Last week was, arguably, the most stressful week I’ve ever had in my life and Saturday, capping it off, was nothing short of a disaster: I was tired, hungover like a bitch and was probably on the verge of suffering a mild stroke.

As I painstakingly traversed EDSA to get to Greenhills, it became apparent to me that If I am to get through the next couple of weeks with stress from work, home and a bunch of other sources buttfucking me from all sides, I would probably need to start doing Shabu or some other amphetamine derivative to give me energy boosts because, seriously, this shit is just impossible.

(But wait, now that I think about it, I don’t really want to get started with drugs again for a variety of reasons. Primarily because a drug habit is expensive and I am terrible with money–A couple of days ago, I came this close to buying an 80 thousand peso laptop before I realized that hey, wait a second, I have no fucking money. And if I carded the damn thing, HSBC Collection Commandos are going to make sure that I won’t see my family alive again.

Also, for someone who’s in his late twenties and who’s only moderately famous to have a drug problem is like ewww. Whatev.)

Anyway, instead of drugs, I’ve turned to an even more potent poison– Coca Cola– to cope lately. And yes, you better start praying for me. It has been working really well so far; I pop several cans of coke a day and it keeps me focused and alive all day, until of course I get home and replace my coke drip with a couple of bottles of Red Horse in an effort to make my dying heart explode faster.

On the average, I think I can safely put the number of cans of coke I consume daily in the neighborhood of five. On the night of the Banana Gangbang Rock Festival, a night that capped off an intensely infuriating work week, I actually lost count in regards to how many cokes I had but my conservative estimate puts the number at around seven.

So I got to Bela Bar at around 9pm and, at that point, my body was filled with exorbitant amounts of sugar and caffeine that if you were close enough to me, you’d probably hear my heart buzzing.

As if that wasn’t enough, I also had the biggest headache and was so nauseous that I felt like any sudden movement would invariably cause me to puke my testicles out my mouth or my brain to explode or something

But wait, I’m Mike “Fucking” Villar, since when did I let something as stupid as a possible flu get in the way of rocking? WHEN? I’m Mike “Fucking” Villar, and again I ask you, when did I let something as stupid as “law” to get in the way of RAPE?

No, wait. FUCK!

Anyway, yeah, so I might have been coming down with a flu, big deal. If Michael Jordan can drop 38 points on the Jazz with a flu, then I sure as hell can get up there and give the audience the gift of ROCK flu and all. All I need is an Advil and probably a bonamine.

So I asked Marco and Rey to walk around the vicinity with me to find a drug store right? FAIL.

It turns out that the nearest drugstore was like three blocks away.

I got to the drugstore and immediately started arguing with the pharmacist guy because he said that I cannot take a bonamine and an advil and how I should only take one or the other. I was all like “Dude, fuck you, just because you know all these fancy drug generic names doesn’t make you a fucking doctor. I had two years of med schooling under my belt. Now what do you say you hand over the fucking bonamine AND the fucking advil NOW?”

After a few more minutes of arguing with the pharmacist guy which ended with him saying “My lord and savior Jesus Christ will punish you”, he finally handed over the pills to me which I promptly popped and washed down with bottled iced tea. FAIL.

I headed back to the bar and now, after popping the pills I insisted on buying even after a professional who knows drugs and their effect on people dissuaded me to do so, I not only feel nauseous and light headed, I was also seeing double for some reason. But because I had a shitty week, I was hell bent on doing only one thing: To get really fucked up. less than an hour later, I had four bottles of empty Red Horse bottles to my credit. FAIL.

I don’t know if it’s just me but the effect of Advil, Bonamine, Iced tea, beer and like 200 cigarettes made me feel high as a kite. My vision started to get all blurry, my heart rate accelerated and of course, I started to sweat and I began shivering–I was fucked up. In a good way.

When Zoo took the stage, I was hypnotized, by the time they played their second song, if anyone yelled “Everyone! quick! Let’s whip out our birds and masturbate to their music!” I would’ve dropped my pants and started flogging my dolphin in less than three seconds. When Mannequin played, anybody could’ve yelled “Everyone! Let’s eat napkins!” and I would’ve started making napkin salad and the bar would be out of napkins in no time. This is the only way I can describe how fucking high I was.

