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Little Britain’s grotesques summon a cast much closer to home: the jokers and one-pair-of-trousers eccentrics of a Malabon boyhood.

Why do noontime hosts say happy viewing, why do movie goons wear leather in this heat, and what does Hollaback Girl actually mean?

Kerouac with Steve Allen on piano, Ginsberg howling, Burroughs on a hip-hop record. The spoken-word albums of the Beats, for freaky times.

Neil Gaiman says myths are resilient. Here are definitions for words that do not exist: womanhood, fashion, fine dining, numbers, scientists.

The Mars Volta’s Frances the Mute is a kick to the groin of pop: salsa breaks, Flea on trumpet, and Cedric Bixler-Zavala’s frantic flailing.

The blank page as a death shroud, a caterpillar condominium at a battle of the bands, and a beauty queen on a jeepney who broke the spell.

I spotted no severed heads on the trip, I’m glad to report. No love-struck cows, either. Edinburgh and London, with the Malabon blues again.

The wine bottles are empty and the lights have gone out. What is left is traffic, cab drivers turned weathermen, and a fatigue without a name.

A shoestring rock and roll pilgrimage through London: Denmark Street, Trident Studio, the Apple rooftop, and finally the Abbey Road crossing.

Awards night in Edinburgh: a Christina-versus-Kelly feud, Jackass mayhem, and Michael Stipe insisting rock isn’t dead yet.

Radiohead retreats from the electronics of Kid A back to guitars, and Thom Yorke keeps on chronicling the abyss. A Hail to the Thief review.

Three days of rain, a motel in Malabon, a Chevy Chase moment in Boracay, and the weirdos who turn up in every season of a flooded life.