Showbands Must Die

They fail to create. They simply replicate. Ladies and gentlemen, purist showbands must die.

For all the talent and creativity and imagination that the Roman Catholic God has showered upon humanity since the time when a serpent cajoled a certain woman named Eve to taste the forbidden fruit somewhere in paradise, showbands have continuously failed to live up to the expectations of He-who-must-not-be-named, i.e. God. They play their instruments in much the same way as the original creator of the pieces they are playing have played them, thus the apparent disregard for their knack for creativity.

And creativity isn't creativity if you won't create in the first place. More to the point, you don't create something that's already there. That's just silly, I tell you, if not plain ridiculous. You don't create a song and muster an ounce of creativity for trying to shape a parody of a musical piece that's already been there.

One more thing why purist showbands must vanish from the face of the third planet from the Sun—they tamper society's morality or, worse, they inflict perversion on the minds of men. Yes, men. I have been able to watch several showbands in the must and I had a hard time refusing to succumb to the temptation of throwing empty beer bottles at the way of whoever had the microphones in their hands. They burn the short wick of our patience for their relentless imitations, oftentimes sporting absurd clothes that border between the intolerable and the horrendous, pushing us towards the thin line that separates indifference from annihilation.

Their female vocalists, too, tend to dehydrate the bodily fluids of their male audience as they run out of saliva from drooling too much for one simple reason: these descendants of Eve seem to have emptied their wallets despite the fact that they have this so-called job. They wear skimpy clothes next to almost nothing. Now that certainly might cause a massive heart attack on the part of the Pope. Otherwise, it might seduce him to a state of phallic nirvana, but that's another story. Add up to their ultra-trimmed dresses the fact that they oftentimes sing tunes that titillate the libidinous senses of mankind. Bottomline, they demonize the virgin minds of those who have not gotten laid in their lifetime.

There are more reasons to say here, but these will do. So yes, purist showbands must die for the sake of the music community and of the larger population.

Observations 5

I have to shave my mustache. And the hair that's growing just below my chin should be mowed. For several months now, I haven't visited the barber and let his scissors cut its way across the top and sides of my scalp. I have this long-time dream of growing my hair to a certain length, say down to my shoulders or just a few inches below it. To date, I have yet to fulfill that goal although I would have to say I'm quite well on my way. Three to four months and I think I'll be able to nail it.

Back in high school, I always had a short hair. It was part of my routine to slather on some hairgel and shape it accordingly, which is to say that it was a habit of mine to keep my hair intact, wind and all. Lately, though, I seem to have lost that practice. If my memory won't fail me, it all began during my first few months in college. I was a carefree student back then, never minding if I was wearing the same shorts the other day when I'm off to school. In campus, the least of your worries will be how you look. The most would have to be how you think, or if you still remember yesterday's lessons. And what can I say? Five years thereafter and I haven't changed much. I'm 22 and hell do I care about how I look. I am as rugged as you would expect me to be although, of course, I do take baths and change clothes.

Which makes me wonder. How much have I been spending lately on shampoo? These are dire and trying times, and I don't want to remember myself a decade from now in retrospection that I could have and should have saved a hefty sum by having a bald head. But certainly, you would have to kill me first before your razor can shave all the hair off of my head. And of course, not without one bloody mayhem. But that's already stretching the imagination to great lengths. Don't get me wrong. I'm for peace. In fact, I'm so peace-loving I shit white doves with a twig and leaves in its beaks. Beat that.

Degressing more, I recall a film my better-half and I watched a few weeks ago. Across the Universe. All of the tracks used in the movie were from the Beatles, to which I'm a huge fan, George Harrison notwithstanding. One song, Revolution, speaks of peace and Lennon's protest against the street activism that swept America during the height of the Vietnam war. From the looks of it, you can fairly say he's a passive activist, a term that verges between oxymoron and pure insight. At that time, Lennon wanted to change things but not from the same lense as typical street protesters would have it, the likes that barge into government offices and barricade entrances to public property by literally flooding the roads with an ocean of humanity, causing havoc to anything that stands in its way. I'm not John Lennon, but there are times when I do tend to favor vigilance through that same approach which he once tried to practice. And since I'm more into Harrison than Lennon, I might as well at times be as quiet as the Quiet Beatle, who happens to be Spike Wilbury, which is another way to name Harrison.

In that case, I won;t be needing to shave my mustache. Not until I turn to Hinduism.