still thinking

Justice hotdogs

2008-10-08T18:47:00.000-07:00

We can argue to kingdom come the merits of the case (but of course I wouldn’t do that because I’m not a lawyer), the sincerity of the act of pardon or the executive privilege which this curmudgeon from the department of justice hotdogs, whose idea of electioneering does not include dispensing cash to barangay officials who deserved it anyway even if it is election fever, said is all but executively and prerogatively exclusive which in saying attributes godly omnipotence.

The grief over the death and outrage over the decision however are beyond the limits of our comprehension but it is for the family to bear for the rest of their lives.

I remember watching an episode of Justice, where Victor Garber and Kerr Smith, talked after a trial over a bunch of hotdogs. Garber’s character said something about the similarities of justice and hotdogs. How we love them served hot and fresh and juicy but we never really got to care how it is being made.

rated XX

2008-10-06T17:15:00.000-07:00

Warning. This will prolly gross you out. But I need to let it out like some kind of pent up c-men of a disappointingly long ejaculation process. See this doesn’t happen all the time. I mean it doesn’t happen all the time since fuckable looking girls are hard to come by in jeepney rides recently, I dunno why. Speaking of fuckable though, there’s this scene in Margot in the Wedding where Nicole Kidman and Jennifer Jason Leigh are talking or arguing about being fuckable, or something to that extent. So that’s where I got the word fuckable.

But anyway, on the way home after the booktrip I just talked about, there was this petite girl with really nice plump breasts, not the papaya type which I don’t like, that I think if I cupped them with my hands it would really feel nice. But she’s not petite like it would make me a fucking pedophile; I think she was about my age though, mestiza complexion and all. I could’ve mistaken her for someone I barely knew by face but I dispelled the idea. I must’ve stared at her long and hard enough, though I keep on glancing at my books, that she turned sideways, her hair covering most of her face. That’s when I noticed another chick beside her, much younger, say 16, who’s also equally fuckable-looking. Menage-a-trois: liquidating the cobwebs of my mind, imaginary steamy and ecstatic copulation fogging the glass walls of a vintage car shuddering like there’s no tomorrow.

You have to be careful with a raging hard-on in jeepneys unless you have bag or carry-on luggage to cover up that growing tent up your crotch, or you have to mentally come or hastily think of un-perverse thoughts to pacify Mr. Wiener and not parade himself to unsuspecting passengers. Luckily for me, I always have my khaki messenger bag. That’s its other prurient purpose. Note of emphasis: this doesn’t really happen all the time, really.

There will be books.

2008-10-04T05:56:00.000-07:00

For the past two weeks, up to today, I have amassed a total of 13 books from booksales, 12 since I will be reselling one to a colleague upon his request, which I will then borrow in some distant future. That’s some kind of record for me, which doesn’t mean that I have to beat somebody else’s or even mine, because I haven’t set such a shitty record. Especially with the fact that every time I’m mulling the idea of picking a book I’m wracking my head senseless of the actual nearest possible time I will be able to pick it up, this time actually reading the damn book. And whenever I get into such argument with myself, which is every time, I justify the purchase with the selfish geeky argument that someone will have picked it up in another hour, day or week. Despite the seeming obliviousness of this generation to the wonder of books, one can never discredit the fact that if you decide to let go of that fateful meeting with a rare, yellowed Thomas Pynchon novel like The Crying of Lot 49, somebody who have been itching for the same book would pick it up the next day.

The ones I bought at a local mall atrium booksale over a period of one week are truly gems, because, all of them are sold at 20 pesos: a cover-torn copy of Alex Garland’s The Beach, Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago, Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood a new version of which is sold at NBS for more than 500 pesos, Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49, Mark Twain’s Letters from the Earth and John Le Carre’s The Looking-Glass War since I didn’t try hardest to look for The Spy who came in from the Cold. (I have long been meaning to read, make it pick, a Le Carre book because it’s practically everywhere in booksales and they say The Spy is the quintessential spy novel.)

At another mall, which sold books from the price range of 89-189 pesos: The 9/11 Investigations edited by former Newsweek editor Steven Strasser, a compilation book of the 9/11 commission reports and other relevant interviews. Pegged at 189 which is not bad actually if you think about it.

At an NBS in a local mall, where a massive flood of hardbound books caused me extreme excitement and a real decision-making pain in the ass: Ray Bradbury’s The Cat’s Pajamas: Short Stories, Paul Auster’s Travels in the Scriptorium which is also sold in paperback in the same store at 359 pesos, John Hemingway’s Strange Tribe, A Family Memoir, Bob Dylan: The Essential Interviews, Alan Greenspan: The Age of Turbulence and The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. 99 pesos each.