When Marco Palinar went up on stage and played his guitar like how a man should play with a woman’s body, I doubled up on the floor and made a noise similar to that of a big dog getting kicked in the stomach. It was over for me. I orgasmed without touching my bird all thanks to the awesomeness of the music.

My band, Tempestuous’, set was pretty uneventful save for a few times when my mic died and I had to shuffle back and forth between the wired mic and the wirless mic which is funny in itself. I think.

And what can I say about Lose Your Beer Belly capping off the night? Well, all I can say is Bok, Lose Your Beer Belly Vocalist Guy, is made of SEX; and I could totally imagine him, Ade and myself making out after making sweet, sweet music together.

All in all I had a great time. I especially had a great time not talking to people because I was high off my mind. I mean, I think I saw Ria Jose, Kring, and poyt in the event, but because I was too busy talking to my uncle, King Arthur over at Camelot on my imaginary cellphone, I didn’t get the chance to speak with them. I’m really sorry guys. Tell you what though, when you guys hold an event, you don’t have to talk to me. Just make sure I have my beer, my advil and my bonamine and I’d be fine.

Anyway, I would like to thank the following people for being there and making the event 9 times more awesome:

• Ade Magnaye
• Fritz Tentativa
• Sasha Manuel
• Rico Mossesgeld
• Helga Weber
• Rico Sta. Cruz
• Peter Juan
• Jen Juan
• Pau Araos
• Lauren Dado
• Noemi Dado
• Butch Dado
• Karla Redor
• Jhay Rocas
• Penny Monasterial

Here are some pictures from my Flickr Photo set

More Pictures!

• My Multiply
• Karla Redor
• Fritz
• Poyt (1, 2)
• Pau
• Jhay
• Sasha (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6)
• Gem (Zoo’s vox)

More articles about BGRF on the interwubz:

• Rockersworld.com
• Fritzified
• About My Recovery
• Faded Boxers
• Noisy, Noisy Man

Okay, so I have been playing gigs with my current band for over seven years now and, over that span of time, we’ve amassed a collective experience that runs the gamut of playing for audiences that consist of rich, giddy and rebellious college chicks willing to suck quasi-rockstar dick just to “stick it” to daddy because he won’t buy her the new car she wants to drunk, barriotic baby boomers yelling expletives at us, demanding that we play something from the Scorpions in provincial Fiestas.

But you know what is a first for me? Playing live in front of people who actually know me–playing live in front of people who know me as a Rising Internet Star. Who likes to fuck himself up.

Now, this is what the Banana Gangbang Rock Festival is to me. My mission: To play at least one song that would make these people uncomfortable as possible and leave them with a feeling of intense chagrin and awkwardness.

What do I have so far? Well, I am inclined to go with Sarah McLachlan’s Angel and if that doesn’t work, I would have our unreleased original song My penis (The pencil of love). And if that doesn’t work, I’d probably rock out on top of a table, whip out my birdie (or coax it out of my abdomen where it has burrowed itself into due to intense embarrassment) and start a lengthy session of self-love.

But I’m going to put all my chips forward and bet that Angel would do the trick. Nothing and, I say again, NOTHING will instill discomfort into a room full of family and friends than a song about suicide through drug overdose.

Imagine: a bar packed with family and friends, me as the lead singer coming up on stage and saying “Are you fucking pussy faggot maggot breaths ready to ROCK or what?! I can’t fucking hear you! Okay, let’s fucking do this shit!” then bust out that familiar piano riff and go all “Spend all my time waiting, for that second chance, for the break that would make it okay…” in a girly voice.

Oro.

Anyway, if the idea of me embarrassing myself in front of family and friends isn’t enough to sell you on the idea, then maybe the fact that some of the biggest names in the local blogging scene are playing on the festival will. I mean do you even know who Lauren Dado, Mike “Fucking” Villar, Marco “The Site Guy” Palinar, and Ade Magnaye are? Where the fuck’s your blog again? How many daily unique visitors do you have again? Exactly.

