my so-called blog

Bill Murray on Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations

2011-11-20T20:48:00.000-05:00

Saved this in the draft boards about a year ago. The words escaped me then just because... I was who I was. I could not remember what I was thinking then but certainly knew what I was going through.
Now all I can feel is that I am dying to pack my bags again, to roam the nooks and crannies of my choosing. And also, I'm hungry again.

The Happy Light Deluxe

2011-11-20T17:11:00.006-05:00

Trying to come out of the bog that has swallowed me the past year. My only solace has been my DVR that always waits for me in my bedroom baring gifts-- Conan, Community, Parks and Rec, Big Bang Theory, Game of Thrones, Mad Men, The Walking Dead, even the schmaltzy Hampton fare Revenge... I could go on. Whatever feeds my flannel-wearing, olive-coloured fancy I ingest through a tube (as well as through cable and wi-fi) as my once youthful backside rots away like my hold to well-being. My sweet friend Shivaun has been imploring me to go back to blogging/writing/what-have-you, for that is just in her character to be supportive of me notwithstanding well, everything--warts, shingles scars and all. Truth is I miss writing but the quag is thick, unmoving and unpalatable as pea soup after 1973.

Truth is depression is a bitch. Life is a bitch. I do not wish to tear at life's weave in a Love & Hip-Hop cat fight. I just wish to live it and, no matter my anti-social tendencies, live IN it. I am slathered in blessings yet I act like a first-world ingrate. I am sick of melancholy. I am sick of mundane bull-shit. I am sick of other people and the banal. I am sick of me. I am sick of being sick. Carpe diem even if there is not enough of it this time of the year (grrr) and even if youth and a fast metabolism are not on my side (arrrgh). At the very least, just blog the shit out of it....

Countdown to Happy, Finally

2010-11-08T22:29:00.000-05:00

Conan O'Brien, American Express: Extended Cut

little black dress, little dark world

2010-10-16T19:26:00.000-05:00

There it was. Here was a chance. In the back of a closet of jeans, graphic v-necks and scrubs, was a bourgeoning fruition of girlish dreams that started with vintage-inspired secretary-Peggy Olsenesque junior sizes, then Madge's H&M foray, the labeled staple I bought for a steal online and then there's that number--my Audrey Hepburn movie waiting to happen.

It's my friend R.'s birthday and it's a black & white affair in some club on the peripheries of DC. I've not been out for what feels like a lifetime except for that time last spring where the sweet, crazy, cool Russian un-princess D. invites me to her own b-day, where my fashion choices I deemed rather rusty and unfortunate, although that jaunt through Georgetown was exactly what I needed.

So I'm trying it out- a Black Halo classic with a twist hoping for an iota of Sienna Miller-dom. Dress, opaque tights... now all it needs is a bad-ass bootie. Dress, opaque tights, I march downstairs to the general shoe/coat closet, on all fours and...nada. Dress, opaque tights, I march through a Bosnian war-zone of laundry hampers in the basement (where my shoes regardless of importance and frequency of wear get relegated to) on all fours, and still no booty.

As always my life, notwithstanding my contributions is shoved in some random, second priority slot. I think of the party and ask myself, am I missing much? I do not know anybody else coming to that. Despite our bond, R. has carved a life of her own-- a relationship, a host of friends and a hell of a social life. I am just another guest. Another body seated on the VIP table in a tight dress.

So here I am. In this dark, mess of a room that smells so strongly of reed-diffused lavender, I have a headache. Cats 101 is on marathon. The Lexapro just dulls the edge of despair. The Audrey Hepburn movie is back in the closet still awaiting it's moment. Perhaps it's never going to happen or it's just waiting for me to go back to the gym and to well-being. Perhaps I also need to get Spanx.

the lust

2010-09-07T02:21:00.045-05:00

I'm into my 48th hour of Anthony Bourdain's No Reservation marathon that has led up to his return to the city of his first episode, Paris, this time along with the bafflingly soft-spoken Eric Ripert. I also happen to be 5 days into my bed-in of nothing that is neither Lennon nor (Larry David's not Marriage Ref Jerry's) Seinfeld and more like sleeping next to a pile of laundry. As the last weeks of summer trickle away, the walls that smell like take-out, close in and I am swallowed by my cheap, crumb-strewn mattress, I itch to live a sliver of this person's life that I see on the idiot box. I have always been hounded of the there's-more-to-life but cannot necessarily act on it nor afford it all the time.

As the daughter of a school librarian/social studies teacher and a civil engineer my Potter-esque destiny is set in Muggle world. So aside from the encyclopedic (i.e. Book of Knowledge) wonders of world, the foodie fest, better weather and far better manners I wish to partake in, I thought I should keep these links in my backpack pockets. Slightly less magic. More nerd. Some caffeine.

1. The Most Amazing Libraries in the World

2. The Most Amazing Bookstores in the World

And something closer to ~~home~~ current zip code,

3. America's Most Amazing Libraries

Niceties and Garbage

2010-08-21T01:23:00.001-05:00

This is easily the kind of thing I spook my friends with. Except for a very precious few, I am surrounded by a confounding amount people that I have nothing in common with. Sure their concern may be sincere as much as the details that precede may be titillating fodder during mouthfuls of lechon and carbonara. I could be in a room full of my green-joking, work story-swapping and karaoke-belting ilk but I'd still feel hollow... and alone.

Happiness lately is to be curled up in an oft unmade bed, in a finally silent house that is not mine, cackling maniacally to the bleeped continental profanities of Craig Ferguson addressing his Skeleton Army or; witness Colbert in full-on right-wing smarm call a Coulter-clone's writing racist and banal or; swoon over Stewart and his fine Mexican waiter ass and all while commiserating with fellow absurdist comedy nerds in Team Coco. Even yukking it up on Chelsea's panel and eviscerating pop culture with sigh-inducing McHale have been salve to the spirits after January's clusterfuck. (At least until November.)

Yes, that is me. That is my life. I can happily take your kid to school but I may blow-off your barbecues here and there. I may forget to buy a baby shower gift but that cake I bought from Ya-ya's is from the heart (and I promise I'll get you a real gift!) and NO, I will not go out with any of your relatives. Don't bother putting in a good word to the next available young doctor who comes through the door that I have to coach through ordering a protocol Heparin drip. Please refrain from advertising in my behalf that I am trying to land a white dude. Don't go asking people in happy relationships if they have a brother to spare, just because I happen to get along with them. I can call on you for being profoundly gauche but that just may go over your head or if just barely, leads to nothing but trite exchanges of douche-baggery from both of us. I'd rather be watching Quackers the shit-eating duck and, reliving Norm MacDonald's moth joke. I respect that you find rock concerts and clubbing bacchanal and museums are not your thing. Find a hobby like cross stitch or purchase new drapes. We may not be kindred spirits but I am still a friend. And yes, I have a huge lady-jones for Shirley Manson.

Now leave me to my videos.

flickring: the last 12 or so

2010-08-15T17:00:00.003-05:00

IMG_0368.JPG
Originally uploaded by cjbando
Funny how the days and the theory of relativity seem to meld into a blur of activities then at it's most mundane and inconsequential-- like convincing yourself to tackle the oft-postponed chores during nth repeat marathon of Star Wars on Spike-- then pounce out of its sheep's clothing, straight to your jugular, to remind you life is trickling past you and out of you.

There's that way overdue final writing assignment I could not seem to submit which is rather rude of me, towards my amiable mentors in Connecticut. There's the bed that needs to be covered and made, that I have been sleeping in for the past week san linens. There's the room that is something out of Hoarders, littered by Rolling Stone magazines, and stuff I ordered online, like the Balenciagas that have yet to fit me right and The Clash series Chucks that have yet to impress the male of the species, if not invoke envy. (I have not seen my floor in months.) Ah, and there's the laundry-- four months worth of laundry. One cannot wax poetic on that.

Of course there is this long-ignored blog. This used to be my solace, the ether I scream my travails unto as much as my self-indulgences. There has been social networking portals once but since my virtual social life has made the Faustian leap to emulating my real life (although thank heavens for Privacy Settings and post filters..), I guess this low-traffic snippet of the blogosphere has made it's comeback, unless sheer laziness and ennui renders me useless again.

Thank God for photographs. There is still testament that life still bear something of interest even in hindsight, that once I woke up one morning and something simply took my breath away just by being and in the background Marley assures me that every little thing's gonna be alright.

The Long Dark

2010-05-13T10:48:00.001-05:00

Winter had been cruel. Hibernation was in the virtual comforts of social networks posting my angst over network TV and the scruples of showbusiness. In the midst of strangers with profile pics and similar minds, I took solace in posted links as my actual one to the world outside diminished like the floor space of my bedroom. Stifled despair swallowed me into the vacuum.

Ultimately, I only have fancy words and writerly pretentions to proclaim in some stagnant blog that winter has been rough. Life has been rough.

Now spring reckons with the promise of sun and greenery only to torture with gray & rain. Damn East Coast weather. I still fear. I still rage. At least, that orange orb is out there somewhere behind those clouds--be it the sun or the ginger pompadour of Conan O'Brien.

-- Post From My iPhone, my so-called mobile life.

Location:Criswell Ct,Rosedale,United States

Up in the Air

2009-12-28T04:38:00.002-05:00

I am fascinated by travel. Maybe it's the smalltown girl dreaming dreams or the gypsy in me itching to roam. I tend to judge people and places by the scenery from a window seat. There's part charm and chagrin at the sight of farmlands and heartlands. I often ponder if a city holds up to the expectations its flickering night lights tend to ignite and if there's a mathematical equation to the degree it can deliver or disappoint. Sunlight is quantifiable to happiness if not to the level of perk or one's talkative trait. How truly diverse a city is exponentially related to how authentic it's Chinese take-out is. Others tend to flaunt global citizenship by finding the right drapes to go with the new Moroccan paint of the family den. Or they may displace to more temperate climes, better pay, cheaper real estate and gentrified surroundings only to run in the exact same circles and exchanging the exact same trivialities. The world is one giant science project and travel is the agar to view through airline eyes. It is an open zoo worth the price of admission. There is a rather uneasy tax to seeing it all though-- an incertitude that life is passing you by as you flit past it and then there's seeing things for what they are and the weariness of knowing. Being away from home ever since I have been old enough to make a living, I am coming to a conclusion that no matter where I attempt to take root, it is nothing more than something to tie me down. I have only one home and it's the one that has blessed me to be free and never merely settle.

-- Post From My iPhone, my so-called mobile life.

Location:Durness Ct,Nottingham,United States

4

2009-12-22T19:48:00.006-05:00

Four months.

I pored over my friend Shivaun's blog and on the side bars, there it was--four months of silence. Four months, so it seemed, of nothing happening when it was the contrary... to a degree. Anyway, I had chosen to parlay my life with snark and wit through the portals known as status updates--in a need to be provocative, funny, admired, discussed, even envied and most times, just plain Liked. After all the curious and sentimental searches have been found or, ended up finding you through mutual threads and by jumping on bandwagons (not to mention awkward non-virtual exchange of niceties and faux pas' down the halls and malls, as opposed to the Wall; the occasional de-friending, etc., etc.) trepidation starts to set in and privacy settings are twiddled.

Didn't I try to distance myself from this sh**t before?

Ah, humans--social animals. Centuries of technology and evolution, one thing stays the same: What the f**k is so-and-so up to?

-- Post From My iPhone, my so-called mobile life.

Location:Rosedale,United States

1

2009-08-05T12:08:00.014-05:00

I am a Martial Law baby. Of all the memories of growing up during the Marcos dictatorship --the good (much credit to my parents), the bad and the bloody--there are three definitive ones and to this day reverberate in me when I mull on what it's like to be a Filipino and woman of the 21st century.

One is on the day Ninoy Aquino was assassinated in 1983: Lunchtime, high noon, the sun bright white and hot through the screens of our dining room window. My father and mother talk in angry tones I have never heard before--restrained and piercing. Our transistor blares AM radio political editorials that sounded as upset as they are. It is that day that I first became aware of such a thing as unrest.

Two is during the the snap presidential election between Marcos and the widowed Cory Aquino. That is when at age 10, I first felt the pang of moral outrage when I became the center of classroom mockery and got called a communist by kids (lead on by a pro-Marcos teacher) whose parents happen to have bought into the smear epithets of the Marcos campaign against Ninoy's widow: She is not fit to be President because she is a woman. Women are weak. Women are soft. It is not a woman's place to run the highest office in the land. She is a mere housewife. Yes, there is also Imelda calling on her lack of qualifications based on her lack of make-up and a manicure.

Three, is one very late February night in '86. My parents are listening in vigil to their radio on what was happening over in Manila, while my sister, Pinky is reading and answering crosswords, stationed in front of our rundown AM/FM cassette player by the window out on the hall. I feign sleep, staring out my open bedroom door at the lighted hallway of our old BISCOM home, attuned in to it all. Then my mother, excitement in her voice, comes out to tell my sister to switch stations. "Aw-right!" my sister exclaims as she caught the breaking news of the Marcoses leaving the presidential palace. Soon both my parents mill out of their room and into mine. I pretend to be awakened as they gave me and my sister a hug and a kiss. On the radio we can hear reports filter in of a whole country rejoice in freedom while my mother offers to make me glass of milk.

Last August 1, 2009, twenty days before the death anniversary of her beloved Ninoy, a nation has lost it's icon, mother figure and treasure in Corazon C. Aquino. Today August 5, 2009 we bury her beside her husband, the only other person of our time to equal her in charisma, virtue and fortitude. What a day it is. What is left to say that hasn't been said. What greatness. What legacy--all in a sea of yellow.

The Flower Boy and the Three-Day Revolution

“The tanks are coming!” howled a teenager from his lookout on top of a lamp post

A while ago, I was in a children’s party in the streets of EDSA. I helped blow candles with the birthday boy who I just met today along with his Mama.

EDSA on normal days, was jammed with cars, buses and jeepneys. They had been replaced by nuns, priest, students, teachers and families. Dressed in an old T-shirt, shorts and rubber sandals, I rushed here with my grandparents. We came because of the Cardinal’s message on the radio to give support to the rebel soldiers in Camp Crame who protested the widespread cheating during the recent election for president.

“ Isaac, apo, President Marcos will have them arrested if we don’t help,” Lolo Mikoy , said,“Twenty years of injustice is enough.”

Lolo Mikoy’s brow furrowed like it would when he and Lola Mansay talked about the bad happenings in our country. How I wished I could take away those worried looks on their faces. It made me so sad but, what could I do? I was only a boy.

In EDSA, guitars strummed and people sang, danced and prayed. Packed lunches, sandwiches, juices and birthday cake were passed around. Even with the barricades of sandbags and barbed wire, it was like a fiesta.

The tanks came and, shook the ground like metal monsters carrying soldiers with armalite rifles. Grenades hung from their pockets and bullet belts looped around their bodies from head to foot. Lola pulled me between her and Lolo. I tried not to cry for their sake.

The nuns and priest lead us to kneel in prayer. The soldiers drew closer. The singing and chanting grew louder. Arm in arm, people stood in the tanks’ path.

“ We are unarmed. We want only peace!” voices exclaimed. ”We are all Filipinos! We are all God’s children!”

The machines halted. Soldiers jumped off and stood before us without a word. Their general blared from his megaphone, “Back off !“

No one budged.

