The Unbearable Lightness of Being Shitty

What prompted me to plop again is the SoS exchange between a renowned jazz pianist and a group of Tan Sris in a bar near my place. The pianist is a summa cum laude graduate of the Berkely School Music and is a noted musician in the world of Jazz. I didn’t know at first that the group was made up of Tan Sris. But I knew that they are from the upper class because they were a few articles of clothing less from being taken as Sultans. Anyway, for the benefit of those who don’t care like me, a Tan Sri is the second most senior Federal title awarded to individuals in Malaysia.

The reason why I highlighted their achievements is to stress how incongruent their pre-homo sapien behavior is to their social stature. What happened that night was totally uncalled for and unexpected from such revered people. It’s like watching monkeys throw shit at each other. It’s funny to watch; but it’s not funny anymore when you get hit by stray shit.

I was enjoying my Saturday night with some friends in this cozy jazz bar. It was my first time to hear this trio play. It took me two to three songs to judge that they are really great musicians. I told myself that the 30 Ringgit (8.50 USD) was well worth it. The bassist was perfectly plucking the right notes. The drummer was superbly beating to the songs’ tempo. And the pianist—well he was the one who performed most specially that night. His virtuoso and impassioned playing made me and my friends literally agape. But he should have stuck to playing the piano only.

After their fourth piece, the pianist introduced the band members and right after that, he commenced his tirade against the patrons who were chatting while they were playing. His ranting was forceful. It was something like blah blah blah blah with a capital “B”, and his final two words, “Shut up”, was in all caps and with three exclamation points. I consciously froze in my seat after hearing this, lest that I make any rustling noises.

After playing a few songs, the pianist grabbed again the microphone and commented that the louder they play, the louder this group of people chat. (It was already obvious that he was referring to the Tan Sris.) Of course, the Tan Sris being unable to swallow sarcasm served even on a golden plate, reacted by jacking up their voices 20 decibels louder. And this was when I started hearing the notes coated with shit.

The interchange of shit-flavored sharps and flats started to ruin my laid-back Saturday.

To top it all off, the Tan Sris handed a note to the pianist and demanded him to make an apology. But the pianist said that he doesn’t have a song entitled “Apology” in his repertoire. A couple of minutes later, the Tan Sris raucously left their table and one of them shouted something like, “This is not America…!” Bwahahahaha! That statement is subject to lots of “misinterpretations” and I don’t care about it.

Who is at fault? Who started it? Was the pianist excessively provocative in his rebukes? Does he have the right to reprimand his audience if he was being paid to entertain? Were the Tan Sris talking too loudly that they were disturbing the musicians? We would have different opinions; our differences would spawn death and destruction; and this vicious cycle will continue for ages.

"Mea culpa. I’m sorry." This line could have spared millions from misery. Since in the real world, the ego comes before the chicken, we can’t do anything but sulk in despair over life’s overflowing shittiness.

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I’ve never been turned down.  I have a 100 wins-0 loss-1 draw slate.  Well, the draw resulted to a newbie refusing to dance with me because she was intimidated by the other dancers on the floor. But after I threatened her with impalement, she succumbed to my strong yet gentle arms.  And we danced to the foreplay of salsa, and the rest is dirty bed-sheet history.  And yes, she was gracefully “impaled.”  Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! (*laughs a la Count Dracula of Sesame Street). 

Ok the above segue is bollocks.  Let me swing to my real topic which is why I am dancing salsa!

In the Philippines, salsa is still wrongfully perceived as one of the dances suited for the grannies with Aqua Net hair and be-sequined gowns; and the dance instructors (DIs) with super tight-fit shirts (complete with nipple-protrusion devices) and suffocating pants.  This is the main reason why my mother, upon learning that I’m taking up salsa lessons, nearly fainted in dismay and shock.  But she then sulked in pity when she realized that I’m doing the lessons to sideline as a DI eventually—-so I can remit more money to them. 