So yeah, Bela Bar over at Wilson St. Greenhills. Be there.

Remember, Mike Villar holds grudges like a motherfucker. Just saying.

I think this was the song that was playing when Ellen Page was giving birth and was the song Ellen Page and Michael Cera sang on that scene at the end of the movie after they like gave away their baby to Jennifer Garner or something.

Also, I think giving up babies for adoption is the most awesome thing in the world. I have nothing else.

Seek and Destroy (Metallica Cover)

And here’s a video from my company’s Christmas party where we played a song from a band I really don’t get.

Mr. Brightside (The Killers)

Enjoy. Oh and Merry Christmas. Or something.

In High School, I played a couple of gigs, mostly for school events like foundation days (and that stupid graduation ball where the Dean of Discipline accused me and my friends of “contaminating” the food with our saliva. We almost didn’t graduate, that asshole).

But my musical career, if you could call it that, peaked right before High School ended. I found out that one of my friends played wicked drums, another one of our friends learned to play the guitar(I would eventually relinquish my guitar-playing duties to him and pick up the microphone to “sing”) and we met an old college guy with weird fingers through him who played the bass.

Next thing I knew, we had ourselves a little band called Tempestuous. Now, “Temepstuous” means being characterized by strong and turbulent or conflicting emotions. I know it sounds pretentious as hell but for the record, I had little to no input on our band name. My suggestions of “Mike Villar and the Yeah Pare’s”, “Mike Villar and Band”, “Mike Villar featuring Mike Villar’s band” and “Mike Villar and Friends” were all shot down and invalidated.

We made up some pretty retarded songs which were huge hits in our school. If you were to ask me which of our hits were the biggest, I’d say our songs “Jakol–Huwag dit0” a song which narrates a young man’s struggle with deviant sexual tendencies; and “Hari ng Talisay” a song about four guys who lived in a street called “Talisay” who started a band, would be our biggest hits.

We didn’t play these songs on our gigs though but instead played Metallica and Nirvana covers on campus and at local bars. We played horrible music but the fact that we were a bunch of 15 year-olds (and a 22 year old. The bass guy with weird fingers) playing Metallica covers made our act a really cute novelty.

Most of all, we had fun, got free drinks and packed venues we played at with friends. Also, there was this one time after we played a set at Saint Claire College in Novaliches, I got a blowjob from a cute sophomore in the woods behind campus. Good times.

We still played in college but with much less frequency. Everybody was just too busy and since I attended med school for my first three years of college, I didn’t get to meet anyone even remotely interested in being a band.

On my second year of college, I got myself a small, ramshackle room behind my university and met a guy named Aaron who is easily one of the best musical minds I have ever met. At my behest, I asked him to be my roommate.

To say that the results were tragic would be an understatement. Aaron smoked like a motherfucker and before long,I found myself taking up the habit too. I spent school days boozing and because I started smoking and I am deathly asthmatic, I was living off nebulizers and asthma medication and dangerously low amounts of food.

Aaron, who had this sort of weird “unstable musical genius” thing going on, would lock himself up in our room, smoking and working on melodies for our upcoming band’s songs while I was relegated to the common living room, watching reruns of Cafeteria Aroma, coughing up blood and being generally sick.

When we finally got around to rounding up our band members and recording the songs Aaron wrote, I was very unhappy with it. My smoking took its toll on me and my voice which, before, sounded like a choir of a thousand angels now sounded like Brian McKnight on helium. Aaron tried to salvage the songs by remastering them but they still sounded horrible.

These songs still exist somewhere on the internet and I am pretty sure they will surface when I finally make it big and destroy whatever career I might have by then.

After that failed attempt at musical success, I have been playing less and less. My fingers, which were once limber musical monsters became stiff, awkward and fat musically impaired pussies incapable of playing even the simplest chord patterns.

Now, I’m back with my old band, Tempestuous playing at company Christmas Parties and ticket-selling production gigs where we earn an average of 1,500 pesos a set. Sometimes, when I’m messed up enough, I relive my glory days by dragging my huge-ass Marshall amp and my fake Stratocaster to the middle of the street and play classic rock songs like Black Sabbath’s NIB and Metallica’s Fade to Black. Sad. Just sad.