Webs of gibberish

2008-10-03T06:23:00.000-07:00

Two months ago I read Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho which makes me feel like a geeky loser having read it at such a later time, like the past two months, given the reputation (notoriety) of this novel in contemporary literature. But even if I read it in college or even early on in high school, I wouldn’t have appreciated its depth and the themes which it criticizes. I guess I don’t need to bore you with how the novel seems to suck you in despite its plotlessness and how it titillates you and makes you feel like a perv for wanting to see more of Patrick Bateman’s all too-detailed gratuitous sexual violence in the pages. As they say, some things are meant to be read. Which is why so many, even critics alike were led astray by the novel’s bluntness lambasting it as trash and accusing Ellis of pornography that they actually lost track of the social critique it was meant for in the first place, like commodification and the increasing gap of social classes as a result, the rise of the urban bourgeois, the loss of identity in a seemingly economically flourishing era, etc. Psycho is set in New York and Bateman’s world is Wall St. heaven. The indestructibility and stability of Ellis’ stylishly concocted world will be comical if placed in the vulnerability of the current times. Recession and bailout, hell even sub-prime mortgage, would remotely surface in the superficial discussions of self-absorbed financial execs, Bateman et al. But even if such were discussed, as vague terms, in that particular economic pinnacle, the wide gap would have alienated the blue-collar layman from giving a flying fuck about how economic slowdown would actually allow them to live decently.

Last night, I watch the government’s economic panel sling back answers from supposed intelligible queries and stories out of these landed up on front pages of national broadsheets today. For the past few weeks, we too have been engrossed in the US economic situation attempting to make sense out of it, out of our lives as Filipino citizens (and at least for me not that successfully) but in the end, Juan dela Cruz won’t give a flying fuck (I purposely repeated those two words). John Cassidy in The New Yorker aptly puts it: “As an exercise in crisis management, it is potentially disastrous—and, to the rest of the world, dumbfounding”. But what am I really talking here anyway that none of the thinking people already know? I think it just goes to show that we are still bridging, and that’s why we don’t bridge the gap, it’s because it is always burned. In the world of American Psycho, the insignificant are further marginalized and the economically important continue to slobber with whatever there is to consume.

the audacity, period.

2008-09-25T01:14:00.000-07:00

Barack Obama is not just a big-smiling charismatic Democrat who swayed, well, yes, the world, with such an audacious campaign right from the very moment he stood up on that Democratic convention where he first announced his desire to run for the highest seat in the land. He also happens to be the next big, best thing in American politics, so far. You can perhaps say it’s because of his unique and inspiring background, racially and yes politically. He has lived in

Kenya

and

Indonesia

and has amazing roots as community organizer. The Illinois senator has been hounded with his political inexperience, being one of the youngest and a first-term senator. But commonsensically, it’s such a flimsy argument if we’d like to see in every candidate that he’d reach 80 and see political adeptness anatomically evident. To his credit though, McCain exudes a charismatic atmosphere, in that we don’t actually get fumed as much as we see Bush. It’s just that with an unpopular war that’s not trailing off any sooner and the recent economic turmoil, he is the likely casualty of the unpopularity of his Republican predecessor.

Hope and change are such big words, audacious words. Maybe the guy is referencing to the Sam Cooke song A Change is Gonna Come which marked the historical civil rights movement, I dunno. And Barack, whose name sounds with Iraq and a surname that rhymes with that of the Al-Qaeda leader (quite an unpopular name if you think about it), not only has the courage to take up these words but he has the willpower and conviction to realize these seemingly abstract words in an American era still mired in uncertainty. Hope and change are powerful words, something where you can put intellect and brilliance to good use - and it takes audacity to realize them.

photo from Salon.com

The table that screams

2008-09-24T17:34:00.000-07:00

I've been meaning to finish Taxi to the Dark Side, the Oscar-winning documentary by Alex Gibney, which retells the unfortunate story of Dilawar, an Afghan taxi driver who was wrongfully suspected, captured and tortured in the Bagram Air Base in Kabul in 2002. The picture below, the Abu Ghraib table (which according to boinboing.net is furniture as political statement), reminded be to do so. The triumph of this documentary as well as other Oscar-nominated docus like No End in Sight which focused on the folly over the Iraq war is that it once again enmeshes us into the grisly power of US military policy, and US's foreign policy over the Iraq war in general.

The Road to Guantanamo, in drama-docu style, directed by Michael Winterbottom released in 2006, is in similar vein a depiction of the unorthodox methods of interrogation and the inhuman conditions over at Guantanamo Bay prison in Cuba. These films show us how a crushed superpower unleashes its fury and how political logic, or even logic at the very least, flies out of the window in the midst of uncertainty in the troublesome post -9/11 era.

photo found in boinboing.net via jessicarulestheuniverse.com

Another threat

2008-09-24T03:28:00.000-07:00

We maybe digging up below, underneath the Arctic seabed to be exact, not looking (and be blinded) up there where mighty Sun radiates UV rays, to find another threatening culprit to the increase in global warming.

Scientists recently discovered disturbing huge deposits of methane gas emanating from so-called "chimneys" in the Arctic region particularly in areas across the Siberian continental shelf. Increased levels of methane escaping from these "chimneys" is also connected to rising temperatures in the region, which as narrated in this article, has risen to 4C degrees for the past decades.

Picture this: if we have enough "methane chimneys" spread across the Arctic seabed, it could look like a perforated piece of styrofor, and crumbling the entire Arctic region is as easy as blowing air through these holes. Jeez.

Getty photo from dailymail.co.uk

And Here. We. Go.