I glanced at the sunflower in my hand that a nun had handed me earlier. It was now or never. I walked towards a soldier whose gun was taller than I was. My legs felt like stones with every step. I did not hear my grandparents call after me. My heart thumped louder and faster then suddenly, stopped. For that second, I forgot to be afraid. I raised up the yellow blossom and said,“Peace be with you, sir.”

"Thank you son,” a deep voice said under the helmet. He pointed his gun down and leaned over to ruffle my hair as he accepted the flower .

“My Lola made my favorite chicken-pork adobo on rice. Do you want some? Are you hungry?” I said. "There's cake too cause it's my friend's birthday!"

The tanks left with the soldiers wearing garlands around their necks, flowers on their guns, food in their tummies and people’s cheers in their ears. That night, I huddled with other children on mats spread on the sidewalk while grownups lit candles and kept vigil.

The next day, we went to Camp Crame. From my grandfather’s shoulders, I spied dark spots in the sky. Helicopters! Their guns were pointed our way. They blotted the morning sun as they flew close. People crouched down sobbing and praying. Giant blades brought loud winds that nearly blew us away. I wiggled from underneath my grandparents to put my arms over their shoulders, when I spied a white flag waving from one of the chopper. Look everyone!

The helicopters landed. Soldiers wearing yellow ribbons around their arms spilled out and were met with tearful hugs and cheers .

When night came, I spotted a familiar lady dressed in yellow with kind eyes singing Ave Maria from across the crowd that had swollen day by day. She smiled warmly at me as I tried not to fall asleep.

The third day, went like a blur. In the evening, I was awakened by loud rejoicing from the crowd. News swept of Marcos leaving the country. Cory Aquino, the lady in yellow, was to be the new president. Tired and sleepy in Lolo’s arms, I listened to people sing, Bayan Ko (My Country).

“Pugad ng luha at dalita, aking adhika makita kang sakdal laya (Cradle of my tears and poverty, I’ll aspire to see you truly free).”

In my dreams, I could still hear the words mingle with Lolo and Lola’s laughter.

25

2009-06-28T14:27:00.047-05:00

MICHAEL JACKSON HAS DIED. Those were the words I heard as I stumbled from the bathroom to bedroom where Brian Williams broke the news in a voice that was both calm and stricken. I sat down for a second only to fail at absorbing what was unfolding on the TV before me then I rushed downstairs, running late for work and forgetting my wallet.

THE KING OF POP HAS PASSED AWAY. Outside, the world moved and weaved through traffic in slow motion. From every car, his songs emanated from each open windows as every radio station of every genre it seemed, scrambled to change their programming to include Michael Jackson songs. The kind girl at the I-95 toll booth who let me through even with a dollar short of the fee, had something from Off The Wall blaring from her station, while the DC rock station I'd listen to going to work, played Wanna Be Starting Something & Dirty Diana and was taking more requests of the like.

PETER PAN IS GONE. Gone is that mythical human being who conquered the world with talent and moves that both defied gravity and gravitated the emulation and adulation of a generation from California to Calumanggan. That precious little boy with the gigantic gift in those filler films from 70's TV specials; that angelic voice who signaled the coming of the Season by his urgings to give love on Christmas Day, who became the world's golden child, can now only be revisited in the grainy, jumpy annals of YouTube and our sepia-hued memories. He is the idol we vaunted in childish braggadocio in dusty neighborhood streets in the weekends and summers, in flooded school halls after a typhoon, and in the classroom when Ma'am Sultan or Ma'am Alcachupas was looking away. He is the MJ I'd scribble in slumbook questions about first crushes. He is the superstar that my sister, Pinky regaled me with factoids she'd read about and known way back when he was in Jackson 5, which jumpstarted my ardour for him. He is the pop phenomenon my sister Melissa made a reverential scrapbook for, with clippings from the TIMEs and tabloids our Auntie Letty sent us from Canada and from "songhits" she has collected, which I eventually inherited. He is the teen idol whose posters Melissa put up on my wall in the bedroom we shared when we first moved to BISCOM. Meanwhile, the rest of the world went through the same adoration that I felt solely was my own, in varying manifestations, in similar degrees of awe. He had no color, no race, no nationality. There was nobody like him, yet he belonged to all of us. He was just Michael.

R.I.P., MAN IN THE MIRROR. Somebody in Facebook bade farewell, one of millions in a matter of minutes after the news broke. Admittedly, I despised the his transmogrification after Thriller. In the years leading to his death, he seemed to have devolved from Hero to the Hunchback of Notre Dame. His music, genius and even the moonwalk never waned but it was us who changed. We grew up. Worst of all, it was our image of him that changed and we turned on him. We marched to his bell tower where he dangled Baby Blanket with torches, tabloids, TMZ and even with doves released after a trial. How we pitied him and his bizarre sad life, and how dare he defaced the Michael who lit gritty city streets with every step in Billie Jean and electrified us with this.

AND NOW MICHAEL JACKSON IS DEAD. We try to wrap our head around a world without this icon of our lifetime. We are getting old. Like Elvis before him, we will share his music and stories of what made him great and precautionary tales of extraordinary individuals with feet of clay. And he will win over generations more of fans and followers even after death. He will live forever in our general psyches in the image we chose to remember him by. In every soundtrack that punctuate the moments. In every lazy summer afternoons of childhood dreaming big dreams listening to Jackson 5 on AM radio. In every fond memory of our lives. That's how icons are.

As I'm writing the end of this post, Janet is on the BET Awards both thanking & expressing the pain of the loss of a brother, then Ne-yo & Jamie Foxx sing, I'll Be There....

THANK YOU SO MUCH, MICHAEL.

P.S. Here are far more evocative tributes from friends & writing idols from the web: Shivaun, Jessica Zafra, and Jay Harvey.

And the far more eloquent, Anna and Hortense of Jezebel.

ultraelectromagneticbandlove

2009-03-07T20:01:00.010-05:00

I am a week or so behind blogging about the Oscars or as I call it, MY Super Bowl (and I did bring out the chips and the spinach dip). Despite my excitement last year, Watchmen is here, anatomically correct cerulean blue man-thing and all, blah, blah, blah. For the time being I leave the Hollywoods snark to Jezebel & my FB friend Jay Harvey; the fanboy vs. literati discourse to the Vultures and; the clever sentiment-veiled barbs to my friend, Shivaun. I am even laying aside the ton of figurative and rather literal crap I have to get over with before I fly off for the familiar, comforting shores of home.

The greatest part of being indubitably, viscerally a Pinoy of my generation-- progeny of the Martial Law years, Marcos despotism and stabs of a fledgling republic at democracy gone invariably bananas-- is to lay claim to the Eraserheads as our soundtrack, mouthpiece and badge of honor. Within the same month of August '08 while I was taking in the third year of the US Virgin Fest, the iconic band that defined the Pinoy cool held a much attended reunion concert with as much drama as the events that lead to its realization, overtaken only by the syncopal episode of lead singer, Ely ("the One Who Got Away") Buendia that became it's culmination or rather lack of.

I have gushed about this band before and I have no plans on stopping whenever the chance arises. Now, in honor of their Last Set that's held on this date, I dedicate this to a beloved band and cultural touchstone. As I eschew assignments, nursing marathons, chores & clogged toilets, I, like many proud Flips away from home and can not be there to sing along & cheer on Messrs. Buendia, Marasigan, Zabala & Adoro, content myself with footage of the night the E-heads are together again in You Tube posterity.

Of course there will always be memories of them at the Hard Rock Cafe in Singapore--Ely wiping his sweat with my hankie; Buddy politely refusing it cause he has a cold; surprisingly appealing eye contact with Marcus and; Raymond leaving us in stitches with enunciations of "Hah-rrd Rahk Kah-peeh!" Pakiusap lang sana hindi ito ang huling El Bimbo, please lang.

P.S. Rest in Peace Francis M. And maraming salamat po.

Super Bowl Commercials

2009-02-02T08:12:00.009-05:00

Okay, okay I must admit that I have skipped this year's All-American tradition to watch an ANTM Obsessed marathon on Oxygen, despite a sentimental connection with a much loved former mentor, who's been a resolute Yellow/White/Black speck in a sea of Purple Friday fanatics. I've known the Steelers were going to win in dramatic a fashion for that's the Steelers. My growing and rather hard-won sports zeal has been anti-climactic with the Ravens' loss to Pittsburgh for the AFC championship. Oh well, from abysmal and laughable, to a head-to-head with a Super Bowl champ, isn't bad at all for rookie Joe Flacco and Coach Harbaugh. Not quite the Cinderella story yet but, there is always next year for a Purple Reign. So there, that's as far as I can go for sports. Coming from me, thats quite much.

My own motivation on Super Bowl Sundays sit-thrus have always been the commercials. This year I rather watch them online instead of foregoing bathroom breaks. The Doritos and the booze commercials (leather clad Conan, yay!) get the laughs but I go for expensive sentimental shit like the Pepsi commercial featuring a young Bob Dylan in full Gaslight glory. It invokes the same feelings watching those Pepsi ads of the Berlin Wall crumbling and the I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing Coke ads in childhood. My waistline and the back of my thighs have sworn off soda's but, thanks for bookmarking history happening in my lifetime, corporate titans.

The Curious of Case of Life & the Movie Star

2008-12-27T11:56:00.036-05:00

Beholding Brad Pitt in various states of undress alone is a sight to behold, but to behold Mr. Pitt twinkle with ache and humanity in crescendoing stages of CGI-assisted gorgeousness and decay illuminates the sheer sway of movie magic and movie stars. Except for his cliche star vehicles that dominated his filmography (Troy, Spy Games, Meet Joe Black) in the Aniston era, one has to give credit to Pitt's fan boy approach to choosing his most notable roles after turning A-lister. It is in his wonkiest, kookiest and scruffiest do we detect a depth or an aspiration for it, in those geneticist-confounding good looks.

There could not be better examples than his jaunts with David Fincher. In Se7en, we first get to glimpse an indulgent hotshot, runt-like (in contrast to Morgan Freeman) and uncouth ("Marquis de Sha-arday") with mock-worthy intonation ("What's in the baa-aahx!?"). There's soap-making, unhygienic and ripped Tyler Durden in Fight Club. Lofty and subversive often he aims yet, he still has been just window dressing to more sublime thespians like Freeman and Norton.

In their third collaboration, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, gone are the 90's pretty boy dark, dank nihilistic status symbols. In its stead is seamless edge and languid cool--the quintessential showcase of Pitt-- the son, father of six, idealist, other half, citizen of the world, all-American boy and yes, accomplished actor. Perhaps it's the effect of his flawless Babel co-star, Cate Blanchett or, just age itself. The package is the same but the wine is of vintage age. For now instead of image and swagger, we have restraint and a (gasp!) resignation to the fates of storytelling and character. In doing so, the world's biggest moviestar may have just become one of us.

There may be Oscar buzz and some mixed reviews in the ether but for movie lovers, this is a popcorn epic that brings people together into cinemas in the grand tradition of movies-- a suspension of disbelief, transportation from the mundane, and reaffirmation of box of chocolates, kings of the world, angels getting their wings and yes, life is beautiful.

This movie has all the stuffings & fixings of an Academy contender: technology, music, dance, poignancy, a love story, glossy sex, Americana and even comedic strikes of lightning. The story is a signature Eric Roth (Forrest Gump) ouevre tempered by Fincher's Andersen's fairy tale-like strokes.

In a somber time in my life in this most trying of seasons, watching this movie conjures memories of loved ones and generations that have lived, died, crossed paths and took care of each other through it all just because. Watch this with a room full of people wether with someone you know or random strangers. As you tear-up or chortle in unison inside the darkened cinema, you find that people share a common thread so much more than you think. Even with Brad Pitt.

Click here for the Baltimore Sun review.

Charlie Brown Christmas II

2008-12-25T13:16:00.004-05:00

Thank you so much Mr. Charles Schulz.

A Charlie Brown Christmas

2008-12-22T23:39:00.008-05:00

To simpler times and the enduring wisdom of Peanuts...

A Dose of Paul Rudd

2008-12-19T14:07:00.013-05:00

Finally, a viral clip of the SNL skit from last November that hasn't been swallowed into NBC's corporate copyrighting vortex-- never to be seen in it's original state except in regurgitated YouTube tribute videos--pure and warm like dance biscuits. Features the yumminess that is Paul Rudd, Sasha Fierce and some interesting uses of leotards. Harkens me back to my Saturday ballet/jazz/hula lessons except instead of high heels (or in this case, Stride Rites) I wore these shaolin/mary jane/chinese shoes and had a bowl haircut. Nothing like a good laugh on nasty days like these.

"Happy Birthday, Samantha. Make a Wish."

2008-12-16T17:39:00.009-05:00

or The Tao of Long Duk Dong and Other Wisdoms for the Ages From the 80's

"You know a girl in a hat is just so...vogue."--Farmer Ted

Eureka, HDTV! For reasons beyond my brain cells, my cable unit can finally grant my humble Sylvanna flatscreen/DVD combo to beam in pop culture images--rendered sharp, shimmery as a fond memory, courtesy of all-American hi-def mania-- into my confined hideaway in Suburbia. The landmark paean to teenage nadirs and nirvanas, seemed less dated and vintage and more like an ad tribute to John Hughes styled by American Apparel and Urban Outfitters. It also illuminated the fact that at least four or five of my grade school attires from '84 to'86 are different versions of Molly Ringwald's outfit in the opening scenes. The hat came later.

"Why do you think you're a dork? I don't think you're a dork. I don't think Mom thinks you're a dork. "
"Mike thinks I'm a dork."

" Mike is a dork."

"So am I."

--Jim and Samantha Baker

"That's why they call them crushes. If they were easy, they'd call them something else."-- Jim Baker.

The dorks-and-crushes scene is every heart-to-heart father-daughter talk I've ever shared with my own Dad, down to the sleeveless undershirt and the pajamas and the sofa and the assurance of personal happiness only a father can conjure.

"I do independent study with her. I catch her lookin' at me a lot. It's kinda cool, the way she's always lookin' at me. "
"Maybe she's retarded." -- Jake Ryan and jock friend.

Question 1. After 1984 and exponentially through the early to mid-90's, why is it that every teenage dream object of lust for the every-girl looks like this?

(Of course, until Jordan Catalano came along and started leaning on things and haunted the school hallways of our redhead psyches did we have an alternative but, that is another Zeitgeist and a whole other blog post... or website.) As one aptly titled essay succintly breaks down:

"... Jake stands the test of time, even in his good looks. His wardrobe -- cargo pants, plaid shirt -- portends an Abercrombie vibe years before it came. His haircut requires only minor tweaking in a mental update of the fantasy. "

Question 2. Why do above-mentioned teenage dream objects of lust always own a pair of topsiders?

"I can't believe I gave my panties to a geek." --Samantha.

For the past three years or so, before my friend Shivaun, before my parents, before my sisters, my BFF since birth, and whatever number of friends I have, way before I have no choice but to remember, without fail, the first entity to wish me Happy Birthday is... Victoria's Secret. And it always comes with an offer to get a free panty.

"Would you stop feeling sorry for yourself? It's bad for your complexion."--Randy to Samantha.

How many best friends in my life, including my mother, have said this to me in one way or another. And most times, in all grateful angst, I reply,

"It's really human of you to listen to all my bullshit."-- Samantha to Farmer Ted.

Then, there is the immortal utterance from Samantha that still echoes,

"Donger's here for five hours, and he's got somebody. I live here my whole life, and I'm like a disease."