Pictures courtesy of Riz and Sharm.

–

Tempestuous will be having a gig on Freedom Bar, Anonas Quezon City on Saturday December 15, 2007. We will be playing with the bands Neruda and Maryzart. If you decide to drop by, please make me feel important by talking to me and telling me that even though my music sucks, my grammar on my blog is immaculate. Also, if you know somebody who’s celebrating their birthday, book us. We’re pretty popular with drunkard males in the 40-45 demographic.

• Our favorite Internet Star hangs out with his friends over two cases of Red Horse.
• He looks in the mirror and realizes that, so far, he has lived a life where he is considered by everyone he meets to be in the lower 10th percentile of attractiveness.
• He gets extremely emo, whips out his guitar and came up with the monstrosity below.

Thank you for fighting hard for what we have.

(By the way, this is going to be the first and last time I am going to attempt to sing an Emo Punk song. I don’t know how these kids can make their voice sound as if it comes out of a vagina without seriously hurting themselves.)

After crying to my mom and going through a list of my itemized weekly expenses with her, we both concluded that my weekly immoderate indulgence on alcohol, cigarettes and (sometimes) prostitutes is what’s killing me and it would really help if I could try and stay home on weekends instead of my usual routine of spending over 2 thousand pesos a night on beer and countless ladies’ drinks.

So I yeah, I decided to give this ‘staying at home on weekends to save money’ thing a try last Friday. Instead of hanging out with friends after I got off work, I headed straight home, popped a Xanax and was knocked out by 10pm. I woke up around noon and ate three slices of Pizza for lunch then proceeded to nap from 1pm to 3pm. Conclusion: Sleep = awesomecakes.

But here’s why this entire ‘staying at home on weekends to save money’ thing would never work: After I woke up around 3pm Saturday, I, naturally wasn’t feeling hungover and actually felt kind of recharged. And with no sign of puke on my bedroom floor nor were there any empty cans of Century Tuna lying around my bed like they would if I got plastered the night before, I think “Hey since I didn’t go out and spend money last night, I should go to the mall and spend money today.”

Coincidentally, my band had a gig on Sunday and my bandmates and I were supposed to practice Saturday night, And since I felt like a winner on so many levels; two hours later, I was in the local music store with a brand new Fire Truck Red Gibson Epiphone on one hand and an authentic pair of Latin American Castanets on the other, thinking to myself “Spending over 12,000 pesos on these isn’t that bad. I mean, if I drank last night, I would’ve easily spent over 2,000 pesos anyway! And using my awesome, infallible deductive reasoning, I got a new guitar and Castanets I probably have no use for for only 10,000 pesos! What a steal! Maybe I should drop 3 thousand pesos on booze and food to celebrate with my poverty-stricken friends later!”

God, I can’t wait to have a family and watch them die of hunger.

Anyway, after spending close to 15,000 pesos in one day, I suddenly remembered that was my dad’s birthday and I really should get him something. Now you see, my family never says “I love you” too each other a lot. We show our affection for each other by buying expensive gifts. My parents got me my first car when I was 18, my mom snuck in Vina Morales in my room when I was 20 but she and I didn’t end up having sex because I can’t get my bird up (This could probably because I was so into drugs at that time), so I just asked her to rub my flaccid manhood until I fall asleep instead (an incident which would forever raise my sexuality as a subject of debate within the family); and only two years ago, my parents bought me an expensive-ass stereo system for my birthday.

Well that’s them. Because I am both lazy and perpetually broke, I’ve been giving my parents cheap goldilocks cakes (mom) and lighters (dad) for the past ten years or so. This is in no way a measure of how much I love my mummers and dudders because seriously, do you think I’d give the gift of fat to my mom and lung cancer to my dad every year for 10 years if it was? Exactly.

Anyway, this year, I decided to give my dad an expensive (150 Pesos), parrot-shaped lighter! It even makes bird sounds while its eyes light up when you use it! Yay me! Yay dad! Happy birthday! I hope you enjoy your cancer!