If my mother, who has known me inside-out for more than 28 years, can get a wrong perception of my salsa dancing, then what more of my friends and mere acquaintances?  One ex-colleague of mine blurted, “Hah, at last, you’ve come out of the closet!”  Another silly one exclaimed, “What’s the biggest tip you got?”  I dismissed their reactions by simply saying that salsa has given me the groove I’ve been looking for.

For the record, I was forced by my ex-girlfriend to take salsa lessons with her.  She wanted us to do something different together (not that we were lacking in variations, hehehe) so I gave in to her nagging.  The first time I entered the studio and completed my first basic salsa step, I knew that this dance is for me.  Out of the 12 students, only four of us are guys (and one, I believe is gay).  6 of the women are really pretty babes and the other 2 are decent aunties.  When I joined another salsa school, I was happy to find out that most of the students in my new school are almost the same age as me (late 20’s).  In the Latin clubs like Qba, Salsa Havana and Little Havana, majority of the people who dance salsa are within the 25-35 age-bracket and are mostly yuppies. 

Salsa has given the Latino itch to the younger generation here in KL that the few oldies who dance salsa look out of place and are left with no one to “scratch their itchy feet.”

Next: How salsa enriched my boring life in KL

Plop! This is the sound of a thought, from its fragmented, crude and amorphous state, as it transforms and drops into the swampy world of ideas. 

Yes! This is my shit, beings of the animal kingdom (yes, it includes your dog and cat) and other intelligent life forms outside this planet. 

From the dark,winding and murky tunnels of my brain (and intestines), this shit is moulded.  Its conception may not be immaculate, but it is divinely inspired(?). Thus, I humbly implore you to relax and sit comfortably, as you partake in my ritual of "plopping".  From the annals (no pun intended) of my receding memory or the innards of my myopic foresight, be shocked and be awed by my bowel movements!

Let me commence the plopping by telling you about the new phrase I’ve learned or which I’ve coined accidentally (as far as Google, Yahoo and I know).

It is my second spicy week here in the land of tequila, tacos and burritos, doing an audit of branch accounts.  It is my third or fourth time in two weeks to hear the words "Eres tu, eres tu…" in a song’s refrain.  I don’t know whehter I’ve heard the same song, but what stuck to my mind were these interesting words. (Maybe because it sounded like eros, hehehe).  I checked the English translation and I found out that it means: "You are (you)".  Suddenly, I felt my bowels having a movement and then eureka!      

A week ago, while on the way to the Aztec pyramids, my Mexican colleague taught me the Spanish equivalent of "shit", which is "mierda".  So I applied this fantastic word with the new phrase I’ve just learned. And Io and behold! I’ve invented a phrase which I suppose is as striking as Descartes’ "Cogito, ergo sum":

                                                   Eres tu mierda

You are your shit.  How down to earth yet beautiful! The logical soundness(!) of this wonderful phrase may be colloborated by this equation (ok, bring out your scientific calculators): If "you are what you eat" and whatever you eat, you shit, then it follows that "you are what you shit"! Henceforth, if "you are what you shit", then "you are your shit"! The logic is unassailable. I rest my case, your honor.

Seriously speaking, despite the vulgar and horrid sound of this phrase, it loosely applies to our everyday life. In the office, at home, in a restaurant, in a bar, in bed, in the highway or even in the confines of our comfortrooms.  Slack-off in the office or backstab your officemates; lazily leave the leftover foods in your rubbish bin or kitchen sink for more than a week, or continually ignore your children and wife; be rude to the waiter or eat with ghastly slurping sounds; never stop staring at a woman’s boobies; consistently treat your partner as a sex object; overspeed even if it’s unnecessary or rudely overtake other vehicles; and be delinquent in paying the waterbill, calling the plumber or buying rolls of toilet paper.  You get the shit which you deserve, and it is you, yourself, who authors your life’s shits. And how about the shit which you get but don’t deserve? Well, this is it—and you probably can’t do something about it! So just take it and accept it.

This is too much shit for the day; you can flush it down.  Hope your drain works.