Oh well, like she said to Farmer Ted,

"Well that’s pretty cool. Hey, but a lot can happen over a year. I mean, you could come back next fall as a completely normal person."

A girl can always hope, sixteen and twice over and more.

BTW, the opener of this YouTube tribute brings back memories of my eldest sister dancing on top of somebody's tomb (pan-tyon) in my Dad's hometown a day before All Saint's Day

And in closing (and I could be paraphrasing),

"No more Yankee my wanky. Donger need food!"

SHOOED!!

2008-12-16T17:24:00.010-05:00

Uhm, perhaps the phrase, "May the fleas of a thousand camels invade your armpits!" did not suffice?

Embedded video from CNN Video.

What do you think Carrie Bradshaw would have done?

Huhh?! WTF?

ANG YAYA NI ZUMA

2008-11-22T16:54:00.013-05:00

Click here to connect to No Doubt official website

Somehow in the last three of the alphabet generations, a girl is never just a girl until she (even remotely) admires Gwen Stefani or, emulates Gwen Stefani, or wants to be like Gwen Stefani, or mentally befriends Gwen Stefani or, dye her hair pink like Gwen Stefani or, projects conjurations of girlish dreams acquired and evolved by the years, through Gwen Stefani. It is not Gwen Stefani's world that we happen to live in. It is a world where a girl wouldn't mind being Gwen Stefani. She is the every-girl Malkovich. This is further compounded by that gorgeous hubs of hers. Like who wouldn't do THAT? Even so after all these years, one can not help but be vicariously titillated by thought of her and Tony Kanal. There are Sid-and-Nancys, Cobains-and-Loves and Fleetwood Macs but Stefani and Kanal are the Julia & Richard, the Tom & Meg of rock--adorable in fantasy, but they're probably better off and far less dysfunctional as friends.

After years of hits, personal anthems, pop forays, fashion spreads, fragrance lines and genetically endowed offsprings No Doubt of the Orange County is to reunite for a world tour. It is not the Beatles reunion, or the end of wars, or the splitting of the atom but it comes in really fierce heels.

So in honor, here's hoping they play this song. It is my personal soundtrack for all couple-ly buffoons who like to ram couple-dom and all its saccharine glory down my throat and such a manner couple-righteously so.

Bringin' Bitches Back

2008-11-21T16:53:00.005-05:00

In the cusp of Hillary Clinton becoming Secretary of State, this is in honor of a role model or in this clip, three. After 18 million cracks at that glass ceiling, here's to hoping at running down the walls of a world where this is nothing but for women.

And thank you too, Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. You called it last February. You said it all.

Enough Said.

2008-11-06T16:58:00.010-05:00

November 4, 2008 11:00 PM EST. Two beautiful, poignant speeches. One historic night. One day we ALL thought we would never get to see in our lifetimes.

John McCain concession speech in Arizona.

Barack Obama acceptance speech in Grant Park.

another Mad night

2008-10-12T19:55:00.004-05:00

Before the New York Magazine article, my writer sister has already alerted me through my Facebook wall about the works of this talented New York lady on Flickr. She captures immortal scenes from the beloved cult series down to it's essence. She might as well have pinned down every Mad Men fanatic and dissected their brain with a laser and looked into that smoky corner in their cerebrum where they hold Sterling Cooper dear.

I, of course, have the Twistin' Peggy from the Hobo Code and this eerily familiar set-up from the pilot with Ms. Olson and a not so noble physician. I have not been a fan of Betty Draper until Season Two when I've finally decided that January Jones may just be an actress to reckon with. Check out Dyna Moe's punk-rock take on everyone's favorite Nordic model-turned-homemaker. Ah, how's about Joan Hollaway? To adore the redheaded office Marilyn is a given.

Rumor alert! A certain gun-toting, former beauty queen Republican running for VP may just be in next Saturday's SNL and may be running into Donald Draper. Hmmm, I can envision a Bobbie Barrett kind of scenario ala The Benefactor ep. I'm sure they have a lot in common. Really.

dawn can decide

2008-10-12T18:45:00.007-05:00

Well, I'm going through the 80's revival still with my dignity intact and have not given into squeezing my lard ass into this. Oh you poor kiddies in full on 80's headbands, leg warmers and iridescent-colored leggings. You'd have to figure out for yourself how to justify those to the grandbabies.

Now here comes the 90's. I'm emotionally not over 1995 so this won't be much of a stretch. I have my Chucks and my Docs patiently stored away waiting for their moment in the sun instead of being conversation pieces in one of my outfits. I honestly miss the baby dolls, granny clothes, and the the flannel, oh the flannel. Ratty wide-leg denims have advance order wait-lists with (in the state of the global economy,) rather obscene price tags. Ah, irony. So '94.

As for accessorizing, my angst is so well and intact, it's practically vintage. So bring on the pain, purveyors of IN. While you're at it, how's about a Soundgarden reunion? "Won't you come, won't you come..."

more Fey, yay to the Queen, Marky Mark, & PBS

2008-10-05T20:43:00.013-05:00

I was working Saturday night but I did get to catch this opening clip while transfusing PRBC at one of my darling ladies' bedside.

I caught these other two clips from the NBC website the next day. The first one is spoof of my favorite underwear-modelling, "little brother". Wink, wink to my fellow New Kids fans.

The second one is dedicated (warm fuzzies & all) to my two sisters and befittingly, our parents who had never resorted to whoring us out despite our many talents and my incessant whinings to join Little Miss Philippines and Binibining Agham (Miss Science). I ran for the Senate seat in my Catholic high school with nary a beauty title, except maybe Miss Grade One and failed attempts to get past the talent portion of Miss Future Homemakers of the Philippines (my talent was to beat the shit out of a boy. Yeah, seriously!). Thanks, Nay & Tay.

Palin comparison to Fey genius--the goddesses have spoken II

2008-09-29T16:51:00.014-05:00

Another reason to worship on the altars of Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. What blows the mind is that they still maintain the dynamic of Fey as the straight man and Poehler as the manic Jerry Lewis-type despite that the latter has been assigned to the more "serious" role, i.e. Rodham-Clinton, Couric. The fact that Fey's Palin still comes out the wacky one in this equation reflects on Palin pretty much like how this New York Magazine article depict the state of her political image. Or this one on her comparable inarticulateness to another SNL character.

the Goddesses have spoken: "AND I CAN SEE RUSSIA FROM MY HOUSE."

2008-09-15T16:52:00.011-05:00

If you can not see the video on this site, it is likely because EVERYONE is watching, embedding, sharing and emailing this instant classic skit as soon as it hit the Net for our downloading pleasure.

It speaks volumes about how despite the rhyme and rhetoric-- ranging from the lofty & beaming to Paris Hilton & idioms on porcine cosmetology--about change and making history, it still is an old boys club and they still get to choose who plays in the tree house.

There is ten times more forthrightness in beholding Roger Sterling going, "Crab, Duck. Duck, Crab."

In my humble (non-voter) opinion, CUT THE FUCKING TREE DOWN!

Hail La Fey!! Viva El Poehler!!! Kudos to Seth Meyers, you little cutie.

in an alternative universe, born in the first world

2008-07-27T23:51:00.009-05:00

I Will Possess Your Heart by Death Cab for Cutie. Album: Narrow Stairs (2008)

A waif wandering the globe restlessly, eyes wide, haunted & taking in everything, face framed by arty bangs swept aside casually way to many times, hair tousled enough to be eccentric, and a rock band of of nerds serenading me with similes about "a book elegantly bound" from a giant meat freezer: this succinctly portrays my fantasy life.

As a matter of fact this may unwittingly be my life right now.

Add butt-loads of crap, errands for ice water & pain meds, constant assignments by married coworkers to CMV and almost every isolation case--for no other reason than I'm single & therefore (by their implication) have not much at stake--and the burning varicose veins, life unfolds like Urban Outfitter vignettes elegantly bound, love.

Killing Time Until The Season Premiere of Mad Men

2008-07-27T20:50:00.003-05:00

House of Cards by Radiohead. Album: In Rainbows (2007)

Sorry fellas but Camden, NJ is just a tad too far from my side of the East Coast for one grrl to drive alone to. The area around Tweeter according to my Googling sure ain't no Columbia, MD. Please consider stopping by the BW area next time or maybe if you decide to extend your north American leg.

out-culture vulture

2008-07-26T19:23:00.024-05:00

Click on title to know why then read on.

Well bless my bulgur and call me UNDRA queen. This third world progeny is hoisting the overtaking dirty finger at the New York literati for being slow to have caught on the show that is her "Freudian death wish," as Pete Campbell would put it. I may just be getting as cocky as the show's period chauvinists. My sister, Melissa, & I have dissected the disturbing deja vu Mad Men can incite from our sibling psyches despite that we have not really known that we both are obsessed with it until we get to reunite and catch up in my Vegas hotel room (yes, my life is never tawdry) which was kinda apropos (had to use the word. Hah! Take that Dan Kois and Lane Brown). Like Andy Garcia in the baby carriage-down-the-train-station-steps in the Untouchables she shoots, "Doesn't it remind you of old BISCOM?" I still have to turn our eldest sib, who has a namesake in the show btw, into a convert. Give in to the pomade, girdles and claustrophobia, sistah! As I am a Miranda (according to a Facebook app) in the SATC universe, I definitely am a Peggy (complete with irrational attraction to brainy, irascible jerks in the workplace) in this alternate thread.

The series plods but not in a bad critique kind of way but much like the eerie, poignant strains of an impending (symbolic?) suicide permeated by the music of the opening credits. We just sit back and watch the countdown of lives imploding in an era at the cusp of radical change. We tsk-tsk at the archaic standards of couthness and perceptions as much as we inwardly wish ourselves back into that world.

Personally, the lead character, Don Draper, is both the tip of this iceberg and the cherry on top. Jon Hamm is hot damn! I have not even bothered to mull on his Golden Globe-winning, Emmy-nominated performance. His Draper though is an antithesis but somehow reminds me of my father as I've seen him as a girl growing up. It's the immaculately combed hair, the white t-shirts, perspiring over a playhouse on a hot day, a hand laying on his sleeping daughter's forehead as he piles on the blankets after coming late from work and the scent of pomade, after-shave & nicotine that came with the strong, implacable air that both lead, awed and cowered lesser men. Ala FPJ.

Anyways, back to the middle finger. Even New York Times & Vanity Fair are in the bandwagon that dollies through the office of Sterling Cooper. Hmmm? So can you blame my cockiness? Perhaps I am just the product of my roots? As the saying goes, "Guina pala kag guina piko ang kwarta!" and of course the immortal, "Indi kami tikalon!" To the literati, go figure that out.

Click here for Season Two teaser.

P.S. Thank you J. Harvey, you lovable, snarky Boston bear and the old Socialite Life site.

this made me cry first thing in the morning while watching the today show and damn you david gregory you prematurely grey giant

2008-07-22T07:58:00.009-05:00

This picture is from the UK Daily Mail article. Click on title or link for the YouTube clip (please feel welcome to mute out Whitney) that got featured in Today, made Meridith cry & Gregory ruin the moment. Nevertheless, my diggings about Christian drew out memories as a little girl watching this movie in our Paglaum living room about lion cubs which might have been Born Free. Fuckin' traumatized me. Like that Dumbo movie when they were all mean to Dumbo and locked away his mom who was just being protective and in Aristocats with the kittens & that conniving butler. Bastards. I didn't get to watch Bambi until I was probably over 18 for a reason. Those Wonderful World of Disney specials with the movie clips gave me a spoiler heads up, thank God.

"And here we go..."

2008-07-21T13:10:00.014-05:00

Click on link for The Dark Knight's box-office news.

This pretty much encapsulates why I wanted to kick myself for not booking at Fandango for the midnight screenings in advance specially in the face of "artsy" Starbucks-cashier-girl-taking-my-latte-order gloating through her piercings that she had hers a week before. TEN THEATERS at the AMC Lowes ALL SOLD OUT. I thought my blue state suburban corner in the East Coast would be immune to an albeit foreseen phenomenon rampaging the major cities of this country. Damn it.

Anyway, I did get to watch it at 10AM. Bright & early (for me). Front & center. Close enough to count Ledger's pores. Enough to get slobbered by his Joker as he licked his gashed maw and even taste the salt & metal of sweat and blood from a wound that never scabbed over. To get totaled by an exploding truck in trajectory. To snigger at nurse Joker sharing a hairstyle curl for curl & the exact shade of red with someone I work with. Enough to feel the loss of him rubbed into the psyche.

I need to sleep. Maybe I can think up a better written review.

And fuck you Dr. Zahiri. (Totally unrelated, btw).

CONSIDER MY ASS LOCKED INTO THAT THEATRE SEAT

2008-07-03T09:10:00.013-05:00

I am having one major geek-out right now right now after happening upon this clip during my somewhat pointless wanderings into Perez Hilton but WTF. The sound is atrocious. The video quality is shotgun. But 10 seconds into this 5-minute clip of the opening scene of Dark Knight I have found myself trying to stop the spontaneous drool from spilling out of my awestruck maw onto my long-suffering Mac's keyboard while declaring, "Oh my God, I so have got to see this movie!!!!"

Heath Ledger is officially a deity and with SO MUCH LOVE, as the Joker, is one crazy motherfucker. My heart aches. My soul cries. Hope you're happy surfing heaven's Bondi, mate!

Click on link to movie website. Now, lemme go to Fandango. Or maybe I can harass the nice people at the Maryland Science Center if they're showing this on IMAX.

ANOTHER VIRGIN SUMMER

2008-06-28T01:39:00.007-05:00

Yep, that time of the year is rolling closely again. Nice to meet you finally, Dave! Closer, Trent Reznor. We meet again, Scott. Mano po, Lolos Bob, Iggy & Chuck. Ola mader Moby. Manash Kanye don't pull a Bonnaroo, ok girlfriend? It's the days of crab cakes & Southern Comfort again!!

Damn you, Weezer, Rage vs. the Machine, Beck & Radiohead. Love you but damn you. Next year perhaps? A grrl can hope.

Click on title for the the updated line-up and on links for the Spin & RS article, bitches!

SEX DREAMS

2008-06-02T01:48:00.017-05:00

"Year after year, twenty-something women come to New York City in search of the two "L's": labels and love. Twenty years ago... I was one of them."

It doesn't start with once upon a time, the middle is a shattered attempts at happily-ever-after, and ends with the possibility of a lucrative sequel. That is the most I can tell about the plot for I loathe to spoil this for my friend Shivaun who introduced me to the series and these characters whose lives we aspired for and the city we dreamed about.

Sex in the City has always been a personal thing for me that I watch alone except for my cat, Rodman and occasionally my sister Melissa, only to share and discuss extensively via text with Shivaun. After watching the movie surrounded by the literally well-heeled, pre-movie inebriated equivalent of Trekkies and Star Wars fanatics, it pretty much is the same with every fan wether they are into Gucci and Vuitton or Proust and Bronte. This is more than just a chick-flick, it is a major catch-up with one very dear friend with some very pleasant surprises:

1. It's got something to do with the NY Public Library which by the way behind it is Fashion Week mecca, Bryant Park which I know could induce a sigh from my writer friend and fellow bibliophile Shivaun.

2. Charlotte Yorke whom I considered the fluffiest and scoff-worthy of the four, in three pivotal scenes brought in the biggest laugh (hint:Mexico), the loudest applause (with Big) and one rather out-of-character, feral moment on the street by Bryant Park which I didn't think Kristin Davis had it in her.

