Feeling Chris

He doesn’t live here anymore.

I suddenly find myself being sucked into a deep silence. It isn’t just a silence from an absence of sound.  It feels like an absence of being.  A voice had disappeared, and with it all the feeling that it enabled.

My impulse is to drop everything and play all his music straight into my brain – the way I have done so many times in my life – in the hope that it will kickstart his heart like it often pushed me into caring.

It only deepens the silence.

Close your eyes and bow your head, I need a little sympathy
Cause fear is strong and love’s for everyone who isn’t me

I didn’t know him, I only know what he did for me.  And while I can only imagine where his voice was coming from, I do know what I learned from following where it led.

A lot of tribute has been paid to that voice.  To most ears, he was this generation’s Robert Plant.  The one, out of the four horsemen of Grunge, who could actually sing.  To another astute ear, just a few rungs under a ladder topped by Mariah Carey.

To me, his was a voice that came with naked honest emotion.  Maybe he wasn’t going to change the world, but he did change me.

And it would have been alright
If you’d gave half of the praise that you held inside

In times when I wanted to say something really important and emotionally profound, I found that he had recorded something that said it better.  Instead of having to speak, I just made people listen with me.

Now I wanna fly above the storm
But you can’t grow feathers in the rain

I need him now, again, to be the sous-chef for my declarations.

And I’m lost behind the words I’ll never find

I feel sad.  I feel restless.  I feel like I need to cry.  I feel like adding to the pile of ongoing tribute, to enable some kind of closure.  I feel silly for feeling.


Suddenly I can see everything that’s wrong
With me, yeah
What can I do, I’m the only thing I really have, at all

I feel that having less respect might make this easier.

I want late night talk show hosts go nuts with inappropriate jokes.  I want them to put on their best Seinfeld impression and say “So what’s the deal with celebrity suicides and hotel rooms?”

I want them to crack that the right timing to off himself would have been after releasing Scream.

I want them to say that he left all of us hanging.

Maybe the irreverence will save me from having to endure his deep and sudden absence.

But I also feel, as he said, like there’s nothing left to save.

My best artistic work has a habit of coming out of the worst times in my life.  An awareness of this leaves me believing that inspiration – both the catalyst and the result of a spirit’s rise from the depths – inevitably involves a journey to hell to slay a demon.

You make me sick I make music

So when a man constantly churns out wave after wave of inspiring energized passion over a period of two dozen years, I cannot help but imagine his journey, and the hordes he must constantly be battling back.

Nothing seems to kill me no matter how hard I try…
…Nothing will do me in before I do myself

When I try to see what I am hearing – a golden voice constantly bombarded with chaos – I see our hero backed into a corner. Springing for the fight of his life, snarling out a warning with the voice of an angel.

Arm yourself because no one else here will save you
The odds will betray you And I will replace you
You can’t deny the prize it may never fulfill you
It longs to kill you Are you willing to die?

Not the sweet delicate angel of lore – standing tall like an elven prince, with a pristine face and golden hair. This one is beaten down to one knee, clad in broken armor, wings covered in blood. He swings a dripping crimson sword and screams a fourth octave as he attempts to vanquish hate with agony.


The day I tried to live
I wallowed in the blood and mud with all the other pigs

I can feel him constantly battling pain, lies, and worldly folly. Between his warrior’s cries I can feel his fatigue.

Hang my head, drown my fear Till you all just disappear
Black hole sun won’t you come and wash away the rain

I listen as the armor falls off. Metal is stripped down to Rock. Rock snaps and cracks into Pop. Pop melts into a ballad. Personal identity blends into a Soundtrack. I feel his victory as his voice rises above the noise. Less forceful, more Powerful. Clear, beautiful, and ready to rest.

Now it feels like I don’t have to worry at all
It’s finally forever

And now the battle is over.

I play back a song that I recorded and intended to send to him so he could sing it someday.  The song lives, but that dream is now dead.  Silenced as well.

Motivators always say “You can do anything you want!” but as I grieve, it doesn’t feel true anymore.  I cannot write songs for Chris Cornell.

Now I feel fear.  And anxiety.  I feel tired too.

I feel like the best half is over, as I am reminded me that this is the age when dreams start to die.  Forty Two, Fifty Two… This is when windows close, and weather-beaten doors warp shut.

So now you start to recognize that every single path you see
leads to a tear in your eye
So wave goodbye…

I feel like this ride down from the peak will be littered by things to wave goodbye to.  A string of things that were great.  A list of dreams turning into a catalog of regrets and unfinished business.

