

ZeusJoos at 19:12 on 06 July
DAMN GIRL, I LOVE YOUR PASSION & I TOTALLY AGREE!!!

[It began here.]

V.Rago at 21:53 on 06 July
Oh come on, Megatonlove. Have a heart. I was never really a fan but the guy was a genius, a visionary. He changed the video music/concert scene and turned into an experience. Yes, he was a troubled child, and I feel sorry that despite world-wide adulation, he could never get over the verbal abuse of not being good-looking enough to be loved (and his father ought to be crucified for that) which brought him to his sad end. What I can't stand is the dredging up of all the crap. Let the man rest in peace.

[Apologists for sick celebs make my bullshit meter twitch, especially when they throw the "it's not his fault he's weird, he had a rotten childhood" spiel at me. If Jackson found himself inadequate despite global adulation, he wasn't a victim, he was a miserable twat as far as I was concerned. I fired off a reply to V.Rago and left Facebook to study my Jin Shin Jyutsu notes for a few hours before going to bed.]

Megatonlove at 22:54 on 06 July
MJ was a great dancer and an okay singer, but the rest of his package was just plain rotten. And he was MORE than just a troubled child, he was a repulsive pedophile who got away with everything because he could buy his way out of trouble. I wish people would stop making excuses for him, or glorifying him as some kind of godhead. What Jacko modelled to his fans - that happiness could be obtained through the point of a scalpel, a bowl of pills and powders, or the flick of a credit card - was just sick bollocks. Too bad he died so young, but he had it coming.

[During my absence from Facebook, other comments arrived.]

Latin Cowboy at 23:19 on 06 July
I'd have to agree with you Megatonlove, he was over rated. If he had grown up with a semi-ordinary kind of life he might have grown in to something much better, but like Elvis before him his early promise was corrupted in to a mockery of himself and then raised to godhead by by crazed masses. They both were more than willing to believe the hype about themselves.

[The temperature began to rise right around here.]

V.Rago at 23:29 on 06 July
I don't quite agree with the pedophile thing-- a lot of those boys' parents were after his money. (Have YOU caught him in bed molesting a child? Do you believe all the scandal sheets?) I know some people who have been sued-- all lies -- just because they have money and a name to protect. I believe MJ was just trying to get in touch with the childhood he missed out on. Call me naive, but I'd rather be non-judgmental. And I don't think people are glorifying him as some godhead-- just paying him the accolades (albeit delayed, because everyone seemed to prefer to trash him) he justly deserves for his accomplishments. No one is perfect. Even Mother Teresa farted. But let's just agree to disagree on this one, shall we? I honestly don't know where your need to vilify him is coming from. What's he done to you? Pills? Addiction to the scalpel? He didn't start that. Might as well spray your vitriol at all the people in Hollywood--- or closer to home. Peace.

[Another reasonable person chimed in.]

ZeusJoos at 23:52 on 06 July
I agree with Meg & watch now if people don't come forward & tell the truth about MJ's pedophilia; especially the victims themselves. He ADMITTED THAT HE LIKED SLEEPING WITH YOUNG CHILDREN, that's pretty damned telling, don't 'cha think? This circus of an all-day wake tomorrow on tuesday is total bollocks.

[Uh-oh, getting irate now.]

V.Rago at 23:58 on 06 July
I like sleeping with children-- mine! I just hope you guys don't get as badly trashed as you do others. Who the hell are you to judge? What gives you the right? Enough said.

[Nothing cracks me up more than judgmental people ordering others not to judge.]  

V.Rago at 00:04 on 07 July
And NO! ZeusJoos! That isn't pretty damn telling-- unless you have a sick mind.

[Guess she didn't really mean it when she said "Enough said."]

V.Rago at 00:37 on 07 July
And Latin Cowboy, Just what the hell do you preach? Hatred? Get off your damn pulpit! Or admit you're a hypocrite.

[Hatred? Pulpit? Hypocrite? Yo, V.Rago, you're peeing against the wrong tree here. Latin Cowboy is one of the most peaceable people I know.]

ZeusJoos at 00:44 on 07 July
V.Rago,
I work with men & women who have been sexually molested as children & let me tell you the baggage is HORRIFIC. The damage is unspeakable & seems to have physiological ramifications, not to mention the emotional damage.

Auntie Bellum at 00:49 on 07 July
Abused kids (as he allegedly was) very often become abusers (though it has not yet been proved that he was one - the Daily Mail opinion column is not conclusive enough for me - ), and from way over here I've always thought the parents who encouraged their kids to hang out with an ageing and seriously weird pop star in the evident hope of material benefits seem even more pre-meditatedly wicked than the clearly sick MJ. Really I doubt if there are any nice people in the whole sorry tale.
Re: the wake - seems to me we waste a lot of flowers and candles mourning complete strangers these days. Mass grief is a modern night out. It's just some old gig - though I grant a real live decomposing stiff on stage beats lasers!!! :-)

[Well said, Auntie Bellum!]


V.Rago at 00:56 on 07 July
ZeusJoos, that still doesn't give you the right to abuse the abused. Especially when they can no longer speak for themselves. All this is making me sad. Can't believe there are people like you out there. All I'm saying is, let the poor man be. Why throw shit at him? Are you all clean? I have had enough of this sick discussion. Sad, sad, sad.

[Tee hee, no prizes for guessing who needed to get off the pulpit!]

