Saturday, April 12, 2008

Music Lesson #16.5

First of all I'd like to weigh in on the Bryan Gorrel controversy, because I'd like my blog to come out on Google anytime someone searches "Bryan Gorrel controversy."

I found out a little about this matter from watching Korina Sanchez interview that socialite guy on TV. And also because I myself am also an "A-lister socialite" as we socialites like to call ourselves. I hear this Australian guy Gorrel's been raking up a lot of muck about my fellow socialites, calling them cokeheads and whatnot. I wonder if the people he'd been referring to are getting a huge kick out of being called cokeheads like the model Kate Moss or the cokehead Mr. Coke Head.

I've been around (I mean around many socialite parties in Culiat, Brgy. Tatalon, and Krus na Ligas), had my share of the wild socialite scene wearing the fashion clothes, and I'd never seen a gram, ounce, or speck of coke in my life. I hear it tastes like candy canes and beautiful angels.

The closest encounter I've ever had with anyone who'd tried coke was at a cafe in Malate that used to be frequented by artists and filmmakers in the mid 90s. I was at a table with a bunch of old dudes and they were talking about coke, what it must feel like to snort it and so forth (...candy canes and beautiful angels...).

Anyway, this one guy says "I've tried coke. Yeah, of course I have. Loved that shit." Turns out a long time ago he was at the men's room of one of the cafes in Padre Faura when he saw a small baggie with white powder under the urinal. He picked it up, figured it must be coke, and snorted the powder. Other than the profuse nosebleed that followed, he swears by the quality of bathroom floor coke-looking coke. "Loved that coke," he exclaimed. "I'd do it again if I ever find anything powdery and white near a public urinal!"

Anyway, again, I was thinking a lot about the Gucci Gang controversy and all while lining up at the MRT station wiping my sweat with a face towel, thinking about the specks of coke also lining up in front of the socialite noses of my fellow socialites. I imagined a giant credit card parting the masses in the Ayala station into neat little lines.

I do not know who's telling the truth, who's lying. I don't know where's Wally. I don't know anything about the Gucci Gang, except the fact that they are named after nice bags and shoes and therefore are apparently not a public threat. But in my own evaluation of the many blog titles I have glanced and not read through completely, I have come to the conclusion that I hope they all get the AIDS.

On with our regular programming.