I cannot write songs for him.  All I can do now is thank him as I wave goodbye.

So, Chris, thank you for letting us hear you.  Thank you for letting some of us touch you back.  Thank you for Seattle, for San Francisco, for The Sound and The Euphoria, for Crash Kings, for ambushing my three-year old during the end credits of The Avengers…

Cause all has been lost and all has been won,
and there’s nothing left for us to save
But now I know that I don’t wanna be alone today
so if you’re finding, that you’re feeling just the same…

Even when you wrote what could be interpreted as a rocking introduction for an online dating profile, I took it as a roadmap for what was important:



Cornell’s Super Secret Law of Social Media OneNess: Knowing that there are those who feel the same. Those I haven’t met. Those I can no longer be with. Those at the end of the world.  This Awareness of SameNess binds us and makes us forget how lonely we would be without this knowledge.


But we could be together as they blow it all away
and we could share in every moment as it breaks


Wave hello, Andy. Kurt. Layne. Scott.

For those reading this, feeling the same, thank you.  You understand why I shouldn’t be embarrassed or feel silly for being this affected. You get it.

We got him.  So after we let him go, we need to help each other keep what he gave us. Leave a light on. Carry on.

Thank you for the glorious gift of vulnerability, Chris.

I’m your disappearing one –
Vanish when the curtain’s drawn
But I will come again, and you will let me in
and you’ll see I never disappear for long.

GET LUCKY

You're a Big-Time Go-Getter.  It's on your resume.  Right next to Quick-Learner, and just under Team-Player.  You want to go and get it all.  Get hard.  Get rich.  Get action.  Get married.  Get divorced.  Get to the point.

Whatever or wherever your point may be, you want to Get Lucky.

Do you order a two-piece chicken meal and get two wings?  Maybe you're the wizard who picks all the numbers that the roulette ball never drops into...?  Can't sleep because some pizza-faced stud in the next room makes thudding noises on the wall with the top of some young lady's skull all night?  (Or maybe he was learning how to use a small battering ram.  Either way he had wood, but we digress...)

Because everyone else seems to get lucky.  We'll make sure you get your turn.

Let's start: Dress the part.  You don't have to look like James Bond to get lucky, but for god's sake, please don't look like a loser. You become what you prepare for.  Before you walk out that door, ask yourself:  Do I look like I have good fortune?  The freshly washed and pressed dress shirt says “YES.”  The frayed collar on your lucky Celtics T-shirt says “Please, I beg you, let this be our year!”

A clean pair of loafers will do more wonders than wearing horseshoes under your clovered hooves.  Guys in suits are more likely to get in places, while guys in wifebeaters get picked up by casino security.

You dressed up?  Now undress everyone else with your eyes.  Fantasize.  Keep that dream alive.  Visualize the result - the ENTIRE result, with all the details.  If you are sitting on fifteen, don't just pray for a six like a schmuck on a deserted island waiting to be rescued.  Look up at the skies and imagine the helicopter.  The sound, the color, the pilot, the ladder.  Play it out in your head.  See the six of hearts coming.  See the dealer turning it over.  See the future, and then see what happens.

A winner imagines the girl naked before he actually gets there. Sometimes he imagines it for years.  Sometimes he climbs a tree and tries to peek into her bedroom.  That's the fine line between winner and stalker.  Do not cross that line.

Get in the game with the proper mindset.  If you came to play, you are going to spend a lot of money, and all you will get back is fun times and a few stories.  The money in your pocket is your capital.  If you call it spending money, it might as well be play money.  Change that mindset.  You are here to Invest.

Pay attention to the details and you will know where to invest.  Just because your friend hit the super six, it doesn't mean you have to try.  Don't chase a bad investment just because the payout looks juicy.  If you bought that Miss World runner-up a lobster dinner and she still doesn't look like she will put out, cancel the champagne and move on to the MILF by the slot machines.

That's just an analogy, okay?

While we're at it, don't forget the foreplay.  You know how to visualize, now Ritualize.  Blow before you throw.  Squeeze before you open.  Massage the felt, then bet on the come.  Having a routine is like a using a reset button – it is a signal to your entire being that you are starting fresh. This keeps your head clear.  It helps you move on.  Having some form of ceremony also keeps you steady while you make things interesting.