ZeusJoos at 01:14 on 07 July
People like me? You don't fucking know me, the work I do, my mind-set. "The poor man"? You need to wake up lady. Just another case of blaming the victim.
Well V.Rago, then just exit stage left - you have the right to deify any monster that you choose. I worked in the record business for decades & was privy to private info regarding various intimate details 'bout musicians-wow talk about some troubled folks.... I am no angel, but I do not abuse animals or children, nor do I advocate for their abusers.

[Awwrrright, you tell her, Zeus!]

JoCal at 01:46 on 07 July
easy on each other folks... death is a sad reality no matter whom it strikes...

[At this point it was 2 a.m. here. I thought I'd check my Facebook one last time before heading up to bed.  I was rather shaken to find my Wall had turned into a battlefield in my absence. I wasn't sure what to do, so I blew the referee's whistle. Loudly.]

Megatonlove at 02:26 on 07 July
Sheesh, I leave FB for a few hours and war breaks out. V.Rago, THAT'S ENOUGH from you. What's gotten into you, girl? I don't care how hot and bothered you choose to get about Wacko Jacko, your comments on MY wall are way out of order. It's okay to disagree passionately with others, but there's no need to become abusive towards people you know nothing about. What happened to staying non-judgmental? If you want to have a good old rant, then please do it on your Facebook wall, not mine. This conversation is now closed. Thanks, everyone. Unruffle those feathers please. Good night.

[I hoped that would be the end of that. But V.Rago was clearly not done, even though she'd declared she'd had enough, not once but twice!]

V.Rago at 02:40 on 07 July
I wasn't abusive Megatonlove. You were. Condescending and judgmental. AND DON'T YOU EVER USE THAT TONE WITH ME. You chose to post something offensive and provocative on your wall and expected comments. But don't worry. You won't hear ever hear from me again. Nor do I care to hear from you. We're clearly not on the same page.

[OHO, now the pot was calling the kettle black! Instead of striking fear in my heart, V.Rago induced loud snorts of laughter in me that woke the dog. I prayed that the friends who had left comments on my Wall would somehow see the funny side of it too.]

Megatonlove at 02:57 on 07 July
Aw, shaddup already.

[After that parting shot, I deleted V.Rago from my Friends List and fell into bed. Entertaining though she briefly was, I no longer enjoy hanging out with toxic humans in real life or cyberspace. The comments on my Wall continued into the next day, ending as light-heartedly as they had begun.  Bless you, Facebook friends.]

Calmer Of Calves at 04:40 on 07 July
    I AM WITH YOU ON THAT ONE MEGATONLOVE!!!! THE RICH AND FAMOUS OR THE FAMOUS IN DEBT UP TO THEIR PLASTIC SURGERY SHOULD NOT GET AWAY WITH CHILD MOLESTATION OR RAPE. THOSE CHILDREN WILL BE DEALING WITH THE EFFECTS OF HIS ABUSE FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES. A FRIEND OF MINE WAS TOLD ME THAT SEXUAL ABUSE IS THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ON GIVING.
    MAYBE HE KILLED HIMSELF BECAUSE THE GUILT (IF HE HAD ANY) WAS 'KILLING' HIM PHYSICALLY, EMOTIONALLY AND SPIRITUALLY? THERE WAS A RE-RUN OF A CLIP OF AN INTERVIEW ON TV TODAY WHERE JACKSON WAS CONFRONTED BY THE INTERVIEWER VERY DIRECTLY ABOUT THE 'ALLEGATIONS'. JACKSON LOOKED DOWN (SHAME), THEN PROCEEDED TO LAUGH AND FINALLY PUT HIS HANDS OVER HIS FACE. ZEUS AND I HAVE STUDIED BODY READING ON MANY LEVELS AND HIS REACTIONS WERE ALL INDICATIVE OF SHAME (LOOKING DOWN AND HANDS COVERING HIS FACE), EMBARRASSMENT (THE LAUGHING) AND SOMEONE WHO WAS LYING.
    I WOULD INVITE ANYONE IN DISBELIEF TO STUDY HIS BODY LANGUAGE AROUND THE TIME OF THE ABUSE TRIALS....

HarpSkunk at 08:19 on 07 July
Whew! Personally I am just hoping that the Thriller video is not a foretaste of things to come, 'Chronicle of an un-death foretold'. Maybe he has gone to live with Elvis in that London bus on the dark side of the moon which is signaling to the mothership.

Blond Igorot at 10:19 on 07 July
and I....missed all the fun. Shucks.

Queen Liz III at 10:25 on 07 July
Yes yes yes...he's still ALIVE!!!!!! It's all a money making scam cause he's in debt up to his plastic ears!!!!!....that's why there's no public viewing of the body....madam toussaud's won't release their copy hehehehehe.....spread the word...he's ALIVE!!!! where did you see him?...
oopppsss sorry Megatonlove...now you're wall's gonna go ape!!!!!!

Blond Igorot at 10:38 on 07 July
Blasphemy....

Megatonlove at 13:48 on 07 July
I believe Wacko Jacko was embalmed pre-mortem. But even people made entirely of silicone and plastic have an expiry date. His brains were also pickled ages ago.

Celtic Banjo at 16:56 on 07 July
Megatonlove, nice one! he can`t buy his way out this one paper burns where he is going he he..."whos BAD" dun dun dun dun dun...dun dun dun dun dun dun...shamone eeee heeeee.

The Ironing Broad at 23:27 on 07 July
Agree w Blond Igorot... Queen Liz III is blasphemous!

"Whoever undertakes to set himself up as a judge of Truth and Knowledge is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods." 

Albert Einstein