2008-09-16T04:42:00.000-07:00

I can smell it. It’s in the air. No, I’m not talking about the commercialized ‘tis-the-season-to-be-jolly’ holidays. To put it simply, the season of the really good movies are here and some of the festivals have announced their winners as well. A lot would call it Oscar mania, but I wouldn’t really want to label it that, as I previously did, because I came to realize that there are a lot of good films left out, the ones that either lacked studio backing or marketing strategy, but standouts. The Academy is a sucker for marketing strategy. Put up a whopper of a poster, and then some. You know, that For Your Consideration thingy that usually appears in bootlegged copies of films. Well, it’s Oscar fever for one because most of the films that would likely end in the Academy’s roster are released this time of the year.

Around September last year, I listed down films that piqued me and what I thought would be potential contenders come awards season. It’s usually safe because most of it I haven’t seen yet, except some trailers and it’s really fun how your amateurish prognostication will turn out.

3 out of 5 nominated films last year I was able to mention: There will be Blood, Atonement, and No Country for Old Men. No Country I didn’t even knew about until it was raved in most of the festivals it screened. I was partial with Blood because it’s Paul Thomas Anderson and Atonement because that time I just finished reading the novel. Wasn’t gaga that much for Atonement, but thought that Blood and No Country are important films because it cinematically depicted the current socio-political milieu, whether America or the world.

I also mentioned The Savages, which earned an Original Screenplay nod and I’m Not There, though it earned just an acting nod from a luminous and unbelievable Cate Blanchett.

Oh and I also finally decided to start a new blog. Well, it's just a move actually, because, well it's one of those things that you know you just have to do. I'd thought this blog, which I wasn't able to update as regularly as much as I want to (in fact it will turn 1 year of being untouched), and for reasons that are only apparent to me, was a bit tight, and with the risk of sounding cheesy, so academic, which I think is not really a bad idea. After all, it's the experience of watching. So I decided that I had to do more than just that, nitpicking; I should try to enjoy more, though I'm not saying that it wasn't really fun. It was an exercise and fulfilling to say the least.

But what the crap. Ok. So here goes.

Doom, as we know it.

2008-09-10T22:24:00.000-07:00

Are we really opening up the portal towards the end of all times? Or are we in yet another threshold of scientific revolution, one that could redefine the big bang theory and trace the history of the universe? The day before the 7th year of the 9/11 attacks, the Large Hadron Collider, the world's largest atom smasher which costs billions and billions of dollars, was tested, by firing a beam of protons underneath the earth's surface.

The beams will gradually be filled with more protons and fired at near the speed of light in opposite directions around the tunnel, making 11,000 circuits a second. They will travel down the middle of two tubes about the width of fire hoses, speeding through a vacuum that is colder than outer space. At four points in the tunnel, the scientist will use giant magnets to cross the beams and cause protons to collide. The collider's two largest detectors — essentially huge digital cameras weighing thousands of tons — are capable of taking millions of snapshots a second.

Scientists and physicists, both those whose 20-year effort saw the culmination during the first test and other well-wishers, rejoiced in champagne and pajama parties. But another group of people compose of physicists, sociologists, and philosophers identified what maybe possible threats to humanity: "massive asteroid collisions, gamma ray bursts from supernovas that could sterilize the planet, man-made nanobots that could replicate and consume the earth's surface, and out-of-control artificial intelligence".

Though experts say dangers are "vanishingly small", are we ready to take on these, what maybe far-fetched threats? I sucked at high school physics so just by imagining the LHC and how it works, I'm already at a loss.

The Last El Bimbo

2008-09-09T17:36:00.000-07:00

The Eraserheads' 2-disc Anthology album is playing on my PC right now. Me and about 3 of my colleagues are having an Eheads nostalgia trip. At least this is what those who cannot come to Taguig and be in one with the thousands of hopeful fans can do.

Whenever I hear an Eheads song, it transports me to that day in high school where I stupidly sold to my classmate the Circus and Cutterpillow cassette albums, which by now are worthy collectors’ items. Not that cassette albums are extinct in this Ipod age, but golly, for a kid who grew up in an Eheads generation, those are just definitive.

Ang Huling El Bimbo - Eraserheads

Anyway, now that I’m into it, Ang Huling El Bimbo is my ultimate Eheads song. Not because I used to play it on the piano/organ when I was I guess grade 3 or 4, but even listening to it now, I could almost cry at the sheer genius of it, especially when the guitar starts to bellow and you can feel the miserable end of the girl who looks like Paraluman, the playfulness of fate. It’s almost cinematic. Alapaap, Minsan, Superproxy and Huwag mo nang Itanong would be next in line.

I lost track of the last two albums and the last memorable song for me was Julie Tearjerky, which I really really like and which explains my Facebook status.

You know when you’re really an Eheads kid because you don’t just regard them as one of the most influential Pinoy bands, or that their erstwhile chemistry as a band defined the good ole Filipino camaraderie, or that the songs transcend class and age. The magic is just there; in the pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa of Alapaap, in the do-ro-do-do-do-ro-do-do of Torpedo, in hoo-woo-hoo-woo-hoo-hoo-hoo of Magasin.

Reeks of...