3. The two kids they casted as Charlotte's and Miranda's respective children, Lily and Brady provide precious touches, from Lily being the precocious, unwitting participant in the girl talk, to red-headed Brady sharing his mother's smile.

It just goes to show how much the actors have embraced their characters and how invested we are in their journey. The movie feels like one continous season marathon and like every season four years ago, we laugh, sigh, shed a tear or two, and say, "Oh shit!" fervently, religiously. Just like any night with your best friends.

teenage goddess

2008-05-26T20:31:00.009-05:00

I intended to post about this movie after I marched through the wet, windy chill to the Loews of The Avenue at White Marsh in my McGuffian homage of hoodie, stripes and Chucks but after the age of sixteen and specially after a harsh introduction to winter, I had always been in some kind of funk during Decembers.

Oh well, I have the DVD now, naturally, for I love indies. I always somehow associate them with a contented state of unemployment which have, once upon a time, existed for me-- living at home, taking trips to Bacolod to buy my Lola's insulin then rent 3 free 1 laser discs at Quadtech.

I was never this succinct of mind, words and spirit as Juno. I struggled with self-expression and my only decisiveness was not go without umbilical approval from my Nanay & Tatay. I had the pretty, developed teen-queen BFFs but had to ape as their personable but weird token friend whose behavior had to be explained by the cuter members of the clique to win the senatorial elections by a hair. I owed my popularity by being one of the few who gets driven to school. I may have been part of the in crowd because of family Volkswagen Brasilia, but I wish I was this cool enough not to give a fuck what people said. In college, oh boy, I was an amoeba not even known enough to be a reject. The only thing I could be proud of was how resolute I was to not become a cliche. Specially in the LaSalle School of Nursing.

My Torontonite sister tells me her curmudgeon co-worker and fellow Flip remarked, "Sana inangkin nya na lang yung bata tutal sila naman pala yung nagkatuluyan (She should have held on to the baby since she ended up with the father, anyway)," pertaining to the Ellen Page and Michael Cera characters. Pregnancy and marriage have never been options for me back in my Third World hometown let alone solutions. Books, films, music, education and Marc Jacob Sgt. Pepper jackets are and still is.

By the way, this Penny Saver scene I swear seems like it's totally been shot at the park behind my sister's apartment in Vaughan Road even though the film was shot in BC. I also could definitely tell the film wasn't shot on US soil. The whole environment was too.. too.. well-adjusted to be American. Sorry, Jason Reitman.

So is living like a snarky sixteen-year-old Stooges and Patty Smith fan hiding from life? Should one feel less alive for not-so popular choices? Don't ask me. I'm still figuring it out. All I know is that it takes a certain amount of spine to stand by my shenanigans (just had to sneak the word in, hehehe). Honest to blog.

closing walls and ticking clocks...

2008-05-11T19:21:00.008-05:00

Oh summer, how much can one cram into three wee months of sun before the cruel grays of the cold months take over?

They may not be necessarily the greatest band ever although they are one of the biggest, there is something about Chris Martin & co. that stirs an ardent, polarized yet somewhat civilized wide-scale kaffeeklatsch. There are far more brilliant lyricism and far more innovative musicianship but they are far from middling either. Perhaps casting comparisons and A-list affinities and proximities and being in the know aside, these blokes just happen to make good music that happen to resonate in our joint existentialism. The song below is a prime example and a particular, personal fave other than Shiver (see past blog post).

Much like the summers that come and go into our lives and the questions wether we have made the most of them the song ticks and tocks with an urgency and constancy like a timepiece that seemingly verges but refuses to bog down-- "cursed missed opportunities..."

Speaking of summer, with several fellow greats have albums out and are of course touring. Foos, check. NIN, check. Dylan, check . Cornell, maybe. Have to check my sched. REM, have to find somebody to switch with at work. Radiohead, I wish but Chicago is too far. Pearl Jam may be out of the question. Damn PJ for being too expensive (why Eddie, why?)!!! Coldplay.com please pick me for the free Madison Square gig, PLEEASE!!! After all these, I'm going to be broke. Damn it.

Coldplay is releasing their fourth album taking part in series of unconventional releases by big acts in a show of middle fingers to the evil record company traditions.

Clocks
Coldplay
from A Rush of Blood to the Head, 2002

Lights go out and I can't be saved
Tides that I tried to swim against
You've put me down upon my knees
Oh I beg, I beg and plead, singing
Come out of things unsaid, shoot an apple off my head and a
Trouble that can't be named, tigers waiting to be tamed, singing
You are, you are

Confusion never stops, closing walls and ticking clocks, gonna
Come back and take you home, I could not stop, that you now know, singing
Come out upon my seas, curse missed opportunities, am I
A part of the cure, or am I part of the disease, singing

You are, you are, you are, you are
You are, you are
And nothing else compares
Oh no nothing else compares
And nothing else compares

You are
Home, home, where I wanted to go,
Home, home, where I wanted to go,
Home, home, where I wanted to go,
Home, home, where I wanted to go.

allegory & irony, man

2008-05-07T02:47:00.017-05:00

It all starts with an explosion in the deserts of Afghanistan.

Summer is a-nigh. Time for bikini's, snarky tees, bare feet, music fests and superheroes. Blasting the door over for the sun to come in and annihilating the wintry doldrums is the somewhat unlikely Ironman. Despite the CGI ammo and Oscar A-list artillery of a cast, this could have been easily just another summer cheese platter from the big studio craft service. Much to everyone's surprise the fanboy also-ran (except for the hard-core ones, natch), grossed over the 100-million mark domestically and as the last of the credits roll, the geek in everyone gets awakened and wriggling for sequel.

Perhaps it is of little faith to ever doubt an actor's actor like Robert Downey Jr. who, according to Zodiac costar Jake Gyllenhall, has a 100 & 1 different ways to approach a scene. He so engulfs the role that even after the snazzy CGI armor comes to fore, his presence still pretty much takes over through the virtual Titanium. The analogies to Downey's real-life persona may help but his Tony Stark is a glib, bacchanal, unapologetic yet downright charismatic, campy brat ("Press conference. Cheeseburger first") who's claim to superhumanity are merely acing MIT and a trust fund-- a quasiatom of Gates & Jobs and Paris & Nicky. Taking a lesson from the Fantastic 4 fluff care of Jessica Alba, Jon Favreau puts his Swinger ethos to good use using the ably nuanced Paltrow as stoic and even-keeled Virginia "Pepper" Potts who provides more veritas than just being able to sprint in escape from a killer robot in strappy stiletto Louboutins over iron grates. Terence Howard poses a heroic and heretofore portentous figure to eventually fill in the iron suit and then War Machine. As father figure and nemesis, Obadia Stane, Jeff Bridges is both reassuring and menacing--the Dude transmogrified as evil capitalist. The horror.

The critics, the fanboys and the random audience talk about the makings of this superhero and the criticism of America's wars. I read in one Yahoo review, complaints about using AC/DC in the opening as a little cliche which pretty much is representative of certain points that escape the American movie-goer. On the get-go Tony Stark is introduced as somewhat of a dick. With due respect, what can be more fitting soundtrack than Back in Black, the theme song of the all-American dickhead? Seriously. In its pivotal points the film flings popcorn, albeit lovingly and glossily, at not just the American war but the American way which most superheroes or superhero films protect, uphold and concentrate on:

1. In his first attempt Ironman doesn't rescue a blonde or red-head in distress falling from a skyscraper or a family in perilous car trouble in Iowa but an Afghan family in some obscure village on the verge of being torn apart by the devastating crossfires of bullies with big guns.

2. The usual hangouts of Stark are in Vegas, Malibu, & LA--superficial wonderlands of lights, cars, mansions and easy women. The only reference to NYC, the city of the world, is by a Box of Ray's Pizza flown in by private jet.

3. In a press conference, Burger King in hand, Stark looks back on the loss of promising American lives with MySpace pages and witnessing firsthand the havoc of the American system of "zero accountability".

4. By the way, Tony Stark in the comic book world is a Republican.

Watch out for the fallout from the Red State-folks, once there is a lull in the election coverage. Or the point may just go over people's heads which is well, quite ironic.

ApaTAOism

2008-04-20T23:22:00.016-05:00

Cutie New York rich kid of E!'s The Daily 10, Ben Lyons has mentioned a lull in the series of comedic meteorites from Judd Apatow with star factory-releases like Walk Hard, The Dewey Cox Story (snigger) and Drillbit Taylor. I beg to differ. This is Hollywood Natural Selection 101. With all due respect to Messrs. Apatow, John C. Reilly, Owen Wilson, and Seth Rogen these flicks are merely necessary evils to appease the Sumner Redstones/Weinsteins clones of this Wal-world so they can go on doing the likes of Hard Eight, Darjeeling Limited, Superbad and/or this summer's Pineapple Express which thankfully brings bourgeoning leading man, James Franco back to to his Freak and Geeks origins as if f**in Tristan & Isolde never f**in happened.

Anyway, all is well again in Apatopia with Forgetting Sarah Marshall wherein Apatow falls back on his own blue-ribbon recipe for box-office classicism of all-story and-no-big-stars. He utilizes his Freaks cohorts, writer Nicholas Stoller to direct and actor Jason Segel who starred in, wrote and conceived the tale complete with YouTube and Blogger back stories. In the vein of Isabel-Evans-versus-Izzie-Stevens Katherine Heigl, the film is serviced by TV pin-ups Mila Kunis (That 70's Show & Family Guy) and Kristen Bell (Veronica Mars & Heroes) who are both a fair balance of Maxim popularity and geek cult-dom. In this world, the heroes are averagely cute, adorably funny in their typically clueless manhood. The heroines on the other hand are typical creations from the mind of such men in real life-- impossibly gorgeous and fit both in actuality and in the Wii; a dude's girl he can both hang and have sex with. The shrill, cliched bridezillas most of this men are likely to end up within real life are satirized into the background or as villainess. Thus, this makes the stories and the characters so involving for there is enough fantasy and happily-ever-afters copulating with the not so pretty reality.

Segel, who played the strangely appealing pink-eyed stoner uttering the immortal, "Dude, keep your baby away from him! He wants to rear your child," in Knocked Up, like Rogen, is the quintessential Apatow lead every man--a smart, schlubby, horny teddy bear with a heart of gold. Russell Brand, playing Sarah Marshall's pretentious but harmless lothario rocker boyfriend with a vacuous cool, delivers the loud guffaws with only a look and a shrug best caught in the sex war scene and the rejection of the fanatic advances of Jonah Hill, another Apatow staple. Bell draws nuance & sympathy from the cookie cutter Life & Style title character to her credit. Kunis, once the raving brat Jackie Berkhart, is irresistibly winning as the rebound girl and a surprising movie screen face. Both she and Bell in their little beach outfits make me want to swear off carbs, a normal life and sanity altogether.

Perhaps it may be a little early to see how beings and things unfold and are explored in the growingly Lucas-like universe of Judd Apatow. We've seen some of his Phantom Menace but not necessarily its Jar-jar Binks' or worse, Howard the Duck. There are no conventions in his honor or for his movies so far, but we watch in bated bong breath for his next observations on life, sexuality and the American Way.

P.S. Seriously considering abandoning my ambitions and just move to Hawaii and just surf on my days off instead of brining my life in ennui, Perez Hiltons and ANTM marathons. Shit.

pro bono, edge, adam, and sigh, larry...

2008-03-04T00:43:00.028-05:00

...also my family and then some other creatures

Click on title to link to movie site.

This was worth braving through the salty, biting winds of the Inner Harbor, the labyrinthian rush hour of Pratt St. looking for the only IMAX theatre within 10 miles of my zip code not to mention $18 for parking and a lost ticket for space on the other side of the Harbor.

Somehow Friday seemed to be the day that the well-to-do East Coast urbanites of nearby Federal Hill would come out of their Ethan Allen-ed lairs and their JC Penney ad-styled world. They seemed to be everywhere that I would have checked myself if I was still in Baltimore had it not been for the homeless guy who asked for change and the crab cake platter I ate over fries and hush puppies while waiting for the 7:30 pm show.

At an Urban Outfitters (love their stuff btw but), with the mean girls and the catholic school-garbed gossip girls and the artsy hipsters loitering as clientele, I could not help but think of this hilarious other blog I stumbled upon. Side note: I'm into about 85% of the entries and by default, fall into entry #11 (which kinda makes me glad for my choice of a Hestia-esque existence, btw), so does that make me white or just pretentious?

As my fellow audience members started to mill into the Science Center theater, I could not help thinking I'd intruded into some neighborhood party and exclaiming, "Shit I'm the only black person in the room!" I picked a center seat third row from the front--nausea central--but could not care less for I intended to be un-bothered by the more ideally-seated mob behind me and other than the old couple five to six seats down, I was the closest to U2's virtual genitals like I had wanted to.

Anyways, on with the show. Any bitch-fest I had hatched up prior to it became null as the lights dimmed and the IMAX place became a rock arena and fittingly enough the familiar opening count of Vertigo sucked us all into U2-pia.

Uno!

Dos!

Tres!

KATORSE!

Anthem after another, the rock arena became a religious experience as Adam Clayton (the group's resident true rock star) handed me his bass; Edge (the token prodigy/deity) let me strum his guitars and; I fly over the stage close enough to kiss Larry Mullen's nape. The audience were clearly intended to feel more than a sense of being there but to be like spirits floating around basking it all. Bono sang One and stretched out his arm and our palms met. He angles his a certain way and I found my pedestrian hands ensconced in the virtual palmar that touched those of the late Pope and lead one of the world's greatest rock bands. The other star was rather very heard than seen. The sound engulfed and washed one into the core of the event. Screw DVDs and HD TVs. This film could only be truly experienced in an IMAX.

Behind me, the Fed Hillites sang-along, woo-whooed and shouted Free Bird. Grams and Pop-pop five seats down were not immune and Grams did not hide her appreciation every time we panned close to Bono's designer jeans. Speaking of which I should be happy about the crotch shots but up close to one of the sexiest men alive I could not help but think that the way he wore his $5,000 denim kinda reminded me of how my Tatay would wear his pants. NOT GOOD. Good for my dad cause he's analogous to Bono but for me, nooo! Not good at all. Aargh! It shouldn't be. Aaack! You are #1 in my list of sex symbols I'd like to hear singing in my shower. Why, Bono? Baah-keht?

The song below is a favorite from their How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb album and has driven me to tears early into U23D. I once have "theme-songed" this to the wrong couple of people in the past tarnishing one great song every time it plays in my i-Pod. Stupid me when I needn't have looked farther than my own blood to dedicate this to. If there's one thing these Irish lads have taught me is that family is the greatest rock band in the universe.

Nay, Tay, and all the rest of my lovies click on play below or click here for the lyrics. Thanks for all the unequivocally loving and supportive e-mails. Love and miss you.

The ReBUTTal

2008-02-28T19:17:00.005-05:00

Should have posted this days ago but I have to go to work. Wishing I am doing the dirty with both Will Hunting and Jason Bourne at the same time (go figure) may be a lovely thought but that don't pay the bills.

cameron crowe knows my life

2008-02-18T02:20:00.003-05:00

I first saw this movie in the early 90's when I was just a fledgling La Sallian college kid. This was like heaven opening and giving me a glimpse of how life should be. It was all to happen in Seattle.