Touch yourself.  A lot.  When things start to feel like they are getting out of hand, you might be surprised by the healing power of your own hands.  Put your hand on your betting arm to calm your nerves.  Put your hand just under your heart to feel the building excitement.  Put your hand under someone's skirt to test the waters – didn't I say you have to invest?  Take a gamble goddammit!

And if you take a wicked beating, put both of your hands on top of your head and say “Ayayay!” - not only does this break the tension, it gives people the impression that you might be Hispanic.  Being mistaken for a Latino could be an excellent way to get lucky.

And once you do get lucky, pinch yourself.  Make sure you aren't still visualizing.

Table Dance

It’s a Friday night.  With money in your pocket, and adventure in your heart, the choices have been narrowed down:  hit the clubs and get smashed after failing on seventeen attempts to hook up, or hit the casino and attempt to double your roll… so you can hit the clubs and get smashed after.

The latter is called “Getting a Freeroll.”

How hard can it be?  You’ve watched Casino Royale – both the original and the remake – and you’ve done your fair share of window-gambling.  If these dear old grandmas can hit a jackpot, shouldn’t you have yours coming?

Yes, I believe you deserve it.  Before you walk into a sea of tables and turn all your assets into chips for one night of exercising your absolute faith in karma, you might want to take a deep breath.  How about four deep breaths?

     1.   ONLY BRING WHAT YOU ARE WILLING TO INVEST.

Notice I did not use the word “lose” or “gamble” – that’s because you do not walk into a casino to do either.  You have funds, and you want those funds to mature.

If you are undecided on how much to invest for one wild night with Lady Luck, there are two ways to come up with your limit.  One way is to simply think of it as “redirecting your fornication fund” – you know, the amount you were willing to splash all over the clubs anyway? Well, that’s your investment ceiling.

The other way is more intuitive.  Make one single visit to the ATM and take as much money out as you can until you:  a) feel uncomfortable; or b) have the machine tell you to please stop for the sake of the children.

     2.   WALK AROUND, LOOK AROUND

These establishments are designed to be thoroughly enjoyed.  You don’t think Ricky Razon spent two billion dollars to have you make a beeline from the front door to the nearest Sic Bo table, do you?

Enjoy as much of the property as you can sensibly afford.  Have a memorable meal at the fancy restaurant.  Get a great deal on a hotdog in the food court.  Ogle at some dancing girls.  Answer the question “Whatever happened to (insert formerly famous singer here)?” – there she is, belting out tunes behind the roulette table!

     3.   DON’T GET MARRIED TO YOUR FIRST DATE

Okay, I stole this from another advice column, but it applies here just as well.  There are hundreds of games to choose from, so take your time.  Place some small bets on a game here and there, then take stock of how you feel.  Then keep walking around.  The Casino is a big carpeted ocean full of fish and chips.  Feel it all out before you commit to one table for the rest of the night.

You want to call it foreplay?  Let’s call it FLOORPLAY.

Walk the floor.  Watch what other people are doing.  Make some new friends and ask them what they think – whether it’s a tip on what slot machine is about to pop, or some Game-Theory-Optimal approach to betting on a coinflip.  Sure, it’s all hogwash, but this is all part of the gaming experience:  Complete strangers passionately sharing unsolicited strategies with no basis whatsoever.

     4.   CHECK OUT THE HOTTIES

Not just the ones with the long legs, but also the ones with four legs.  A Table can get “HOT” when one player gets on a run and beats the house hand after hand.  This kind of run creates an energy that attracts patrons from all over the floor, who wander towards the “Hot Table” (or “Hot T, get it?”) like zombies who just caught a whiff of living flesh.

You can be one of those walkers.  You will find that it is insanely fun to watch the house lose.

What is even more fun is to be part of this brief glitch in the Casino Matrix.  Bet on the Hottie and see what happens.  Then take your newly minted chips and walk away like a Hollywood action hero with a burning vehicle in the background.

Beautiful Courage

Once upon a time I joined a stand-up comedy competition and finished third.  I could say that I beat couple dozen other aspiring comics to finish third.  I could even make a case for that achievement by pointing out that the top two finishers went on to become full-fledged world-touring performers.

Not me.  For a reason, I chose to see the experience as an ordeal where I lost to two other people that I (on that night) believed I was better than.  I was second runner-up.  The second biggest loser.

The reason I felt like a loser was because I was in a competition where the winner was determined subjectively.  There was no finish line to cross ahead of the others.  There was no score tracking the number of points we made.