2008-09-08T18:52:00.000-07:00

...the ole, unscrupulous smell of jueteng payola. Screw us once, shame on you. Screw us twice, shame on you again. Will we be seeing Cesar Montano as MTRCB chair or what-have-you? Jeez.
photo credit: PCIJ

PoliticOlympics

2008-08-27T21:50:00.000-07:00

What is interesting about the Olympics is that it is never just about the sports. Take for example, the Georgia-Russia beach volleyball match (I think the former won with Russia saying the Georgian players were actually Brazilians) while tension is still felt in their respective countries (I've read somewhere there were other sports the two batted each other out). Well, of course it is about the Olympics naturally, the biggest, grandest sports gathering of world-class athletes coming together in unity and solidarity through sports, but it's not without any political appetizers. In fact, Olympics is actually about the politics of that host nation.

And it's more resounding now because China is this year's host. And leave they will not with any political statement. Boy did it end blazingly glorious too. The opening reportedly costs a whopping $100M (jeez, imagine what it can do to offset the poverty incidence in the country). Both opening and closing ceremonies are powerful manifestations of what China is and will be willing to do. Aside from the Chinese evolution evoked in such grandiose fashion, the firework frenzy smartly reflects the Chinese culture itself. The visual grandeur of the Olympics has shown us not only the spectacle but the country's economic prowess; the strength of the 600++-strong delegation mirroring the Chinese's mounting political strength. And yes, they championed over The Superpower.

Basket case

2008-08-26T05:46:00.000-07:00

Perhaps, that's why we hate them (well at least for NBA haters) so much. Because they are actually good. Unfortunately, their bravado exceeds a hundred times than their court prowess. Ok, so they beat Spain, basketball world champs. So they were redeemed from the 2004 Athens loss. But is this victory actually a bacon brought about by the sincerest aspirations to excel in the sport? To show to the entire world, that even without drafts it can actually prove its worth?

American basketball is one big slam-dunkin' marketing strategy, stupid.

Musharaff parallelisms, etc.

2008-08-25T02:37:00.000-07:00

Pakistani President Pervez Musharaff resigned recently due to mounting political pressures and a resounding call for his ouster particularly from the rival party.

Musharaff resigned instead of facing Pakistan’s first-ever impeachment, but with a last defiant outburst of bravado.

"They want to impeach me now. Why do they want to do it?" a downcast Musharraf said in a televised address in which he denied any wrongdoing. "Do they want to cover their failure?"
...while few doubted he wanted a stable, religiously moderate Pakistan, his commitment to democracy was shaky. His popularity plummeted in 2007, when he declared a state of emergency and sacked independent-minded Supreme Court judges who could have barred his re-election.

He also became famous for “dragging” his nation into the

’s war on terror.

...the former military commando's decision to side with Washington after the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks earned Western plaudits and an injection of much-needed aid that helped rescue Pakistan from bankruptcy and the status of an international pariah.

Matthew Pennington of Associated Press sums up Musharaff's 9 years in power.

The U.S. however is constantly doubtful of Musharaff's stance, with Pakistan's increasing propensity for terrorist coddling as political experts perceive Pakistan would be the next Al Qaeda stronghold. While political and public opinion have been increasingly unenthusiastic over the war, er, foreign policy on Iraq, US intervention would still likely to protract in the Middle East particularly in Afghanistan and Pakistan, though Iran may still be on on the sidelines.

Iran who has caught the US, er, the world's ire with its nuclear policies (mind you, the laboratories are terrifyingly amazing). Very funny and interesting though is that, Iran, whose President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is my current favorite president name, imported around $12 million worth of bull semen. What are they gonna use it for, hmmm? Jeez.

Glory

2008-08-19T02:13:00.000-07:00

Despite the several ruckuses over the supposed fake, CG-ed fireworks during the opening, under-aged Chinese girls competing in the artistic gymnastics and even the shameless lip-synching, the games were fairly enjoyable and nothing quite short of remarkable. (I am enraged over the supposed lip-synching. The little girl who owned the voice was not only robbed of a worthy opportunity but she became a victim of a people beleaguered by an inferiority complex, a crush-US sentiment.)

I watched Wall-E during its opening night here last Wednesday so I stayed home over the weekends and yesterday (except Saturday evening) watching the games.

And gosh, did I already say that Phelps was a swimming god, god! He bagged his 8^th gold medal during the 4x100 relay during the last day at the Olympic pool, making him the greatest Olympian by far, outshining Mark Spitz, the Olympic swimmer who reaped 7 gold medals in one Olympic Games in 1972. Though the last round was a dead giveaway, Australia almost stole that coveted medal by a margin. Phelps did really great on the butterfly round, his specialty actually. And gosh, did he cry when that Special Citation was given to him. Meanwhile, an unknown Tunisian with a the first name of the Al Qaeda leader, Oussama Mallouli swam the Men 1500 m grabbing the gold from previous title holder Grant Hackett of Australia.

In one of the most enjoyable bouts over the weekend, Rafael Nadal, with his trademark facial contortion when he serves, once again proved he’s the best in the world. Nadal, in three straight rounds, beat Federico Gonzales of Chile who struggled every set and round over the Spanish who was the favourite to win the gold. Elena Dementieva, who remained composed throughout the match, won for Russia the gold in the women singles division over fellow Russian Dinara Safina. Another Russian, Zvonareva bagged the bronze.

As a kid, I have always been amazed of the Olympics. I used to browse through a collection of Olympics encyclopaedia we used to own as an added treat to the voluminous Colliers which was pawned ages ago. The Olympics series was tattered, forgotten, lost.