Now I have the bourgeoning album collection, the Doc Martens, the black leggings and the cute hat, the java haunts and money to spare for an Alice in Chains show but alas, this wannabe-Janet Livermore is sixteen years too late, on the opposite coast and past the 25-year mark. Despite it all, the yearning to do something bizarre is still thumping in my chest cavity like a badmotorfinger.

Somewhere, somehow that apartment, that life, and most of all that soundtrack exists- a Gen-Xanadu where one sips coffee with Ament, Gossard and Vedder while reading the paper and they hang out in your couch watching NatGeo and Chris Cornell in all his long-maned glory is a next-door neighbor just passing through. It's gotta be out there somewhere.

I SO WISH...I SO DEFINITELY WOULD...

2008-02-02T08:34:00.000-05:00

I am irrevocably besotted with Conan but Kimmel seems like an upstanding kind of guy. This goes to show all my lusting for 2007 People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive is not the least bit misguided and so worth the campaign from Pitt and Clooney. Sarah Silverman is one of the most insanely, deliriously, oh-no-you-didn't funniest persons on earth and one cool Jew BUT bitch totally stole my song!

28

2008-01-23T14:54:00.000-05:00

What is it about death? What is it about dying young? Beauty, brilliance, and promise cut short, gone way too soon? Why does the loss throw us into a confounding sadness and endless questions? Banal, existential to the just plain tabloid. The whys and the what ifs.

He was blond and built yet defied cliched stardom routes. His portrayal of the cinematic square-jawed, mono-drawling Western hero embodied every celebrated big-screen tradition then threw it out the window unto the faces of Rev. Phelps and his ilk and our own closeted biases in HD-colored heartbreak. The fact that he was chosen to play the Joker, a role immortalized in stone by Nicholson speaks volumes on his gifts. Many people were enamored by him as the golden boy in 10 Things or A Knight's Tale but I chose to remember him on the silver screen as the tragic Southern boy, the loving and unloved son in Monster's Ball. Or far better as just him as the head of one beautiful young family running errands on the streets of New York caught for posterity by nosey paparazzi lenses.

For most of us he might be the last person we expected to be in the six o'clock news rolled out in a gurney, wrapped in a body bag so early into a new year, a blooming career, parenthood. Just early on in general.

Heath Ledger, actor, leading man, lover, artist, son and father is dead. To paraphrase a quote about another loss of another golden Wunderkind (this time from music), we have barely begun to grasp how much he shall be missed.

one early blustery new york morning

2008-01-19T10:17:00.000-05:00

Towards the corner of 41st and 5th, a few paces from the New York Public Library and a block away from fashionable Bryant Park, in a huff of feminine emergency to look for the nearest drug store, I literally stumble on this metal and concrete revelation. And this is just one of the thousand reasons I am helplessly, irrevocably in-love with New York.

Click on the title or image to get the big picture.

from my table at the reading room

2008-01-19T09:14:00.002-05:00

from my table
Originally uploaded by cjbando

The hotel is littered by white folk with the air of entitlement of the upper middle class.

The elegant middle-eastern concierge and the chic, skinny black girl at the desk do not seem to question my being there. But a lone girl checking into a Midtown NY literate-hipster hotel for a night can pique curiosity anywhere one goes be it Cauayan or Manhattan.

Concierge guy goes on to instruct me in all his cosmopolitan metrosexual conciergerie discretion about the rules of the hotel: no smoking... something about me AND my guest... Ooh-la-lah! How very clandestine. He proceeds to ask me wether I am there to shop and I say just to get away. That's not a bad reason at all he says.

I glanced to my left. Two tables away I see Elijah Wood in all-black and a faux hawk sipping espresso like the rest of us civilians. For a minute I thought he has fallen off one of the Tolkiens like an errant bookmark. Trust the fates who take delight in my constant punked state to set my token celebrity sighting in an NYC hotel called the Library Hotel to be Frodo Baggins.

The well-dressed white folks do not appear to wonder about my presence among them or are just good in hiding it like they always do. Perhaps it's due to the buggy eyes of my '07 fall-winter Miss Marc hobo or the DKNY bubble of polar bear and squirrel-- a welcome reject I have snagged from some red-neck outlet store but sshh, don't tell. Sometimes one need not dress to kill, just armed and camouflaged for survival. Natural selection.

A cute staffer of gay-boyfriend material approaches to inform me that my room is finally ready. I stuff my iBook into my backpack, grabbed my annoyingly necessary winter garb. Genetics is destiny and ones claim to the midoclorians, I thought as I flash him my Melki smile.

Season's Greetings To Fellow E-heads Everywhere

2007-12-27T09:02:00.001-05:00

This was meant to be posted as a comment to my friend, Jean's profile but friendster does not seem to allow embedding from YouTube in their comments boxes anymore. WTF.

Anyways, this band deserves more than and, encompasses any kind of box. They are the best thing that has rocked the swill-fest that is Philippine entertainment. Always the lovable losers with their profound poetry and sublime sound, they have proven that substance and masa market value need not be bleached, Belo-ed and brain-fed by the likes of Fermin and Nay Lolit. Quintessentially Pinoy wether it be with their tanzan collection or their childhood-ingrained allegiance to Star Margarine, their work in music, video and even print proved that to be bakya need not be a total belief in the witticism of Boy Abunda, by incorporating pop culture, philosophy, satire and absurd kanto-boy humor.

They shattered expectations and made one proud to be Pinoy, but were always the odd ones in the Flip showbiz freakshow, which made them even more loved because they were one of us. Not better or larger than life, like an FPJ or Ate Guy. No Cinderella sob stories. No Richard Gomez working at McDo getting discovered. Just four dudes from UP with a penchance for Voltes V, rock music and a point of view.

For a very short span of years (way too short) in the 90's, Pinoys have been given credit for having working brains with countless anthems like Ligaya, Pare Ko, Magasin, Ang Huling El Bimbo, Fruitcake, Wag Mo Nang Itanong, and the massive, With a Smile. A personal favorite is Shake Yer Head. They may have gone their separate ways through the years, but their words and music still remains significant for every long-suffering Pinoy scattered among the continents and perhaps, for non-Flips who've been sucked into our tight circles.

They are in memories of LVN and Sampaguita movies in the afternoons of our childhood. They are in every heartbreakers and campus crush ng bayans we busted our asses making their thesis for. In every rainy afternoon coddled with the one you love be it your honey, your boo-boo or your nephew. In every road trip and food trip you make running away from your problems. In every drunken sessions with the Magic Sing. In every prayer meeting with San Miguel while bonding with friends over isaw. In every balikbayan box opened with glee or with an "Ayoko nito!" They still sound so damn good and that is a sign of f---in' greatness, man!

one big reason why john lennon is a genius and a prophet and why we've barely scratched the surface of his divine brilliance

2007-12-18T02:38:00.000-05:00

December is the month of John Lennon's death anniversary. Decades after this song came out, the words & music of this great man has never been more painfully true.

"A very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,

We hope it's a good one..."

Thank you Sir John. So much.

september ends II

2007-12-17T10:49:00.003-05:00

THANK YOU, FLEA
Originally uploaded by cjbando

Last September of 2006, I had the two most surreal extremes in one week. On September 23 I got to witness the Chili Peppers and the Who in the first ever US Virgin Fest. On the 24th, I flew to Toronto to watch, along with my sister, my most beloved band in concert on the 25th. The day after, one of the happiest nights of my life became one of the saddest. On September 26 I found out my dear friend, Puppy had passed away in most tragic circumstances.

Finally after a year of respect for the memory of a friend, I have finally had the gall and the time to post that one hot minute of sheer happiness before I come tumbling down into a bawling, mourning heap. This post is a loving tribute to love, to a band I love so much it hurts and to a friend I love like family.

Once upon a time in this girl's life, in a Dragon Mansion in the Spottiswoodes of the Lion City, a Puppy named Maribel sees me off, along with our friend Christine, to my first rock show at the Hard Rock with the best advice for a rock fan ever: bring a handkerchief for an Eraserhead to wipe his sweat with. The hankie is still tucked away in my journal at my childhood bedroom, still permeating with Ely Buendia's cologne. Thank you and I love you, Pup. It still hurts.

reflections on a backwater pearl part 2: Penny Lane likes my country

2007-12-05T04:47:00.000-05:00

So there she was, in the midst of Manila's signature smog, looking over the taxi queues and the gladiatorial jeepneys, and the endless throng of people moving through dust, smoke and the garbage punctuating the streets- a smiling, laid-back ideal, all comfy and cozy. Behind her a thunderstorm condenses into a certainty of turning everything below her into muck in a good half hour.

My sister told me Natalie Portman endorsed Ba-yo last year. Either Padme Amidala had gone slumming or was being charitable.

The clothes are really cute though.

reflections on a backwater pearl part 1, the rants

2007-11-13T04:23:00.000-05:00

They may seem rearranged
In the backwater swirling, there is
Something that'll never change.

-Meat Puppets, Backwater, from the album Backwater, 1993.

Upon arrival at the NAIA, I realize, I have boarded a plane (my third in a series of connecting flights) in Nagoya to my final destination, Manila, and stepped out of a time machine.

There are about ten open cubicles at the fully packed Customs. Two are asssigned solely for OFWs and balikbayans. All the rest, including the closed ones are for the Anglos, the Euros, the snotty, noisy fellow Asians and a Midwestern family of Children of the Corn whom I shared a plane with since Detroit. The Flips outnumber the foreigners 5:1.

The average Flip man has no trepidation to openly stare and leer at any exposed female flesh even in the year 2007. The lighter the skin, the more lecherous the overtures.

It is some form of social buttress to rub in the have and have-nots. A freebie Lacoste tote and a hack-job Louis can supersede but easily cower in the face of true substance and character in most concourses.

To quote the great Jessica Zafra, "It is easy to be mistaken for an intellectual in this country." Peppering one's sentences with English words or phrases and random TV trivia is like accesorizing an outfit or brandishing a cell phone.

The horizons of Metro Manila are riddled with billboards of fair-skinned and celebs endorsing skin-whitening products and cosmetic surgery centers, conveying to the ordinary, hardworking joe who aspire for their lives: If you are brown and your features are less than aquiline, you are not good enough.

Beneath these 50-foot images of misled perfection are shanty towns, perpetually constructed roads, decaying structures, the hustling and the hustled jousting for space on streets & in malls and then, there is the world's worst traffic.

In the face of dust and heat and an unfortunate lack of A/C during one's commute, thoughts form that Manila is a hellhole where hellholes come to die.

"Senator, love your suit!!" (written October 28, 2007 BWI pre-departure area)

2007-11-13T04:01:00.000-05:00

"Haul his ass back to Baltimore!"-US Senator pertaining to Hannibal Lecter.
I'm loosely quoting from one of my favorite films EVER, Silence of the Lambs, which I managed to catch on the eve of of my departure from Charm City, Murrryland, Home of the Brave. Nothing except for the V-fest could make me prouder for ending up in this tiny historic state. The very words came back and bit me (pun intended) when I was informed my flight yesterday was unceremoniously rescheduled without any due notice from my travel agent. My bony ass was hence hauled back to Baltimore County and I have managed to catch the last few scenes of the Lambs repeat. Yes, that part where Starling found herself in Jamie Gumm's lair. Jodie Foster was just utter perfection in this, combining intelligence prevailing through white trashiness.

The rest of the day, I just drowned my sorrows with the Top Model Marathon and the very hilarious America's Most Smartest Model in either VH1 or MTV (couldn't tell the diff). My trip may had been derailed for a day but my IQ did get a vacation.

Now I'm here in BWI waiting for my flight to Detroit then Nagoya then Manila. After a very short few weeks, I'll be hauling my ass back to share the same air with Hannibal Lecter and Edgar Allan Poe (he's a couple of blocks from where I work. Really). Life is alright as long as you know how to grab it by the face and match it with the right bottle of wine.

Elderly Woman Behind The Counter In A Small Town

2007-09-24T01:07:00.000-05:00

Aah, this song, this song. What earthly word of utter love can you use to describe this masterwork by Eddie Vedder? Jesus Himself must have come down and grabbed this man's arm on the night he scribbled this miracle of a song. By God if this ever gets more beautiful one can explode and create a small planet from one's dust. You may not remember exactly when and where you first heard this song, but you know it's always been there. In the warm fuzzies of your soul along with your first Christmas..lullabies in the safe nest of your mom's arms... your grandma's smile...

Been in a download frenzy lately for music from the 90's. Must be the influence of the Pumpkins at the Pimlico... or my usual angst having been propelled time & again into the reality that my choices are rather unusual by suburbia's standards wether pinoy or otherwise..or it may be just another homecoming anxiety. Shite! I'm so excited yet so dread to go home. HOME. Only to say good-bye all over again.

Hope to sing this to Jeremy and Jethro as I rock them to sleep...

i seem to recognize your face
haunting, familiar, yet i can't seem to place it
cannot find the candle of thought to light your name
lifetimes are catching up with me
all these changes taking place, i wish i'd seen the place
but no one's ever taken me
hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away...
hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away...
i swear i recognize your breath
memories like fingerprints are slowly raising
me, you wouldn't recall, for i'm not my former
it's hard when, you're stuck upon the shelf
i changed by not changing at all, small town predicts my fate
perhaps that's what no one wants to see
i just want to scream...hello...
my god its been so long, never dreamed you'd return
but now here you are, and here i am
hearts and thoughts they fade...away...
hearts and thoughts they fade...away...
hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away...
hearts and thoughts they fade away.

-"Elderly Woman Behind The Counter In A SmallTown",
Pearl Jam, Vs.,1991

LET'S PLAY A GAME

2007-09-03T05:12:00.000-05:00

Not a Nickelback fan but this video is just too adorable to pass up on. Maybe it's the afterglow of another Virgin summer. Or maybe it's my horoscope. Aw hell, I just love rock 'n roll period.

Anyway, on to the game. How many celebrity cameos can you name in this music video? How many friends, neighbours, and relatives in it can you claim to know? How many cities/places can you recognize here? Participate. participate, participate. Turn up your noses some other time.

I'll give you a free pass. That Nelly Furtado is showing some support for her fellow Canucks, eh? Now I leave the others to you. Enjoy the shallows. The water's fine.

SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A VIRGIN (Year 2): Post-its From Two Days of Crab Cakes, Southern Comfort, and Rock Fests

2007-09-02T21:15:00.001-05:00

Amidst the 100-degree heat, losing the Anne twins to the half-naked sunburnt throng in between acts, Wu-Tang and Velvet Revolver; the dust clouds of All-American red dirt; my trampled trusty Ikea mat that has managed to remain pristine after last year's fest; stark tanlines left by my torqouise hommage bra to Amy Winehouse; the Southern Hurricanes rendered watery by the heat and popularity; being shaded by a Walmart-bought Rolling Stones towel; snuggled, comfy, and in raptures wrapped in a recyclable garbage bag watching Pumpkins; picking empty bottles of water to earn the protection of that garbage bag from a summer storm; coming close to a public orgasm at the sight of Sting mouthing Don't Stand So Close To Me; hearing an incredulous "Mmm-hmmm," from a Pimlico gate mama jaded by years of Preaknesses, when I pointed out that the dainty tin of lavender-chamomile tea inside my backpack is INDEED lavender-chamomile tea (she let me through anyway); warding off advances from Hollister-clad jailbaits (just a couple) and; catching the eye of a rebel billionaire causing a huffed moment of panic and mental blabberings about fears of being a querida, nunhood and breaking my father's heart, I've said this before and I say this again and to infinitude (pause for breath): VIRGIN FESTIVAL 2007 WAS A MOTHERFRIGGIN' BLAST!!!!!!! The proof is in the crab cakes.

