Yes, contrary to the popular myth that sleep is elusive in airplanes, there’s nothing better to do on a KLM plane but hit the lights and doze off on those comfy, reclining seats (150 degrees) without noticing time slipping into the cracks of the universe. Next thing I knew I was in Amsterdam around 8 a.m., a cold and clammy Tuesday. I went back in time. A seven-hour trip back. Well, sort of. I knew I had to give those hours back when I return to Manila. The strange thing is your mind is aware of the time difference, thus the need to adjust one’s watch, but your body is clueless, like a cop in the proverbial pancitan.
(A discovery: jet- lag sets in even if you don’t subscribe to the idea; disbelief in it doesn’t necessarily dull its effects, unlike what Elmer Fudd and Daffy Duck discovered with gravity.)
This silly meditation was cut short when the plane reached Schiphol Airport, which is so beautiful it’s Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart to the NAIA’s Billy Ray Cyrus. Much has been written about it, so no use rhapsodizing about its sprawling halls, quaint shops and it’s quirky decor  the cow sculpture, twisted chandeliers and the pair of leather fat guy beanbags looked stunning. Since airports are staid, antiseptic and boring places  the architectural equivalent of an encyclopedia salesman  it’s nice when it is spruced up with eye-catching artworks.
After a few hours, off we went to Barcelona. I had two whole days to ourselves before the awards night itself which was scheduled on a Thursday evening, so I made a mental list of all the museums, Gaudi structures, absinthe cafes (and strip joints) I would visit.
I arrived at the city and made my way into the Hilton Barcelona where I was already booked by MTV. (MTV Philippines’ Rod Nepomuceno and Charley Bautista arranged everything, so all I did was show up and check in.) One of the floors (the 6th, I think) resembled the set of Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange: splashes of orange everywhere, striped caramel carpet, dizzying abstract paintings hanging on the walls. I half-expected Alex and his droogs to come out of the corners, looking for sweet devotchkas, and give me a dose of ultra-violence. On the other hand, my floor (the 7th) was less flamboyant with its browns and beiges.
As I unpacked my clothes, I looked out the hotel window and gazed into the streets, the alleways of Spain  the Spain written about by Hemingway and Cervantes, the Spain immortalized by Miles Davis ("Sketches of Spain"), Chick Corea ("My Spanish Heart"), Al Jarreau ("Spain"), Jimi Hendrix (Spanish Castle Magic), the Spain that is the home of Dali, Picasso, voyagers, telenovela actresses, pickpockets, gypsies, and a gaggle of words we’ve incorporated into our daily lingo. And then I mused about the assignment at hand: this year’s MTV Europe Music Awards. This is the Big Kahuna of assignments, especially for a person who has written articles in the past like "The secrets of being a top insurance salesman" and "The advantages of securing a memorial plan." It’s MTV, man. What many consider the high priest of music, culture and fashion, so to write about it is to chart the cool, to chronicle everything pop and hip.
For some reason, maybe the preoccupation with time travel, my memory started replaying images of the very first video I saw on MTV: The Cars’ You Might Think. (I saw others before  The Beatles’ Yellow Submarine, Alice Cooper’s How You Gonna See Me Now and Queen’s Another One Bites The Dust  but You Might Think was the first one I saw on the fledgling music channel.) Yes, the one where lead singer Rick Ocasek turns into a car, a fly, among other things in order to pester model Paulina Porizkova. Great film clip. It won best video honors in the first MTV Music Awards with Bette Midler as host. I remember watching the awards while combing my Flock of Seagulls hairdo, not knowing I would be crowned class idiot by my classmates the following day.
I guess everyone has an Eighties horror story, even MTV. But the network has come a long, long way from that tacky era when Michael Jackson was king, and when mint green blazers, Used jeans and big, shiny, Aqua Net-styled, hard-to-hold hair was "cool." These days, MTV defines what’s hip, what’s hot and what should be banished from the face of the earth along with Wham and Rico Suave tapes. It has become a huge influence on today’s youth in terms of fashion and attitude. And the rise has been phenomenal.
I remember the spectacles at the MTV music awards. Faith No More’s Mike Patton squirming like a goldfish in the Epic number. Guns N’ Roses, with guest Elton John, performing the bombastic November Rain. Led Zeppelin bassist John Paul Jones jamming with Lenny Kravitz on Are You Gonna Go My Way. Red Hot Chili Peppers playing Give it Away with, well, practically the whole neighborhood. Tim C. of Rage Against the Machine climbing the scaffolding as a sign of protest. Tommy Lee showing up at the awards wearing nothing but a trenchcoat. Li’l Kim flaunting her sequined boob. The many U2 and Madonna performances in New York and Europe. The pop sages, saints, sinners, freaks, alchemists, tarts, magicians, fools, chameleons, clowns, thugs, vamps, sorcerers, minstrels, peddlers, hawkers, conjurers  all of ‘em have graced the MTV Music Awards.
For the Barcelona gig, Eminem was slated to perform. So were Coldplay, Moby and the Foo Fighters. This writer, this bag of hair and hormones was tingling at the thought of seeing Christina Aguilera, Kylie Minogue and Pamela Anderson in the flesh. Mmm... Kylie...
And although, I know it’s purely showbiz with the fake synthetic Satanism and all, but Marilyn Manson gives me the creeps eversince I heard his "Anti-Christ Superstar"  a mesh of metal, industrial and assorted devilry. I was also curious how tacky Pink and Robbie Williams would come across, how Sean "P. Diddy" Combs would handle the tough job as host, how the people of Barcelona would behave as an audience, how the whole audio-visual circus would unravel, how the hell would I tell the cab driver to take me to Palau Sant Jordi where the awards show was going to be held.
I was curious. Really curious. My curiosity was bigger, taller, fatter than me. It opened the door of the hotel room, did somersaults in the hallway, rode the elevator, smoked a Marlboro, hailed a cab and disappeared into the twisting Barcelona sidestreets. Probably bought abaniko and turones de casoy for pasalubong.
When we got to Palau Sant Jordi, we had to wait before we were allowed to enter the press entrance. So what if my corduroy suit was fast absorbing rainwater or Tim’s fuchsia coat was turning bloody gray, the burly bouncers seemed to say. You can’t argue with biceps. Good thing a couple of girls with umbrellas approached me asking if Bono will walk the red carpet. So, I took cover with promises of Bono.
(To be continued)