Track and Field was one interesting category for me for instance not only because of the excitement on who’s going to be the recent fastest man/woman on the planet, it also offers an array of sports, some of them date back to ancient Athens like the discus throw. This year, the steeplechase category was added which is quite similar to the hurdles except that all athletes are required to jump over a long, single hurdle plus some water obstacles.

I think T&F is officially named now as athletics and boy are the Jamaicans on fire! Fastest man and woman on the planet are courtesy of them Usain Bolt (a very apt name indeed) now holds the world record of 9.69 seconds. Ethiopia, a famished country in Africa has gold and silver to the Men 1500 m. A relatively unknown country Cameroon also has gold in athletics.

The winning athletes are ecstatic during the victory ceremonies, some teary-eyed while their national anthems are being played, donning their precious medals and clutching their simple bouquets, waving to their fans and posing for the cameras. Glorious moments.

Meanwhile in the Philippines, Mindanao is confronted with beleaguered MILF troops who wreaked havoc over the past days on some areas leaving a number of civilians dead and hundreds of evacuees. Caught on tape is the President, furious at the unpreparedness of her staff on an abrupt press briefing. Despite some supposed teleprompter mishaps, she managed to say that amidst the atrocities, “we’re all in this together” in the quest for peace. The whole country now beholds.

Photos thru the 2008 Beijing Olympics site courtesy of: (1) Cameron Spencer/Getty Images; (2) Vladimir Rys/Bongarts/Getty Images; (3) Clive Brunskill/Getty Images

Gold

2008-08-13T20:20:00.001-07:00

Last Sunday I almost tripped the hot soup I was transferring onto a bowl while watching the Argentina-Australia football (soccer) match. I think I must have shouted too. You can feel the anguish and anxiety in the Argentines’ kicks and butts and after 77 minutes of nil

Argentina

scored their single goal.

I remembered watching the World Cup with Italy-France battling in 2006 in a European owned bar in the city where my former German friend and colleague Peter treated me to endless booze. The crowd was roaring and the intensity of the game was just hot. Even though the Arg-Aus game was not even finals yet the intensity was just there. Hey, it’s the Olympics for Chrissakes.

After watching a grueling performance the other night, where I gaped in awe at the immense weight these women have to endure, I have now a strong sense of respect for the women weightlifters. Chen Yanqing of China is unbelievable. Unlike the Korean who looks almost like a man and who seems like she’s going to deliver a baby any minute, the Chinese’s composure was truly admirable. Even when she’s shouting and doing the final lift, it’s as if she’s walking the runway.

Michael Phelps is an unstoppable swimming god. To date, he is now the person in Olympic history who’s got most gold medals, and I surmise in any sporting event. Uh, he’s only 23, right?

The U.S. Dream Team is doing their basketball rampage. But after crushing Yao and China, they were given a run for their money with the match with Angola. I would like to see Argentina crush these bastards once again like they did in Athens. But the team looks formidable with the LeBron-Kobe tour-de-force.

Georgia, who’s being bombed by Russia now, is in 10^th place, and a relatively unknown country called Azerbaijan is in the 14^th overall rank. So are other –tan countries like Tajikistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan who also have their medals to boot. China has the most number of gold medals, with 17 but US has the most number of medals.

The Filipino athletes who competed already failed to clinch a medal. Hidilyn Diaz, the 17 year old Filipina weightlifter is promising though.

Meanwhile, in the Philippines, the entire nation will behold the oral arguments on the MOA on Ancestral Domain tomorrow.

Photo credit: Beijing 2008 website

quatre coups

2008-08-12T01:53:00.000-07:00

(A) Four places I go over and over:

Davao-Bukidnon-Cagayan Road – I’d trade a plane ride for a land trip in this long strip of Mindanao landscapes.

Booksales of Victoria Plaza and NCCC Mall – In about a year, I will prolly memorize every book in every nook and cranny in these sections of the local malls.

Piracy havens of Davao City -- Because of the intensified campaign of OMB, I’d rather not divulge the specific locations or else I wouldn’t enjoy scouring my precious films anymore.

The bathroom -- how in the hell would i get clean...hehehe... (*evil grin*)

(B) Four people who e-mail me regularly: people of the Mindanao Bloggers forum; people at Google Alerts who keep updating me on Mindanao, BIMP-EAGA and peace and development news; wait that’s a lot of people already…

(C) Four of my favorite places to eat? If you’d see me now then you’d prolly say I’d eat anywhere as long as there is good food…

(D) Four places you'd rather be? A wheat farm in Oklahoma or fishing village in Rhode Island; a vineyard or apple orchard in the French Riviera; a stone house in one of the islands off Sicily; or a nipa/makeshift hut in the Phi Phi Islands of

Thailand

.

(E) Four people I think will respond: ugh, I hate to impose but bad sex daw for 4 years (*evil grin*) JP, Chard, Mauro, and Kuya Jon (you have to ‘Ya, hehehe).

(F) Four TV shows I could watch over and over: Arrested Development, The Practice, Six Feet Under (even though I haven’t finished all seasons yet), and Roswell or X-Files.