Click here for more, more, more, more, more, more, and more.

To the twins Lou-lou and Row-row thank you for sharing this year's bacchanalia with me. What a summer! Mini-me, shove your Incubus pics up your ex's arse. Lou, thank-you barely encompasses my gratitude for your selfless persuasive talents over pimp-daddy, Beckham-wannabe trash-collector guy. Here's to looking forward to next year.

I'm saving my grungy Ikea mat and the garbage bag for next year.

of homecomings, random anxiety & mad men

2007-09-02T12:47:00.001-05:00

Just my luck to happen into an AMC marathon for Mad Men. It has had a slew of good reviews for its spot-on depiction of the corporate world in the early 60s on the cusp of the Beatles, the sexual revolution, women's lib, and the surgeon general. Back then, Dylan was just another beatnik unknown from Minneapolis yet to sing his way to the Gaslight. America was still replete of poodle skirts, segregation, picket fences and girdles. It was an era where career women are secretaries and called dollfaces to impunity. The men stared at you until they have their fill as if sexual harassment never existed because it didn't. When the new girl Peggy revealed insight reputedly uncharacteristic of her gender, it's likened to witnessing "a dog playing the piano".

The blogs have been buzzing about it but I don't find it it that shocking at all although I like it. Maybe it's just me or I just find the supposedly period & surreal scenes all too eeriely familiar. That life, glimpses of it, is just a 20+-hour plane ride away or in the next pinoy party...

Shudder.

2Pac reconnection

2007-08-30T11:25:00.003-05:00

Once again in an insomniac state and glued to VH1, I come across the Rock Doc, Tupac Resurrection.

Back in the day, I had gotten wind of Tupac Shakur through a TV feature on Poetic Justice, some US Billboard video show or, a some sneak peek show on movies showing in the States that would likely end up in either limited distribution in my shores or, straight to pirated VHS or Betamax after losing out to Sharon Cuneta commerce. Some time later I found out through my aunt's padala of People Magazine, his performance was better-received by critics than Janet Jackson's debut, and I gathered that he was also a rapper and a post-Rodney King era icon.

Now, I do not claim to be well-versed with his discography. The only song of his that I am truly familiar with and, happens to be a favorite, is California Love which I first heard though Rick Dees Weekly Top 40. Very edgy.

The cool kids of La Salle talked about him on rotation along with all the other MTV idols of that era because they can afford cable TV. I could only get to watch cable then while waiting for my take-out of inasal chitlins (bul-o & tina-e) and 2-peso serving of rice at Nonoy's Barbecue outside the old Era Theater. I did sense he was a figure of reckoning, spinning out of control towards immortality, a fact that escaped most of the Giordano-clad whose hero-worship of him and of Vedder, Cobain et. al. were wielded like Benetton bags. Along with irony.

I learned he spent a good part of his childhood in Baltimore and was classmates with Jada Pinkett in a local performing arts school. He thought Madonna was a nice person and so was Tony Danza. Janet Jackson's people asked him to get an AIDS test before a big love scene. He liked Don Mclean. Like any self-respecting art-school geek, he read Shakespeare. The late Gene Siskel was a fan of his.

As I was choosing a picture for this blog, I could not help but choose the image above though, I was spoiled with choices of him shirtless, ripped, and in deep thought. I'd seen it before maybe from People (of course) and it stayed in my psyche. He just seemed so calm here yet his eyes look like he was about to explode and not to mention, so young.

The documentary, featured him as how both his adoring and detractors remember him. Young, charismatic, arrogant, volatile and fiercely beautiful. His ideals, his passion, his liasons, his rawest emotion, were not merely worn on his sleeve. It was tattooed, pierced and cocked like a loaded gun. Like every cursed and tragic spokesperson of a generation, he shall never grow old--an heirloom of youthful rebellion to be passed on to the next in line. Hard to imagine him beyond 25. No great comebacks. No tour de force at Madison Square. No Oscars. No T-Mobile endorsements. No collaborations with 50 or Kanye or JT. No Live-Aid reconciliations with the former Puff Daddy and and Biggie. Even turning 30 or 40.

He shall and always will be Tupac.

For my friend Shivaun.

GO, GO, GO....PLEASE!!!

2007-08-24T07:53:00.000-05:00

VERY worrying news of late about the incomparable Amy Winehouse.

Amy, you may not know me or any of the numerous nameless who are in awe of your gifts but are pulling for you to live through this hell. You were party to one of the most singularly felicitous hour of my life when you performed at the V-fest at the Pimlico as you have been to thousands of others that hot memorable summer day. There is no doubt to your brilliance and we are all praying for your spirit to get past your delicate heart’s failings.

Please hang around with your anonymous adoring longer not for our own happiness but for your own good. Take care of yourself, love. Help yourself.

TELL ME SOMETHING I DON'T KNOW

2007-08-24T07:19:00.000-05:00

Browsing my Friendster bulletins, I saw this post by my mini-me Row-row which filled me both with self-pride and contemplation. Hmmm, turns out everything I need to know about the boy-meets-girl world I've learned through Samantha Jones and co. all in the comforts of my bedroom nestled with my cat, Rodman, a good book, and a cable connection. So it is on to the next rock fest for me rather than playing the field. Or getting played.

FEELS SO BITCHIN' TO BE RIGHT.

Lessons that must be Learned in Relationships

1. If a man wants you, nothing can keep him away. If he doesn't want you, nothing can make him stay.

2. Stop making excuses for a man and his behavior.

3. If you have any doubt in your mind about a man's character, leave him alone.

4. Allow your intuition (or spirit) to save you from heartache.

5. Stop trying to change your self for a relationship that's not meant to be.

6. Don't force an attraction.

7. Slower is better.

8. Never live your life for a man before you find what makes you truly happy.

9. If a relationship ends because the man was not treating you as you deserve then heck no you CAN'T "be friend". A friend wouldn't mistreat a friend.

10.Have Faith in GOD regarding your relationship, but don't let faith make you stupid. God does things decent and in order.

11. DON'T SETTLE.

12. If you feel like he is stringing you along, then he probably is.

13. If he keeps changing his mind about the relationship-- take that as a BIG sign that he is unstable. Do you really want to be with a man like that?

14. Don't stay because you think "it will get better". You'll be mad at yourself a year later for staying when things are not better.

15.Honorable men take care of their business and aren't involved in a whole lot of mess.

16. The only person you can control in a relationship is YOU.

17. There's only one reason why a man dumps you; he doesn't want you.

18. Avoid a men who've got a bunch of children by a bunch of different women. He didn't marry them when he got them pregnant, why would he treat you differently?

19. You really have to kiss a few frogs before finding the prince.

20. Always put yourself and your happiness first.

21. Always have your own set of friends separate from his.

22. Maintain boundaries in how a guy treats you. If something bothers you, speak up.

23. Like from the Sex and the City, if he doesn't call he just isn't that interested.

24. Be honest and upfront.

25. Know when to cut the cord, don't be strung along.

26. Don't fall for the "I'm confused role".Remove yourself from the situation to let him figure things out (but don't wait for him, move on).

27. If you want to have a clue as to how he will treat you, watch how he treats the WOMEN in his family (not just mom).

28. There's more than physical abuse,
there's emotional,
and mental abuse. If he causes any
of them.... flee.

29. You cannot change a man's behaviors.
Change comes from within

30. Don't let him place rules on you that he is not willing to follow himself.---- double-standard.

31. Don't EVER make him feel he is more important than you are.... even if he has more education or in a better job.

32. Do not make him into a quasi-God. He is a man, nothing more nothing less.

33. Demand respect and if he can't give it, he can't have you.

34. Don't compete with other woman, but be aware that men are attracted to what they see.

35. If you think he is cheating, then he probably is. Confront right away and if you feel he's lying
let him go.

36. Actions speak louder than words.

37. Never let a man define who you are.

38. Never rely on a man for compliments, look to yourself for that.

39. Never borrow someone else's man.

40. If he cheated with you, he'll cheat on you.

41. Just because he says he loves you, doesn't mean that he won't hurt you and it doesn't mean that you are meant to be with him.

42. To use the painful hard-won wisdom --
"get it right" the next time.

43. Know that you deserve to be the number one person in the life of the #1 person in your
life.

44. Love is a verb...

45. Learn to give up your life long task of trying to make someone unavailable-available, someone ungiving-giving, and someone unloving-loving.

46. A man will only treat you the way you ALLOW him to treat you.

I'M SO GONNA HAVE STING'S BABIES

2007-08-04T02:19:00.000-05:00

Hello Beasties. Hello Wino. Hello Pumpkins. Hello Wu-Tang. Hello Slash & Scott. Hello Brendan Boyd. Hello Future Gordon Sumner offsprings.

It's that time of year again. It's the VIRGIN MOBILE FESTIVAL 20FUCKIN'-07!!!!!

Wino please don't cancel.

Sting my eggs are are ready.

MY, HAVE YOU GROWN!

2007-07-27T10:44:00.000-05:00

Credit it to my advancing years and chronobiology. I am gradually becoming, albeit a wanna-be, Samantha Jones. In less flattering terms a cougar or in Badafski terms, a matrona.

No need to page Doctor Freud. I ate a producer's combo hotdog in the first ten minutes of the new Harry Potter while contemplating the bourgeoning V-shape of Daniel Radcliffe's chest among others (remembering the photos for his play Equus). He had also just turned legal. Oi.

Speaking of hot nerds, that Ron Weasly ain't too shabby either. Would it be incorrect to call him a ginger? How about firecrotch, both of them? Glad, they are both not a fake shade of orange. Embrace that English pallor, governor.

Must be that nippy UK air or default Old Worldliness but I don't seem to find the teens of Hogwarts walking Hollister cliche`s. Perhaps it is osmosis from rubbing thespic elbows with a World Cup-worthy dream team of Brit actors, Ralphe Fiennes, Gary Oldman, Helena Bonham-Carter, David Thewlis, Maggie Smith and Emma Thompson (who is btw underused in this installment and oooh! she & Bonham-Carter, interestingly shared no screentime. CATFIGHT!). Thank your leprechauns London is too cold to have a The Ivy. Or maybe I just not to brush up on my British OK!

Anyway, despite this being deemed the darkest Potter so far in the film series, I find it by far the most enjoyable. The young actors, specially Radcliffe, have grown into their characters so much you actually feel for them and for their journey rather than root for them cause it's cool to read Rowling (puh-leaze).

No disrespect to Lady J.K. I do not own a single Potter book. Perhaps I will one day and I'll read it along with my nephews who already have a religously collected series courtesy of their Aunt Rachel. Probably after everyone else has ceased weilding it like an It bag. In their grungy heights, I did not own a single Pearl Jam record which doesn't mean I loved them any less. So no need to lemming. I already love books.

Angst is rife without being too emo. The head piece on Potter's hoodie remains unmast even in the whitest winter and wizard blizzard. Not even when he is sold out by his girlfriend, played by an actress who is thankfully not Heart Evangelista. And when he breaks down over a tragic loss, you know that Radcliffe has done his homework.

Perhaps it's the theme of belonging and loss that has bought me into this series specially of late having brushed oh-so closely with it in the past few years. Growing pains are a bitch and inevitable as the human condition. Magic or muggle, we all need to belong. We just need to look back, sift through the excruciating details of the struggle and realize we are nevertheless still fortunate.

P.S. Hang on to your balls Potter....

This post is dedicated to my friend, Shivaun. When there's one set of footprints in the sand... you know why. Stay strong.

welcome back, nonie horowitz

2007-07-27T10:25:00.000-05:00

Relative to the drunk driving, vehicular manslaughter, drug possesion, spa rehab, and questionable parenting somehow yoinking over-priced sweatshop products from stores for the hoity-toity seem well, boarding school. Somehow the oxycodone mind-freak angle is hard to buy. My work world has not made me a stranger to glazed rationalization. Despite the bitchy comments in the blogworld you shall always be to the common X-er a mere mortal who ascended from pubescent geekdom, androgyny and white bread mediocrity to become hipster poster child deity by apologetic good looks, intellectualism and sheer talent. Who cares if you have slept with 90% of the indie-rock cocks between you and Courtney Love. You have parlayed your cooch in more appropriate venues which is behind closed doors and underwear. You did it cause you like Wilco and you know what a Wilco is. To us you shall always be our beatnik bibliophile, our old- soul fashionista, our vulnerable gamine, the Heather we prefer to reign over us-- our Nonie. Welcome back. Stay sane. Don't blow it this time, hon.
This post is dedicated to my friend, Shivaun. When there's one set of footprints in the sand... you know why. Stay strong.

Ladies and Gents, Introducing...

2007-06-11T13:01:00.000-05:00

The titans of music periodicals are--to paraphrase Lester Bangs in Almost Famous pertaining to Jann Wenner-- "wetting themselves" over the first mythic rock prodigy in a decade and it's a woman. Out of the manufactured dung heap of the Britneys, the Simpson sisters, Timberlake and even Lily Allen comes this diamond in a glass of Tanqueray on the rocks, aptly named Amy Winehouse. Rolling Stone beats to the punch putting her on their June cover while Spin features her on their July issue.

Already a star and tabloid darling in her native UK, Europe, Canada and in the I-Pods of musicphiles in the US, the rest of Walmart and Abercrombie America and the Mayer-Blunt listening world has yet to catch up. Her music is a loving nod to every great tradition of music-as-a-rebellion from Frank Sinatra to Snoop Dogg, from The Ronettes and The Supremes to Otis and Marvin to Wu-Tang. Her pipes evoke every great voice that has enthralled and reveberated through the generation from scratchy vinyl to downloads and is not Celine Dion or Mimi and their ilk. Sara Vaughn. Nina Simone. Ella Fitzgerald. Billie Eartha. Martha. Aretha.Janis. Joni. Tori. Lauren Hill. Amy Winehouse. Her lyrics are equal parts raw confessional like Vedder in Ten and equal parts reverential to her idols (Ray Charles and Donny Hathaway) and her addictions reminiscent of Joplin and her Southern Comfort.

Her growing contingency of the adoring wax poetic of her and her songs as if to immortalize her. In the Google era that has seen many VH1 Behind the Music specials and Rollingstone's anniversary issues, they all too knowingly fear for the eventual fates of the gifted, tortured and famous. Perhaps it's because her life mirrors all those before her--working-middle class roots, divorced parents, musical home, teenage outsider, art school drop out. She is some part us. She is all of us magnified in a very skinny Jewish girl from north London. Ah, and her loves or love. In rock 'n roll, the word is both muse and torturer. Sid and Nancy. Cobain and Love. Us, the rapt bystanders of the tabloid world ask in bated breath, is she the next exponent to a self-destructing equation? She is most recently married to Blake Fielder-Civil, the man who inspired, for the lack of a better word, her to write her second album Back to Black.

I have to thank my Torontonite sister for introducing me to her, the treasure trove that is YouTube and yes some good thing do come out it sometimes, Perez Hilton. The Rolling Stone issue is out now. For instant gratification, click here or log on to her website: www.amywinehouse.co.uk.

I've chosen to feature the eponymous song from Back to Black though I have been racked with choices, truly. It starts out like the eerie beginnings of The Supremes' Baby Love. Ironic at first but given a glimpse of her relationship with Fielder-Civil, a portent? So here she is, slathered in Stella Artois, sprinkled with blow, more raw than sushi in wasabi. Get intoxicated by the Amy Winehouse train and be addicted.