On that night, the winner was determined by judges.  In other words, a combination of opinions from a tiny sample of the entire comedic population – “a jury of my peers” – decided that I wasn’t going to win.  They said I lost, and there was nothing I could do to prove that I did not.

That was too long ago, so I’m not recalling this to be bitter.  I am actually going somewhere with this. 

It sucks to be judged. 

Our country has recently been done proud by two beautiful women who were sent off to foreign lands to capture the hearts of a panel of judges and bring home a crown. 

"winners"

Megan Young was crowned Miss World 2013, and yet I only heard about it because some strangers on the bus were questioning her heritage and whether she deserved to represent our country at all.

Mutya Datul was crowned Miss Supranatural 2013, and I learned about that because I overheard some men discussing that she was “in fact” a Tranny.

Later in the week I heard rumors that both would soon be dethroned because they couldn’t possibly be virgins.  A stipulation that says they can’t be married or pregnant was stretched all the way back to the state of their hymens.  I found it amusing. 

The judging never stops. 

My guess is that beauty queens are the easiest targets because they seem to be defined by judgement.  Just the idea that they willingly joined a pageant seemed to insinuate that their lives revolved around seeking affirmation.  If pageant judges could put a crown on her, surely public judges were entitled to take a shot at ripping it off.

In 2012, Joy Castillo-Pasidis was crowned Mrs. Universe Philippines, and I had a front-row seat to the proceedings.

Ah, the judging.  I remember the criteria because I remember being floored by my utter disbelief. 

40% Face, 40% Body, 20% Personality and Intelligence.  I am NOT making this up! 

 

now all she needs is a face...

Was this how we were supposed to judge a Woman?  I kept going over it in my head.  80% of her value was her appearance: of which half was vaguely referred to as her “Body” – how do they measure this?  Was there a further sub-breakdown for “Body”...?

Maybe 10 points for round breasts, and 10 points for a shiny areola.  Then 15 points for her ass, and another 5 for whether or not the bitch could shake it.

It was a gift that kept on giving.  Hey, as long as we are setting the women’s movement back a few generations, how about 20 points TOTAL for both personality AND intelligence? 

The Super Secret Law of The Headhunter and the Job Interviews:  “Smart girl, that one, and charming, but let’s hire the skank with the big knockers.” 

Way to reinvent the woman, good job Morley.  Well done, Trump. 

Back at the Mrs. Universe pageant, I sat pondering the mental state of whoever came up with an award to be given to the “Best in Sexy Wear” when my ears zoned in on the cacophony of random comments from the onlookers in the peanut gallery.

As the women on stage moved forward towards the panel of judges, I moved back to stand within earshot of the “unofficial judges” in the crowd.  Notepad in hand, I jotted down their comments (and my unspoken reactions). 

You could say I sorted through the cacophony, because a friend dared me to use that word two times within thirty seconds. 

"Ay walang suso." (“Yikes, she has no boobs!” - I was surprised they didn’t say “dede.”) 

"Walang bra, nakakahiya!" (“She has no bra, shameful!” - I immediately went to verify this, in the name of journalism, of course.) 

"Maganda to, ma-chubby lang." (“Pretty, if only she weren’t so chubby” - made me think of Jolina Magdangal for some reason.) 

"Ang sikip ng damit, halatang pinilit" (“The dress is so tight, you can tell it took her all night to put it on” - Ah, the poetry!  I had to see if that comment came from Gloc-9 himself!)

I finally had to stop my note-taking after this next one raised the roof and tore it down: 

“Dalawa lang ang maganda, pinaligiran na ng mga aso.” (“Only two of them are pretty, they are surrounded by dogs.”)

Gems.  Absolute gems were being thrown.  I felt wealthy beyond my wildest imaginings.  Was all this real?

Apparently there were considerations beyond “Best in Sexy Wear,” because the emcee proceeded to rattle off a list of consolation prizes.  The term “Door Prizes” came to mind, but all I ended up thinking of was that these were the “Dog Prizes.” 

Again, I am not making these up. 

Mrs. Friendship (for the type who always ended up in the friend zone). 

Mrs. Personality (for that intelligent lady who scored only 20 points TOTAL). 

Body beautiful (or as men called it, “The Hipon Award.”) 

Mrs. Photogenic (for the lady who needed professional lighting to be appreciated.) 

Mrs. Cosmopolitan (for, um, wtf, I have no idea what this means.) 

