To hear the last of "Nobody, Nobody But You": One of the major reasons for emigrating to another country. Hopefully outer Mongolia or some parts of the sub-African Sahara or just about any other place that has yet to know this vile thing called electricity.
A replacement of my vinyl copy of Black Sabbath Vol.4: Which is just about the greatest heavy metal album ever made. Drowned and warped by the heaviest-metal flooding to hit this godforsaken country.
A new Juan dela Cruz album: The reason why I still haven't killed myself yet is the hope that one day the Juan dela Cruz Band would get together, lock themselves up in the studio (hopefully with bagfulls of psychotropic substances) to write and record new songs. New songs that would hopefully smolder with slow, murderous riffs and acid-glazed lyrics. Mike Hanopol may have found God, but Pepe Smith still hasn't. Nor seems interested to. But at least he hasn't OD'd yet. And Wally Gonzales still plays the blues like the devil himself. You can do it, guys. Go to the nearest Mercury Drug. Now. With your senior citizen cards, of course.
A genuinely funny Tito, Vic, and Joey movie: It should be pointed out that Iskul Bukol The Movie was criminally disappointing. It felt like an Enteng Kabisote movie with Joey and Tito plus some half-assed punchlines inserted as an afterthought. The result: forced, and an astonishingly clumsy attempt to cash in on generational nostalgia. Less than halfway into the movie, it forgets the Iskul Bukol aspect and meanders through fantasy adventure routines involving...involving...I forgot. Truth is, I fell asleep. And I want my money back.
A serious Dolphy film: Something in the mold of Ang Tatay Kong Nanay. For a man in the twilight of his career, he needs something that would address the, uh, human condition. And you can still be funny while being serious. There's a big difference between solemn and serious. Rene Requiestas is serious. Gil Portes is solemn. For chrissakes, the last thing Dolphy needs is another Tatay Nic or Home Along the Riles and the same old, tired toilet humor and slapstick gags. Give the man some respect. A good last movie is better than a middling National Artist Award, which has lost its prestige since every Carlo, Cecile, and Pitoy can get one. The National Artist Award does not deserve Dolphy. Let's hope Nobody, Nobody But Juan will not disappoint.