And she is only 23 years old.

Dearest Shivaun,

2007-06-11T12:26:00.000-05:00

REM. Michael Stipes.

Love always,

Your Friend,

Joy

malaise ballet

2007-06-05T18:17:00.001-05:00

I am spending a belated lazy sunday on a Tuesday. Worked last weekend and I'm still recovering. Trying not to think of the probable new crop of veins that might have popped out from the ordeal. My legs have always been a battlefield, a metaphor for my self-esteem. Shallow but true. Come so close to bitch-slapping the cripple in 60 who kind of reminds me of FPJ's "berdugos" in the movies of my childhood. Eke kindness and they pounce on it like vermin on cheese and cling like annelids sucking out every ounce of energy, compassion and sympathy. I'm not being charitable. I'm venting. Nobody appreciates manipulation belying their amiable and idealistic demeanour. Do not insult my intelligence. Oh how I need TEDS! The ages are a-calling.

I should be out watching Knocked Up and Waitress. I'm a prequel to a Judd Apatow flick. Watching movies alone has become a ritual indulgence. I cannot stand talking during movies specially clueless, erroneous blow-by-blows, sorry says the geeky snob. Excruciating. Rather be alone. Never been a big Felicity fan but my friends/Dragon Manse family are. I cannot look at Keri Russel without remembering Puppy. Sigh. Have to find time to hit the UK. Miss all of them. They know who they are.

In one of those days again. I quitely hate that raving brat who's eating my grapes and wiped my emergency yoghourt smoothies. Shut the fuck up retard or I'll lace your milk with Ritalin! Will be ok by moon shift. Right now I cannot stand you. And stop meddling with my bookshelves! I'm so not maternal. Have to find my own place. I'm so un-domesticated. Suburbia sucks. Wal-marts are evil. My writers desk has become a receptacle for dollar store giveaways and plastic forks. One day. One day I shall truly relish my gypsy ways. Practicality blows. Have to find my DVR remote. I miss my Conan, even E! Thank God Grey's and Heroes seasons are over. Now only down to Entourage. Yummy Adrian Grenier.

Thank god my wireless connection is not on the fucks. Internet radio is wondrous. Have jumped from San Francisco, to Seattle, to Edinburgh, to Nederlands. Beatles music, to grunge, to Jazz (but too many saxophones, yuk), to indies and college radio. Is Morrisey gay or just in touch with the feminine side? Listened to Irish Blood, English Heart. Wonder if he would ever be invited for scones and Earl Grey at Windsor or Kensington.

Maybe should while away with blogs and neuroni-cide. There's champagne left from my nth godson's baptism in the fridge. A barter for yoghourt smoothies.

THE HORROR, THE HORROR

2007-05-27T21:23:00.001-05:00

Thanks to my sister, the ad and blog whiz for bringing this to my attention. I am just a mere music fan-just another nameless fanatic in a stadium filled with my ilk, a pedestrian engrossed in her own little earbud world, a face in a car among America's many listening to the music of her liking while in traffic, a mere digit in the record company's demographic. I may be minuscule but I take great pains in respecting the individuals who leave me in awe when they transmogrify theirs and life's innards into music. I cringe when I hear bastardized versions of "Hey Jude" in elevators and in hackneyed renditions from best-of medley albums and noon-time variety shows. My music is a personal thing, a statement, a credo.
The people who make them are my idols, my heroes, my loves and my cautionary tales. As love goes as love does, I am protective of their art, their legacy, their memory, of them. I certainly do not wish to get them fucked in the ass from their graves by pretentious yuppie scum. Which is what the ad monster, Saatchi and Saatchi have done with the images of these four grand gentlemen of rock. Although they have fired the offending agency, for Doc Martens to have approved this to run in the first place behooves me. Perhaps the memory of those trademark steel toes digging into the sides of Jewish youth while being worn by Neo Nazi's singing "Oi! Oi! Oi!" does not suffice? Nothing like the pock mark of controversy to Lohan-in pop culture attention. To emphasize the durability of the product my arse. I'm from an inconsequential small town from the third world and I know all about the iconical Docs. I do not need to have this abomination rubbed in for good measure, thank you.
Finally, for a generation who still has not gotten over the loss of Kurt Cobain and may never will.... what can one say?
The legacy of these gentlemen is always there. For those of us left behind, we live on and live through. And hope people like Kurt can finally find the peace they have not quite found in this world.
Rest in Peace, Gentlemen. DIE YUPPIE SCUM.

Link

SAVE A HORSE RIDE A VIRGIN: MORE post-its from the fest (RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS)

2007-05-23T07:50:00.002-05:00

"They don't know what it's like to love some silly little piece of music or some band SO much, that it hurts." --Sapphira the Band-Aid (Fairuza Balk), Almost Famous.

A few years ago, in another world, for the first time in my life, guilt-filled and choked up, I begged my dad to succomb to a rare ostentatious frivolity. Until that time I had never cooed, cajoled nor manipulated my parental units into spending beyond their means for my sake despite my reputation as the spoiled youngest. Needless to say it was to no avail. Ironically it was one of the most emotional moments between me and my father. With my mom away in Cebu to tend to my sister and her new-born, it was just me and him talking quietly in our living room, the tv off, my tearful sobs and my dad’s heart breaking as he comforted a pained offspring. I had begged him to ask his sister, my aunt, for a loan to finance a trip back to Singapore to watch the Chili Peppers in concert, a whim, with our finances, not too far-fetched but nevertheless, a whim. My sister just gave birth; my grandmother was of ailing health and; I, the nurse in the family, was practically jobless and awaiting my fate to go to the land of oppurtunity. A whim.

So I waited and languished a few years more for my rock ‘n roll dream to reach fruition. On September 23, 2006, that dream came true ten times over: at the first ever Virgin Fest in the US at the Pimlico Racetrack. A spit-throw away from my rented enclave and a literal part of my route to and from work, one could imagine the screaming thrill of seeing the gradual rise of the main stage before my eyes while I drove by, as the THE date drew closer.

On the day itself, I restrained myself from imbibing too much alcohol for I had wanted to savor every moment unsmashed. When the beginnings of "Can't Stop" emanated through the cool Baltimore air, what else could a girl do but go ape shit?

The rest of this blog is going to be mostly clips from the fest courtesy of fellow V-festers in You Tube. Words cannot even begin to describe...

The moment John started singing this, my knees buckled and I crashed on my friend Amy's shoulders sobbing uncontrollably as echoes of every dream I had ever had finally lead me to this night.

Dani California. This was exactly how I pictured this song played live in my head.

The encore. My anthem. And as Flea walked off the stage on his head with his hands, I thought, "It is indeed much sweeter, Tay. SO much sweeter."

tooclosetomoi-phobia

2007-03-30T14:50:00.000-05:00

My idol, mother-figure, transcendant super mega nurse aptly named Divine lets it out in one of our extended sublime conversations at the UMMC lobby that a McDreamy I carry a torch for likes me. She also lets it slip quoting him, "J__ is not that good-looking but I've seen her dress up once and she looks good". This comes from a man who just broke up from a long-term relationship with an equally exotic Meredith Grey.

Ah, the delight of being in the consolation box. I am not blessed with the earth-shattering physical perfection of Giselle Bundchen or Adriana Lima. Nor am I blessed with the sharp wit of Dorothy Parker or Jessica Zafra. My confidence naught that of a Paltrow nor am I of atrociuos moolah on par with a Hilton. I do not have the wardrobe and bank account of an Olsen. I do not have the fierce edgy animal appeal of a Jolie to match my fierce independence and my ideals. I am smack dab in the middle teethering between borderline gorgeous and not-so depending on yes, the (kindness of the) eye of the beholder. I am some kind of a complete package or often times a will-do burger-and-fries combo.

I have learned to be comfortably ensconced in my little nook. I never wish to be someone's consolation prize nor be one's trophy. I rather be in my little corner carving my own place in the world and decorate it with Ikea furniture, middle finger up in the air for a world who pooh-pooh on how I run my Guggenheim.

Intimacy issues? Claustrophobia? I rather attribute it to... I don't know, a love of boots?

Then, Thanatos

2007-03-03T20:50:00.000-05:00

I found a two-inch lump two finger breadths below my left breast. That was of all times, last December-- birthmonth, Yuletide and all. Being of Samurai stock I just festered in my neurosis and delayed the reality of a doctor's appointment which I had managed to dodge for the past two years or so in the land of Westerns. I droned through work and rapid eye movement and in the quite of my half-waking hours I obsessed over the disturbing piece of bulging flesh.

To those whom I had allowed to glimpse my proverbial innards, I had never truly been Little Miss Sunshine. The name I go by could be at most times well, ironic. The Miss Grade One always had an epic battle with the Goth Girl on a monthly basis. I was the Cheerleader with the wooden stake and the medieval arsenal and had always preferred myself to be. To the chagrin of my favorite writer friend (my ONLY writer friend), Shivaun, I aligned with Team Jolie.

My favorite pieces of lit were by Neil Gaiman's Death: The High Cost of Living and Piers "there's no such thing as a writer's block" Anthony's On A Pale Horse from The Incarnations of Immortality series.

There was a time I would practice signing my name as Mrs. Eric Draven or Mrs. Ashe Corbin.

At certain phases of the moon I play Black Hole Sun and ovulate to Chris Cornell in Burden In My Hand over and over and over and over and ad infinitum.

When you're faced by the infallibility of one's mortality wether it's of the people you love or yours, there's no better spark to light the fuse that sends a whistle bomb into a tailspin of a downward spiral (that's about five cliches right there btw). I embodied that whistle bomb very well: the mental screams of why me, the planning of my own funeral, the incapacitaing fear of just losing one's dignity and being a burden. And yes, there's the question, "Who's gonna take care of my family?"

Suddenly, death itself seems easier but the ones that you leave behind becomes the shittiest aspect of it all.

You know you need to get a life when the people you work with in 12-hour shifts three to four time a week are the people you share a life and death crisis with BUT you know you have snapples from the Man Upstairs when the very same people rally to pray for you and then kick your ass to a clinic to have your neoplasm probed and ruled out. My friend the Mickster forces herself out of bed early in the morning to pull me out of the chaos that is the C8 Gudelsky during shift change and drag me across the street to University Physicians. A friend in need indeed. Thank you doesn't even begin to encompass it, Mickey.

So, as the patient table gets turned on me after ten years of my youth catering to sick people, I fidgetingly await the doctor's verdict as she works through my family history and palpate me agonizingly.

As I step out onto the waiting area where Mickey sat anxiously, "Which one is not lethal lymphoma or lipoma?" I ask not caring about sounding stupid granting I should know the difference between the two.

"Please lang Juy-juy LIPOma hindi LYMPHOma. Don't confuse the two ha? Makurot kita sa singit!" scolds the Mickster as we walk down Paca St., just before we go our separate ways, just before I give her a HUG while mulling over what has happened. In hindsight, one may come out like an overaged drama queen but despite black days and morbid ideations one can be surrounded by angels.

SAVE A HORSE RIDE A VIRGIN: MORE post-its from the fest (THE WHO)

2007-02-04T21:42:00.000-05:00

(click for larger image, photo taken by Mikael Vojinovic for www.virginfest.com)

A portly, rubicund older man in a pleasant state of innebriation sits with his friends in front of my and Amy's spot which has remained unclaimed after our bathroom break during The Killers. As I started to lay my trusty Ikea mat he turns away from his dissertation about the kids today having no idea about the next act, to remark on how I came prepared.

He says, "Do you know which of the band is going on next?"

"The Who?" I say as he searches my expression for a second. I laugh as I catch up on to the joke.

"You're the first one all day who got it. Tried it on of those kids over there. They just looked at me like I was crazy."

The Who comes on playing I Can't Explain and from everyone's reaction I realize the definition of APE SHIT. There is just something overwhelming about seeing Pete Townshend doing the windmill several feet away in real life being magnified ten times twice on the two jumbotrons against a backdrop montage of the band young and hungry in the era that spawned them and a revolution.

The iconic strains of Baba O'Riley emanate the fading summer air of September amidst the cheers of the kids of the Baby Boom and their kids of the alphabet generation, the X, Y, & Zs and some of their kids of a generation that has yet to find itself a name or alphanumeric.

My friend Amy turns to me and says, "Thank you so much for asking me to come. Seriously, thank you."

As the music pauses for the chorus, three generations or so sing the immortal words en masse:

Teenage wasteland
It's only teenage wasteland
Teenage wasteland
Oh, oh
Teenage wasteland
They're all wasted!

My life within a span of a few lines, seems to suddenly make sense.

As the night gets deeper, faces in the crowd turn into silhuoettes against a bright rock stage. A hammered young man of my generation howls happy expletives to his friend and spilling some of his bear while at it, "Dude, I've fuckin' seen the fuckin' Who live man. I can fuckin' die happy!!"

I smile and look forward to seeing the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Life is beautiful.

everything but this girl

2007-02-03T17:10:00.000-05:00

After spending some quality time with my eldest sib Rachel and her cat, Jacob in Toronto, I've gotten to rediscover this gem of a duo that comprised of Ben Watts and vocalist Tracy Thorne whom I've taken a liking to way back as a small town high school girl in the sugar bowl of course through my urbanite La Salle university-going sisters. As soon as I have my new baby, my beloved i-Pod, I've lost no time downloading their late-90s album Walking Wounded, one of the decade's essential albums and classiest example of pop music natural selection unbeknownst to the rest of the world that have bought into Britney being that innocent.

Two tracks stand out and are stuck in my head like recurring dreams as I teether between defiance and melancholia. I guess it's the memory of the local boy who casually lets out he cares for me like a sister. It's the memory of a surgeon boy in Indiana who broke my heart in quiet. It's my fixation for incendiary guitars and Jesus-men. It's the conscious choice of being enamoured from afar. I have painstakingly worked on going it alone. I revel in my independence as I face the monkey's paws of my freedom.

I've lately gone to thinking that there could be some divine reason for it all and for all the little signs along the the way that has lead to the now and is pointing me ultimately to my future. It fills me with nervous energy as much as of excitement and with a sense clarity and peace I have not felt before. It is scary. It feels right.

It could be just another existentialist crisis with a soundtrack, BUT how come I almost wish it's not? Still I'm a believer of the universe unfolding as it is. I still have years to mull about it and more mysterious ways from the cosmos to take into consideration but I can feel it working through me forming me slowly and surely as we speak.

Love is a strange thing.

Artist: Everything But The Girl
Song: The heart remains a child
Album: Walking Wounded

I dreamed about you again last night
You never have the same face twice
but I always know its you and
and you're always looking better than you really do
and you really do.

I walk around the whole next day
feeling like a still have something to say
but I don't know what it is
and I don't know how to reach you even if I did, even if I did.

Do I wanna hear that you forgive me?
Do I wanna hear you're no good without me?
and am I big enough to hear that you never even think about me.
why should you ever think about me?

And I thought that I'd outgrow this kind of thing.
Tell me, aren't we supposed to mature or something.
But I haven't found that yet.
Is this as grown up as we'll ever get?
Maybe this is as good as it gets.

And years may go by.
But I think the heart remains a child.
The mind may grow wise, but the heart just sulks, and it whines,
and remains a child, I think the heart remains a child.
Why don't you love me? Why don't you love me? Why don't you love me?