Chance encounters

2008-07-23T17:12:00.000-07:00

I watched The Dark Knight last night for the third time (technically, third, because when I watched it on the opening day I repeated it being late for 20 mins on the second to the last screening), because (a) I decided to waste whatever was left with my money and not care, (b) I have preconditioned myself that unless I come home late enough I'd be witnessing another nasty bout of verbal abuse between Pa and my stepmom, and (c) I thought it good to spend two and a half hours while outside its raining profusely.

It turns out I'm wrong. When I climbed onto the jeepney, that's when it started to rain. A couple of minutes, it was already raining hard. There was only me and a lady prolly of my age when I was about to step down. She was going down as well and with an umbrella. Just before I was about to go down, she offered me hers. I thanked her profusely

While Rihanna’s infamous lyrics reverberate in my head, I was genuinely grateful of the gesture. I mean, how many out of 10 people would offer their umbrellas to strangers (even to those not criminal (adorable)-looking like me)? Or maybe, I’m just becoming jaded that such random act of kindness would strike me a bit odd? Am I really that bitter and full of shit? Full of my own shit.

The young lady was not really awful looking. Fair-skinned and wore glasses. Not that I would take interest immediately at such a chance encounter. I hailed another jeepney en route home and I thanked her again without even looking at her. Made the urgency of heavy downpour an excuse to myself.

In college, I’d frequent the university chapel, sometimes because I want, need the silence. And I was a crybaby at times when the shittiness of my life and how messed up it is screams at me in the face. And so I go there for silence, sometimes cry. One time, this pretty girl approached me and offered me her scented hanky. She was a familiar face, one or two years my junior. Pretty and could prolly passed off as a model. I knew she was intelligent.

She was on a front pew staring blankly at the crucifix or something. Perhaps I was sobbing and I prolly turned red in the face when offered the hanky. She said I could have it. She did not say anything else or offered pointless words of comfort. The smile and apologetic face did it all. When she left, I wiped my tears and blew my nose with it. I kept the hanky until I lost it.

I see her on campus but my wits are battling if I should even talk to her. I mean just to say thank you. Didn’t you thank her already? She graduated to be summa cum laude and had a Korean boyfriend at the time.

When I lost the hanky I messaged her over MySpace. She replied, never mind. I think the short message went on to say I needed the hanky or something but I lost my MySpace password.

What with all these chance encounters with random acts of kindness? Am I bound to be unlucky bastard after all? Am I just being too melodramatic? Do I pass myself off as someone who badly needs being taking cared of? Is Venus just spitting on my face? Should I just leave it all to chance? I’m just having a bad day.

why so serious?

2008-07-18T06:04:00.000-07:00

See the little koala bear underneath holding a boomerang? See the transparent skeleton of my office CPU with my 2 favorite films of 2007 I'm Not There and Control on top? See those post-its, loose change, dismantled books, pen holder and other crap? Closer anatomy of a cluttered desk.

Wait, that's not really it, I'm sure you know I'm diverting you of the obvious. If you look closely at Batman, the decapitated arm is unintentional. It's been there for many months and I just can't locate Bruce's left arm. Just so you know, I'm not aiming for something metaphorical or thematic in the contrast. But if you've seen the film, it may offer a glimpse of depth. If not, prepare for it.

Ok, so here goes. Oh my God, The Dark Knight is fucking brilliant. Chris Nolan is a friggin' genius. Heath Ledger is the creepiest, most terrifying villain EVER. And I hate Nolan, who might prolly have a hand at the thesp's untimely death because of how amazingly he immersed himself into the role, he prolly messed up. Oh my god, everything is just so fucking awesome.

The Dark Knight is unsettling and unforgettable. I hope I can muster the courage to even write my take on how moved I am of the experience.

Honey, honey

2008-07-14T03:03:00.000-07:00

Oh gosh why am I beaming when Amanda Seyfried started singing I have a dream/A song to sing, and why can’t I help myself but mouth Super Trooper/Lights are gonna blind me/But I won’t feel blue/Cause somewhere in the crowd there’s you? Super Trooper is actually my favorite Abba song. Father used to own this double cassette Abba collection, and that’s precisely the reason – me growing up listening to Abba tunes – I trooped to the theatre and watched Mamma Mia. Ok, so it’s so girly or rather so grandma-ish. I was actually sandwiched by two old ladies on my left and an old couple on my right. The theater though not really full was littered with old people ranging prolly between 40 to 60.

I first saw Ms. Seyfried in a Justice episode where she was mistaken a college high-class hooker -murderer and her partner Dominic Cooper appeared in the film adaptation of the play The History Boys. And yes Meryl Streep can sing, so does Mr. Brosnan. Maybe she’ll do a superhero movie next year. Who knows what she can do? Might as well do everything and risk life and limb. It was an okay musical, a bit mushy – it’s a celebration of mothers and daughters, what’d you expect – but totally enjoyed it. Abba, the phenomenal Swedish pop sensation, will only be further indelibly marked in the minds of those who grew up with them, who grew up singing to their songs, and will be introduced to the now generation who will hear for the first time some of the songs other than the much-karaoke-maligned Dancing Queen. Contrary to the now generation pop music, Abba songs will likely to remain for the longest time.

