Not yet, Ely Buendia, not now

HIGH School pal Gerry has this thing against posting blogs when other people have written about his subject of choice. He reads blogs and when someone posts something he was about to write about, he rewrites his piece.

He can afford that.

As one of the more creative minds in the ad industry, Gerry has one of the deepest, wildest and freakiest imaginations this side of the world. Coming up with a blog is as easy as a sexually preoccupied mental patient coming up with a hard-on while watching a porn movie.

I, on the other hand, am a struggling sports journalist whose brain is slowly drying up from a combination of alcohol, weed and the endless futile attempts at creative writing. When I do manage to think of something interesting to post, I will post it, never mind if it will sound like I thesaurus-ed myself out of plagiarism charges.

And so I will post what I was supposed to post today, never mind if it is a replica of Gerry’s post.

Because I really have to say this: Whatever you do, Mr Ely Buendia, don’t die on us yet.

You are a musical icon who is as rare as they come. You are a vacant cab with an accommodating driver during the holidays. You are the cop that actually looks to protect the citizenry. You are an honest politician. You are a filmfest movie deserving of an award. You are a critically-acclaimed Cueshe hit.

If you go, what does that leave us with? Artistic bands under the radar and Orange and Lemons. We scrounge the city for bars where one plays and puke when the other’s songs go on air.

As long as you’re there, we always have Eraserheads. E-Heads. The band. THE Band.

Forget Pupil. You will always be Eraserheads to me, just as E-Heads can never be reincarnated without you.

You played at 6-underground once as Pupil. Then for encore, you played two E-heads hits. I still have one of those performances on my cellphone video library, tucked between two porn quickies (that’s how much I adore you).

Before you, there was Pepe Smith and Mike Hanopol. And Smith had the sense to stay alive—never mind if physically, he is a weeded-out, jail-dried version of his old self—long after you made the E-heads the next Pinoy rock band after Juan dela Cruz. Hanopol lives on too. Don’t tell me you’re going to die ahead of them.

Die, Ely, and Hale’s going to write a tribute song for you. There, that should jolt your heart back to life.

Don’t get me wrong.

I would benefit greatly from your death. As a loyal Thomasian, you are the only reason I regret not having studied at the University of the Philippines (yeah, I am that shallow).

More than that, imagine how much my Ibanez acoustic guitar, which I bought for P15,000, would be worth now that it has your signature and the dedication: Francis, rock and roll! (signed) Ely 2006.

A friend of mine was willing to purchase it for P20k. And you are still alive. And that’s not including the photo of you signing it. And the signed confession of an Inquirer employee who overheard you saying that it’s your first time to affix a signature on a guitar.

But you can’t die yet. The next definitive band in the local scene hasn’t come out yet. Your presence is what helps keep music fans (even idiotic ones like me) patient.

Besides, heart attack at 36?

That’s not the way for music icons to go.

If people found you dead after OD-ing on your drug of choice, I’d probably be more at peace with that.

Or maybe if you blew your brains out like Kurt Cobain did.

Or if you were shot the way John Lennon was.

Imagine if I were the one who shot you!

Imagine how much my guitar would cost then!

But no, Ely, the music industry needs you. Some say you’re past your musical prime. That after struggling to rein yourself (sometimes with the help of Raymund and the rest of E-heads) from falling into three-chord pop compositions, there’s nothing left in that wonderfully insane brain of yours but indecipherable music that only those in cloak-and-dagger security agencies would appreciate.

I don’t think so.

I think you’re very much like a surfer who has exhausted himself catching wave after similar wave and who decided to plant his board in the sand and sit down to watch the sea.

But you aren’t just watching. Your eye is cast towards the horizon, eyeing that perfect wave, waiting.

So get through this and live longer, ayt? When that perfect wave comes, we want to watch you go out there and catch it.

Stupid metaphor, eh? Simply put, we still want to hear you speak to us more through music.