GETTING stuck in traffic sometimes help practice mouth and throat muscles, more than the trigger finger.

The guy who rammed 20 cars last week must have done that -pouring alcohol down his esophagus- before encountering a gridlock that set off intolerance.

And Ivler must be an exception, since I and good friend and savvy technician Leo reached for an imaginary microphone rather than a semi-automatic pistol and allowed our vocal chords to reverberate and fill the Revo one day after Christmas.

We were stuck between a tricycle and several other vehicles along the Sta. Rosa road from Tagaytay when Leo belted out the first two lines of the Bohemian Rhapsody.

Maybe he can't believe the predicament we're in that's why he crooned if this is the real life or is this just fantasy.

Maybe I wanted to drown out the snoring of Bhotskie so I chimed along that we're caught in a landslide.

No escape from reality.

That began the flood of songs, mostly from aging or dead guys.

We can't stop because the kids obviously liked the way we sang, as evidenced by the palm on their ears. My daughter even hit high the volume on her ipod so we chimed along, taking cue from this audience disapproval.

They obviously enjoyed the torture to their cochlea that when we reached Walter-Mart, Bhotskie thought of buying a videoke set, one that has a microchip stored with 3,000 songs.

The god of music may have been smiling at us that he was able to get one nearly an hour before the store closed.

I considered Bhotskie's act an honor and privelege so we hurried back to his place, installed the videoke, and popped out a half-filled bottle of Cuervo.

My daughters Katha and Ani, Leo's Gabbs, and Bhotskie's Alyssa, Utoy, and Zoei shared our excitement that they went into another room and locked it from us.

Leo and Bhotskie have been my friends since High School in 1982 so we didn't mind the brush-off of talent from our kids.

They were bonding, and so were we.

So we sang the rest of the evening away until the Tequila bottle rapidly evaporated and we had to open a new one: a mango-flavored vodka.

I got worried that the neighbors would report us to the police since the mini-concert has gone on for more than two hours.

And in UP Diliman where I live, singing via pumped-up speakers are only allowed until midnight.

But Bhotskie said it was the first time their neighbors heard how someone can mangle Led Zep's Stairway to Heaven.

That's the last time Leo and Bhotskie said they saw me conscious.

The last song they heard from me was snoring.

And instead of the microphone, I was clutching the bottle of Absolut, which they said they had to pry out with a crowbar.


But I know that when I sang the last line about a lady buying a climb up the stairs, Robert Plant was smiling.

I think he approved of my snoring.

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