Speaking of disposable poppish (I actually just invented this word) tunes, I will officially confess my guilty pleasure recently -- oohhh, this is an SOS/don’t want a second guess or when you look me in the eye/I catch a glimpse of heaven. Yes, those squeaky pre-pubescent boys of the Jonas Brothers. I can’t get out of the friggin LSS. You can now laugh and crucify me. Speaking of more boybands, why are the pre-BSB and NSYNC groups suddenly arose from their boyband graves? New Kids on the Block and Menudo released their reunion singles recently. I’m guessing Marilyn Manson’s ears are bleeding right now.

Filthy, sexy, moolah

2008-07-07T17:34:00.000-07:00

Saw the pilot episode of Dirty Sexy Money Sunday night on a local channel. Another dose of dysfunctional American families. It’s so TV (writers’) fodder don’t you think, that though it’s practically entertaining (sensational, I admit is hilarious and witty at times) it tends to be mythic. Is it? I doubt. How do you gauge dysfunction? Is it the frequency, magnitude of human frailty and imperfections? That when collective or familial are vestiges of deviancy or when it carelessly stray beyond the levels of tolerance? Those that kiss cheek-to-cheek with the Burnhams of American Beauty and the Fishers of Six Feet Under. Wait, these are all Alan Ball creations. Oh, wicked.

Anyway, so the pilot opens with unabashed sensationalism and spectacle. We get to see the family in focus: the Darlings, which we will come to know in a matter of minutes, a far cry from the surname. They cannot be blamed, they can afford to be wasteful, they’re rich. In fact, the richest in New York. So every misdemeanor and coke-snorting behavior is no big deal, just leave it to the tinkering of their lawyer. Atty. George’s private plane however crashed at sea leaving no traces whether he’s dead or just disappeared. His son, Nick, played by Peter Krause, vows to track down the murderer. He seems to believe such. He’s however forced to inherit his father’s job (after he is convinced that he can still perform his humanitarian duties) by patriarch Trip Darling, played by Donald Sutherland and much to the chagrin of Reverend Brian, the badass, expletive-mouthing second son and Nick’s childhood nemesis. Yes, he is a short-tempered priest whose son was refused to be admitted to an exclusive school unless he acknowledges the kid.

Enter mother Letitia, played by Jill Clayburgh, who smashed a heavy vase to smithereens (gosh, I love saying that word) to redirect the focus of a family conversation. Exactly right there, I remembered her munching dog food and convincing a young Augusten Burroughs that eating such is safe in the film adaptation of Running with Scissors. William Baldwin plays the eldest son, forgot the name, an attorney-general. During the birthday party thrown for Mrs. Darling, Mr. on-his-way-to-becoming-a-US-senator is jolted by a call of pretty woman waiting for him downstairs. Then the unwanted visitor speaks in baritone. What the, Mr. Clean Slate is having an affair with a tranny. There’s also Karen, the elder daughter who’s still fixated with Nick that she discloses to her fiancé in a devil-may-care attitude, Nick’s deflowering of her during (of all time) their pre-nuptial meeting, with (of all people) Nick as their presiding lawyer. Then add in the attention-deficient daughter who wants to “get a life” and the yacht-slacking youngest who drove a horse to mother’s birthday party but much to the delight of mother dear though.

Whew, that’s a fucking mouthful. I guess I really would be looking forward to Sunday nights. Sorry for the spoilers. Haha.

Tragedy at sea, part 4

2008-06-24T17:16:00.000-07:00

Such tragic proportions have been media fodder for the past weeks. But the point unfortunately has been sorely missed. Passenger and cargo ship capsized in the midst of a raging storm. Wailing families and relatives. But of course company not owing up and look likes never in its history marred already by sinking ships. Survivors turn up in different shores of different provinces. We are awed by stories of resiliency and will. Styrophor turns out to be edible in times of survival. More trapped inside the capsized ship. Typhoon continued to wreak havoc to agriculture and infrastructure. More wailing.

The previous sea mishaps killed more than that of perhaps any earthquake that rocked the country in this millenia. But of course, the whole spectrum of disaster won't be complete without any mudslinging and finger-pointing. Such adeptness at these skills and never at doing our jobs right. Jeez.

We sing, we dance, we steal things in Bruges.

2008-06-23T02:43:00.000-07:00

Been listening heavily to Jason Mraz’s new album (or at least his new songs via mp3) We Sing, We Dance, We Steal Things which will pique you by the title. If it’s any indication on waywardness, Mraz’s new outing is diverse and multi-dimensional, thus I think even more mature than his previous. The explorations on jazzy, funky tunes and ballads like If It Kills Me are all worth it plus the usual entrancing melancholy of his guitar and his own brand of wordplay that has endeared his following. The lyrics are introspective and meditative and these are evident in songs like Details in the Fabric, Live High, and Love for a Child, which are my favorites. While listening to the first one (Details) I was jolted when I thought I heard James Morrison. Turns out, it was really him (he’s featured). The catchy collaboration with Colbie Callait in Lucky will undoubtedly produce another hit. A revitalized version of I’m Yours (by now excessively played on radio and downloaded) is included in the tracks, which is better than the purely acoustic one. The newer version is way cooler too. To paraphrase Randy Jackson’s comment, “it’s like being in a luau”, you’re in a hammock in a beach sipping buko juice listening to ukeleles and Hawaiian beats (which Jason actually did).