Most Inspired (as opposed to Most Expired...?!?) 

Golden Girl (meh, This was Mrs. Universe, after all.) 

Best Smile (for the lady who was least aware of what was really going on.) 

Darling of the Crowd (for the lady with the most relatives in the audience.) 

Mrs. Tourism (I found out later that “Tourism” was being used as some kind of euphemism for “Exotic” – which was funny because “Exotic” was already a euphemism for “Ugly But Strangely Preferred By Foreigners Who Frequent Burgos.”) 

Mrs. Intelligence (for the most frightening woman in the room.) 

Fashion Icon (for the tallest contestant with the smallest breasts.)

Finally, there was a consolation prize for the “Woman of The Night” – which I was guessing was given to the woman most likely to agree to a one night stand. 

(It puzzled me that they could award someone as “Woman of the Night” and still go on with the rest of the evening to crown a winner.) 

Mirth and musing aside, listening to the list of awards gave me a slow realization.  It was the kind where the camera jump-stopped, then slowly zoomed in on my slowly widening eyes as the music swept in.  It was that moment when I was supposed to turn around and behold the truth. 

It absolutely sucks to be judged. 

I suddenly understood what this pageant REALLY celebrated – whether they intended to or not.  Stay with me on this. 

You ever watch a hopelessly outclassed boxer take a beating from The Champ for 12 rounds but never get knocked down?  With both eyes swollen shut and his nose broken in three places, this patsy would crack a smile so wide you would think his jaw would fall off.  After the final bell, he would face the crowd with both arms raised like he was the champion – all because he stood there and took everything The Champ had, and then walked off the ring. 

This is what separated a Woman from a Man:  a heroism I could never hope to match. 

bitch can take a beating

A Woman lives a life under constant scrutiny.  She is jabbed, hooked, and beaten down by judgement.  She cannot walk across a room without being measured.  She cannot offer an opinion without being doubted.  She cannot skip a shower, or order extra rice unnoticed.  She cannot be in a position of importance without being asked who she slept with to get there.

She cannot eat a banana, lick an ice cream cone, or drop a pen on the floor and bend over to pick it up without...well, you know what I’m saying by now.

Meanwhile, Men walk across the room all the time.  We are anonymous.  While Woman struggles daily with the weight of a thousand eyes on her, Man gets his business done without anyone getting in the way to ask for his phone number. 

The Super Secret Law of God’s Gift To Women:  It isn’t a Man, and it isn’t Beauty:  it is Courage:  The kind that can stand under a spotlight and say “Here I am, judge away assholes.” 

This is what beauty pageants celebrate – not Beauty, but incredible Courage. 

I was under a spotlight for one night and judged “third best.”  Then I drove off to a mountain booing and hooing.  Meanwhile, Women have to deal with being judged every minute of every goddamned day. 

Women walk into the ring and take that beating, then walk off with a smile. 

Courage is what gets a Woman across a room of Laiteras.  She wears her confidence – not as clothing, but as part of her skin.  She learns to love who she is – never losing grace, or the smile on her face – despite being ranked and treated like a horse in a race. 

I am a man and I know I cannot endure that kind of violence. 

My slow turn is complete, and I am at the Mrs. Universe pageant again - suddenly and completely amazed.  I am blown away with admiration for these women who I previously dared to judge for my own amusement.

It was now time for the dreaded question and answer portion – where the contestants got a chance to earn their whopping 20 points.

A man asked:  “Who do you think should decide how many children you can have - The couple or the state?”

Then a woman:  “As a married woman, what advice can you give to all would be wives and mothers?”

Another man:  “How can a candidate in this pageant weave positive change?” 

“Maybe she can weave baskets,” I shook my head at the questions.

I wanted to jump on the stage.  I knew the question they wanted to ask – the one that no one dared to phrase.  In my mind I slipped on my chauvinist gloves, grabbed the microphone, and threw down the clincher: 

Convince me that you're not just another person with a vagina.  That where you are in your life is out of your own merits and not from standing behind a man.  That you are more than a source of entertainment and a receptacle for birthing children.  That when people credit you for something, the sentence does not end with "...for a woman." 

I would follow that up with a math question.

12 rounds of boxing.  Every round a loss.  Bullied.  Hopelessly overpowered, and yet both arms raised at the end.  And a big smile, oh what a big beautiful smile. 

100 points for “Taking it Like a Man.” 

What Beautiful Courage these Women have.