The way to healthy lungs and other theories


The greatest thing in this Makati gig is the walking. Once, I walked from Greenbelt to Axa Bldg in Buendia, which took me 20 minutes, approximately. The sun was shining, there was a small breeze, I was listening to The Life Pursuit ( It’s now obvious that it will top my soundtracks-of-the year list, although Camera Obscura’s Let’s Get Out of this Country is a close second.)

I don’t even mind the pollution. It’s annoying, but I have a theory that walking plus pollution equals stronger lungs. Proof: when I went to Kule office last week, I didn’t pause to catch my breath all the way to the fourth floor. My breathing was actually normal. And I was carrying a big bag. Top that!


***
Lab, that weird monkey, was here two weeks ago. Over dinner, he asked me about the migraines. I told him it was nothing; they just changed patterns. But he had another theory: the headaches might be signals from aliens. It’s my mothership way of contacting me. “Hala, Maybe you’re an alien. Maybe you’re not really my cousin after all,” he said.

But would an alien pay for your dinner and make you mix cds full of indiepop goodness? I KNOW I’m the best cousin ever. =)

The Man Who Outsells Harry Potter


Detective fiction/police procedurals can be gruesome but, I’ve been thinking that they’re quite hopeful. Unlike science fiction, which seeks to familiarize the reader, detective fiction seeks order. Should I go back to the Comparative Literature fold, I’ll do a monograph on the narrative and themes of detective fiction, Henning Mankell in particular. (For those who don’t know it, I’ve been devouring Scandinavian detective fiction for some months now, spurred by an article in The Guardian I read last year).

Speaking of Mankell – he’s a Swede who works as a theater director in South Africa – I’m halfway through his Kurt Wallander novel called The Man Who Smiled.

Wallander, Mankell’s protagonist is an inspector from a small town patterned after Agatha Christie small towns who always finds himself in the middle of international intrigue worthy of a John Le Carre. He’s can be a cross between the detective in the American harboiled tradition and Inspector Wexford of Ruth Rendell: he’s tortured, forlorn and lovelorn. He hates guns and does a lot of internal monologue. He’s in love with a woman who lives in Riga, Latvia who, in turn, is still in love with her dead husband. Wallander doesn’t speak much English, he’s got an inferiority complex and he used to take antidepressants for a year. (The reason for his depression can be read in The White Lioness. I don't want to explain it - it's a spoiler.) He is bitterly divorced. He has a paunch.

From what the Internet has told me, Mankell is a bestseller in Europe, even outselling Harry Potter in some parts of the continent. Yay!

By the way, while writing this entry, I was listening to The Heavy Blinkers’ The Night and I Are Still So Young album. They have songs that remind me of The Carpenters, but they are not as cheesy.

If You're Feeling Sinister - Again

Inspired by my recent trips to the doctor and for lack of better things to do on a balmy night, I made my dream MRI soundtrack last Sunday. The list probably needs editing, but so what.


1. Honey Cone – Sittin’ On A Time Bomb (Waitin’ for the Hurt to Come)
2. Mates of State – Goods (All in Your Head)
3. The Perishers – Pills
4. Ivy – Clear My Head
5. Red Sleeping Beauty – Sick and Tired
6. Dusty Springfield – I Don’t Know What To Do With Myself
7. Television Personalities – Sick Again
8. Ted Leo and the Pharmacists – Heart Problems
9. The Starlight Mints – What’s Inside of Me?
10. Holly Golightly – Tell Me Now So I Know
11. The High Llamas – Let’s Have Another Look
12. Belle and Sebastian – If You’re Feeling Sinister
13. The Love Letter Band – Doctors Never Love You
14. Emiliana Torrini – Lifesaver
15. The Wannadies – Nothing Wrong

If You're Feeling Sinister, or Dancing While Lying Still

The doctor asked me if I was scared during the MRI. I said no. It was actually a happy affair, even though I was half-asleep the whole time. Here's what happened:

Before I went in, the MRI technician - I think his name's Rodney - told me that I had to lie still for at least 25 minutes or the pictures of my brain would be blurred. Fine. But I had to ask: Can I use my own music? (I had to risk being perceived as a difficult, diva patient. Otherwise, I would be immersed in the MRI suite's collection of cheesy 1980s lovesongs and 1990s revivals. Think David Pomeranz. And Southborder.) No problem, Rodney said. Yay! Had I known that this was possible, I would have made my own MRI theater soundtrack, which would include The Love Letter Band's Doctors Never Love You and 60's Motown group Honey Cone's Sittin' on a Time Bomb (Waitin' for the Hurt to Come.) Both appropriate songs, indeed. At such short notice, I chose The Life Pursuit. It's bouncy, it's brilliant, it's longer than 25 minutes, I know the lyrics, I won't get bored. I just had to control the urge to dance. Midway through Funny Little Frog, my song of the year, so far, the MRI guys turned off the machine. It's over and done with. I didn't ask Rodney and the other guy if they liked Belle and Sebastian's music or what they thought of it. I was too shy and sleepy. I just hope they enjoyed it as much as I did.





The MRI was clean, by the way. Nothing sinister in there, except my brain.