Speaking of nice (jeez, what an overused understated word in this context) getaways, I just saw playwright Martin McDonagh’s debut feature In Bruges with Brendan Gleeson, Colin Farrell and Ralph Fiennes. As its title would hint, it’s set in Bruges (apparently pronounced as Broozh), a well-kept medieval city in Belgium (which I didn’t know existed) constantly alluded to in the film as a dreamland or fairy-tale like. What transpires in the film is otherwise.

After we learn enough that Ken (Gleeson) and Ray (Farrell) are two assassins sent to Bruges to wait for their next assignment from their boss Harry (Fiennes) and just as we begin to wallow in the tranquility of the place, bullets are shot close-range and blood is spilled in gorrific fashion. By the time Fiennes appears in the third act, we sense that things are beginning to get nasty. In a fit of a lifetime, Fiennes smashes the phone to smithereens. Wife enters from sala, sees the scene, points to the phone: “It’s a fucking inanimate object!” Harry, in killing mode: “You’re a fucking inanimate object!” Just classic.

Gleeson by the way is Hagrid in Harry Potter. Fiennes, of course is Voldemort. Farrell’s sexual interest Chloe is Clemence Poesy who did a cameo as Fleur Delacouer in Goblet of Fire. When I mistook Ciaran Hinds as Alan Rickman, I thought it suddenly became Harry Potter in Bruges.

Bruges, despite the reputation we’re made to believe, becomes the playground where actions and decisions are weighed and consequences are faced, some to greater bloodier extent. We are offered glimpses into these introspections but the whole moral pie is as ambiguous as the fog that hovered over the city as the last scenes closed in. There’s some slight allusion to purgatory (the two con men visit an art gallery and ogle at a Boschian painting, Judgment Day). Like The Lookout in 2007 (also a debut from writer Scott Frank), In Bruges is an ode to the good ole genre of crime thriller with a twist of black comedy, always great way to welcome 2008 in film.

To hell with grease, grime and rust.

2008-06-18T22:41:00.000-07:00

I stayed late last night after the fellowship party thrown for the media by the newly-installed PS and former chairman of the agency I’m working for. After a long wait for PGMA, who undoubtedly never came, I accompanied a national correspondent, who happens to be the mother of one of my closest friends, to Marco Polo to finish off a story in connection to the recent release of the kidnapped reporter and her TV crew. It’s another freebie, so why not, I told myself. But since prices are usually astronomical in these kinds of alta sociedad places and being the modest person that I am, I ordered milk, which is still at a staggering 88 pesos.

No, I’m not letting you in for the scoop.

While Tita was talking to a reliable local official of the ARMM and I was waiting for the boiling milk to cool down a bit, I was talking with the driver and owner of the Starex Van that she rented.

After casual exchanges about work, I became enthused when Kuya told me that he has already traveled most parts of the world. He is a seaman and has traveled to Brazil, Argentina, Chile, US states and most of Europe including Sweden, Denmark and Switzerland. I just salivated as he dropped the names of countries he’s gone to. Currently he’s off work but told me that he could actually go back to being a seaman if he wills to. He used his savings to put up a taxi and van rental business here. I found out that the company he’s working for is actually a big international shipping company with new investments operating in Northern Mindanao.

But he says he misses his family and that it is hard when you are pamilyado because you always think of your family, especially in moments where you have to “break the ice”. The work is tough too. Contrary to some perceptions that seamen are like guards who man the ship, their job is much harder than patrolling. They actually do the “dirty” job – cleaning the ship’s gears, taking off rust, having to endure that scorching heat of the ship’s bottom.

I can do that, I said. Being a seaman is the perfect cure to wanderlust, I thought. I’ll save up and could probably take two years off to study marine transportation or maritime technology, pass the board exam, go through the icky medical checks, have the right connections, probably hook up with Kuya because I could probably work in the same ship and then dock in the same cities Kuya mentioned -- dock in London, visit the Westminster Abbey, ogle at the Big Ben, dock in Hamburg, drink German beer and gobble chocolates. To hell with grease, grime and rust.

Fung Ku Fanda

2008-06-11T01:24:00.000-07:00

Kung Fu Panda was cute and hilarious. Its skillful use of animation and slapstick delivers a whopping kung fu punch. Simply put, the story of a big fat kung fu-obsessed panda tells us to believe in ourselves, build on our own strengths and work on what we’ve got whether it is a humongous belly or a fat ass.

I think the last time I was laughing and giggling inside a cinema that I ended up clapping and thrown off my seat was Knocked Up or Horton (yes, the elephant). The fact that Po’s popop is a noodle-magnate goose is a comic relief in itself. Jack Black can get through the industry by playing a panda alone. Po was so cute the Beijing Olympics might just be given a boost. The fat panda may well be the official mascot.

I immediately felt the impact of the movie when one of the teens in the row in front of me started doing a Bruce Lee and whacking her friend. I thought the girl was possessed because she repeated her kung fu moves long enough to piss everybody near her. I swear she was momentarily possessed by the spirit of the Dragon Warrior or the malevolent Tai Lung.

The gang of chair-kicking big time assholes attacked again and ruined part of my viewing. Good thing I wasn’t the destined Dragon Warrior or I could’ve kicked their sorry asses to China.