Artist: Everything But The Girl
Song: Single
Album: Walking Wounded

I called you from the hotel phone
I haven't dialled this code before
I'm sleeping later and waking later
I'm eating less and thinking more
And how am I without you?
Am I more myself or less myself?
I feel younger, louder
Like I don't always connect
Like I don't ever connect

And do you like being single?
Do you want me back?
Do you want me back?
And do I like being single?
Am I coming back?
Am I coming back?

I'll put my suitcase here for now
I'll turn the TV to the bed
But if no one calls and I don't speak all day
Do I disappear?
And look at me without you
I'm quite proud of myself
I feel reckless, clumsy
Like I'm making a mistake
A really big mistake

And do you like being single?
Do you want me back?
Do you want me back?
And do I like being single?
Am I coming back?
Am I coming back?
Do you want me back? (x6)

And now I know
Each time I go
I don't really know
What I'm thinking
And now I know
Each time I go
I don't really know
What I'm thinking of

Do you want me back?

first impressions (with apologies to jane austen) and new year's resolutions

2006-11-28T14:40:00.000-05:00

CAN'T CHANGE ME
By Chris Cornell, Euphoria Morning

She can do anything at all
Have anything she pleases
The power to change what she thinks is wrong
So what could she want in me? Yeah
But wait just one minute here
I can see that she's trying to read me
Suddenly I know
She's going to change the world
She's going to change the world
But she can't change me
No she can't change me
She has the daylight at her command
She gives the night it's dreams, yeah
She can uncover your darkest fear
And make you forget that you feel it
But wait just one minute more
I can see that she's trying to free me
Suddenly I know
She's going to change the world
She's going to change the world
She's going to change the world
But she can't change me
No she can't change me
And suddenly I can see everything that's wrong with
me, yeah
But what can I do
I'm the only thing I really have, at all
But wait just one minute here
I can see that she's trying to need me
Suddenly I know

Dearest Shivaun,

I should probably just post a comment on your blog for the golden-prosed praise for my quasi-intellectual efforts at being literary.

You are indeed a true friend, one need not elaborate. My pants stil smells of piss from the thrill of being in the same sentence as Zafra. But being the closet narcissist, I have to shout out my appreciation through my own blog. Or, maybe then I again, you as always, propel me from my stupor and make me want to write. Kisses. Hugs. Merci beau coup. Domo aregato. Er, teri makasi?

I received the card you sent a few days before the b-day and you were the first of the few that matter who gave me the greeting. Close second was the tele-associate at the claims department of Bank of America whom I reported to the loss of my credit card and the fraudulent use of my checkcard after my wallet got yoinked. I am now officially on my last year in that infernal proverbial Pinoy "kalendaryo".

First of all, I wish you, albeit late, the HAPPIEST of Christmas and of the New Year.

This blog was a long time coming. The Holidays were just a blur of fatigue & burnout. My days were merely classed into the days I am working, and days I'm not working. There had been no weekends, no dates, no Mondays and alarmingly, no Sundays, no hours, no food. There was just the circadian rhythm of very deep slumber and the Sisyphean task of getting up as though from a coma, away from my prison of pillows, down comforters, and the vortex of the E! Channel.

The beginnings of this blog (including the title) has been hatched in late November after Thanksgiving. Now it's post-New Year'07. Go figure. I have created a mongrel. An overdue one at that.

This was intended to be a diatribe on people and (borrowing from Bill Clinton) their boxes, but this could be a levigation of several intended blogs in incubation inside my puny procrastinating brain. Bear with me.

Once and for all, I do not subscribe to the idea of suburban fairy tale endings. I am a work in progress and do not wish to define myself by anyone may he be Joe Blow or Di Caprio. I may be a mess but I am my own crutch. Save the saving for those who are starved or near extinction. The world is a vast place with plenty of concerns other than living vicariously through one neurotic singleton. Save it for the Anistons, the La Lohans and what have you. I am and always shall be a gypsy until I and The Powers That Be will it to be or not to be. I shall always not be people's expectation not out of spite but borne of a drive to grow a backbone.

I think this should be the year to finally start running my life in the tangent I want it to be in and not let outside persons and circumstance do it for me. Cease pleasing and appeasing everyone. Be honest and unmerciful, specially to myself. Let the drums I march to beat a little louder as it is different, defiant and definitely right. It should be the year to let the punk out in me- the Clash had they lived long enough to be Bono. Audrey Hepburn meets Nancy Vicious. Carrie Bradshaw and Mother Theresa. Jane Austen on (mycophenolic) acid. My own Brangelina. (Please don't hate me for the Brangelina bit).

Now, must desist from the I's& me's and on with the how are you's. How's your dad? How's your mom? Ill health in the family is a pisser. We love 'em. We leave 'em to serf to higher currency. The bittersweet part is being able to provide for their rainy days as we wring our hands with worry across oceans, connected only by faceless sound through wiry telecommunication. Chin up love. Do I need to say this? You've always been stronger than you give yourself credit for. Hang on. Hang on tighter.

My best regards to Ant as always (does he mind being called Ant? It's a Kiedis reference not as in Ant & Dec). BTW how did the mister find the idiosynchrasies of our tropical islands?

Thank you for getting me.

Much, much love.

John-john Love

7 songs

2006-10-18T02:57:00.001-05:00

I'm probably the world's greatest procrastinator. I have an assignment to turn in. My coloreds are still to be laundered. My books need to be unpacked, my bookshelves organized. I need to sleep but because of the caffeine I'm blogging away. Hey, when the blogging muse calls you gotta give in, man. Anyway here are my seven songs.

1. Blister In the Sun- Violent Femmes. I wake up to this ala of course, Angela Chase. The CD is in my clock radio/boom box.

2. My Friends- Red Hot Chili Peppers circa Dave Navarro. See blog.

3. Time of Your Life (Good Riddance)- Greenday. See blog.

4. I'm So Bored in the USA- The Clash. I play this in my car stereo when I'm pissed at Americans.

5. Especially in Michigan- Red Hot Chili Peppers.From Stadium Arcadium. Listening to it now in my i-tunes. Intend to drive with it but I don't have an i-pod yet. hehehe. I like the title.

6. Dance, Dance- Fall-Out Boy. Strangely calms me while I'm driving. Probably because the band's hit "Sugar We're Going Down" last year while I was risking driving to the city with a learner's permit played on the radio almost everytime I get behind the wheel to go to work (I could have sworn it was following me) . Sheer happenstance but it was reasuring.

7. I Write Sins Not Tragedies- Panic! At The Disco. Not a big emo fan but this plays in DC 101 a LOT!!! The part with the wedding and the bride being a whore, cracks me up. And, (it's a tie)
The Wrong Way- Sublime. My favorite Sublime song. Funny, misogynistic, poignant, and endearing. Don't know wether to laugh or be offended. Another DC 101 staple.

I don't know who to tag. Perhaps I should try my Friendster list.

Driving One Rainy Autumn Evening (with John-John, Billie Joe, and God)

2006-10-18T02:37:00.000-05:00

This song, since its introduction to me via the saccharine MTV Asia during late '97-early'98, has been a recurring anthem throughout my Gen-X jaunt. I think it's safe to say this also applies to most of the alphabet generations. I remember it striking me as an unusual turn for the famously rambunctious punk band. But like every great song it resonates through time and the lives of those who have listened to it and loved it.

I was just a wide-eyed new grad raring to work her first real job in a foriegn country, with glamorous notions of living the MTV high life. But as always, actual existence is far from wishful thinking. The video initially beyond me, haunted me in my rudest awakenings and in the bittersweetests of memories, now only contained in photographs and recollections. I was one of those kids with the menial jobs who would look wistfully into space, reflecting past, present and questioning what's in store beyond and fighting the fear of being in a rut. But with the friends I made, the little life truths gradually revealed, and yeah, the truly happy times that seamleslly interweave with the bad in a complex tapestry that you won't have one without the other, it was all worth it.

And now here I am in the land of my dreams teethering between despair and realization, caught in sluggish gridlock at I-695 at a crawl of 20 mph. As another classic video by another great band has once deduced, there is nothing like bad traffic when it comes to forcing to look at one's life. I ruminate my struggles, my pains, the loved ones that I lost in series, the lives of those that I still have, my past, my present, and yes my future, my dreams, my fate. Then, this song plays over on my favorite DC rock station. The lyrics are as true as ever, perhaps even more so. This life is excruciatingly painful and unpredictable to go through but in quiter times when you think back, its right. Let the song speak for itself. Thank you Billie Joe Armstrong. Thank God for Greenday.

Good Riddance
(Time of Your Life)

Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road.
Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go.
So make the best of this test, and don't ask why.
It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time.

It's something unpredictable, but in the end is right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

So take the photographs, and still frames in your mind.
Hang it on a shelf of good health and good time.
Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial.
For what it's worth, it was worth all the while.
I hope you had the time of your life.

I hope you had the time of your life.

-Greenday from the album, Nimrod, 1997

For My Ashton

2006-10-17T23:28:00.001-05:00

This may be a foray into the superficial, but fuck it, I dare say.

To my knight in shining armour and loyal steed, you had protected me and served me well. To my friend and confidant, you had been the quite spectator to my madness, my goofs and my guffaws, my rage and my tears. When I was not welcome in my own hearth and home you were my refuge during the winter chill, so valiantly trying not to let dissipate too quickly your waning heat. My co-conspirator, you had taken me to haunts of my longings, encouraged my obsession with independence. You had seen me stumble through naivete to thriving street smarts. Throughout all these you never judged even when I crashed and slammed you and forgotten where I last left you. You just kept driving on, dings, scratches and gashes and all. And when I called for you to know where you were, you said, "I'm right here, mama," You had far more character in your clunky metal heart than any of my fair-weather friends.Through sun & rain & snow you plodded and pulled through at my behest. You shared my journey with me complete with a soundtrack provided by you, and what a trip it had been my dear friend.

Now, I must give you up. I am not rejecting you and trading you for a newer model. I am setting you free. May my new John-john be as half as wonderful as you are. I shall always look for you when I am on the road. I will always wonder where you are. With a prayer, I wish you will have another who will treat you with as much care as you have of me and will treat you for the beautiful thing that you are, my baby, my blessing. Thank you, thank you, thank you, a thousand times, THANK YOU.

Always remember, that no one ever forgets their first.

September Ends

2006-10-10T05:23:00.000-05:00

Numb. I try not too feel too much for fear I might spontaneously combust. I drown myself in the tides of the everyday, yet find myself skimming the surface adrift, lifeless but awake and moving, functioning like a wind-up drone. Can I crawl into a ball in a corner? Can I cry my eyes out? Can I scream my head off? Can I mourn?

Can I mourn the loss of yet another uncle? Can I reach out to yet another of my own blood for the loss of their father? Can I comfort yet another parent for the loss of her brother. Can I myself lament the loss of more than a relative, but a kindred spirit in the love of books and the arcane as much as the first loss was a kindred in love of laughter and child-like irreverence and beyond that-- a primal recognition and an innate understanding that these are one of your own? Can I cry that the world seems a little bit lonelier place for those very losses? Can I cry for the dwindling of childhood and care-free times? or how about for fathers who will never be able to see the fruition of their dreams for their offspring?

Can I bewail the untimely loss of a dear friend? Does it help if she is like family? Would it warrant your sympathy, if I tell you
in one point in our lives we shared an apartment, a room, a journey? or how we laughed away our angsts over work, homesickness and unrequited love and how they are forever encapsulated in photographs, in stories, in memories as vivid as now? So vivid, it's sooo fuckin' hard to believe she's gone. The great ceremony of a home-cooked meal. The passion for the blend of flavors. The singing. In the kitchen. While doing the laundry. Looking out the window awaiting for birthday mail. During innumerable karaoke nights. The mythic birthday parties. The dancing. The tears for missing home and over a Judy Ann flick. The leche flan. The epic debate over Ben vs. Noel. The inebriated nights over Boon Kwe Lew Chew. The quotes worth repeating but shall always be her own. She told me too grow my hair long and that love will come in its own time. And so it did for her in her own terms and in a fashion entirely hers. How she doted on her nephews then. Now we could only imagine how she could have been as the mother that she dreamed to be to her much sought for child. We, your friends could only attempt to replicate your affections for him but we could never be you. Cause there could be only one like you, Puppy. The memories would always be vivid as your soliloquies and for every memory we would mourn.

Finally, can I mourn for every time I'm in a church I light a candle for the people I love, my family and friends, that they may be around to share this life with me a little longer? including these very people? Can I pray that I do not question the designs
of a Higher Power and that there is a reason for everything and just keep on lighting more candles?

Video: My Friends, Red Hot Chili Peppers, One Hot Minute, 1995.

SAVE A HORSE RIDE A VIRGIN: post-its from the fest (drafted 9-24-2006, Detroit International Airport, while waiting for my flight to Toronto)

2006-10-10T05:17:00.000-05:00

"Welcome to the tea party!!", and that is how my first true blue, fucking real rock fest got kicked off: by Tom Meighan of Kasabian,whose music reminds of (they probably get this all the time) Oasis and Kula Shaker. And that is how I like my bad boys: skinny (no, wiry), scruffy and British.

A plane flies overhead being tailed by the banner: SAVE A HORSE RIDE A VIRGIN, an odd reference to Barbaro the racehorse who won the Kentucky Derby and most likely shoo-in for the Pimlico's Preakness earlier this year had it not been for such an unfortunate freak accident during the race. It is also a flash of the proverbial middle finger to the rich folks who would normally inhabit the grounds of the historic (refer to Sea Biscuit) Pimlico Race Tracks. I look at the banner as I lay lazily in my most Penny Lane-like outfit, on my Ikea mat that I share with my friend, Amy and thought, "How true."

"They shot some scenes for that movie with Tobey Maguire you know," says Amy. I fight the temptation to kiss the ground Spidey might have walked on, not because he's Spiderman, but because he's Tobey Maguire and looks good shirtless.

VIRGIN FEST

2006-09-24T06:41:00.000-05:00

I missed the flagship Lollapalooza in the 90's, the mud of Woodstock '94, and its limp biscuit version off '99 because of sheer distance and dismal finances. And of course the original Woodstock in the age of the Aquarius, I missed simply because I wasn't even born then.

Now I am on my way to the aptly named Virgin Mobile Festival at the Pimlico Racetrack which might as well be in my backyard. God is indeed good and for all the right reasons the greatest Rock Star in my book. Say what you will. This may not be the life most people I know would choose, but the thing is I'm living it. And as my favorite band puts it, "How come everybody wanna keep it like the Kaiser." See you at the fest Ant, Flea, Chad and my love, John.

Written September 23, 2006 , 15 minutes before gates open, while waitng for my pal, Amy.

Guess Who's Coming To The Last Supper, Judas

2006-08-31T06:09:00.000-05:00

Dearest Shivaun,

Thank you once again for the ego boost.

My apologies for the title. It is just emblematic of a certain happening lately that was neither sound nor fury yet amounted to nil except a conclusion. Also, the drive to slash & burn in me is still asimmer.

As my sister Melissa puts it, there are just creatures in this earth who derive a sense of accomplishment in wounding others to deter attention from their own inadequacies-- troglodytes with bank accounts in lieu of character. They drivel media fed trivia and spew Hallmark card confuscianism & cliff-noted versions of the Good Book in the hopes these might get mistaken for a brain. They believe in fine dining, labeled finery, polyester cabbage rose chintz and mall tinsel sensibilities as the height of culture yet make criminally odious pasta. "The pasta is the star, bitch," to paraphrase Neil Perry (I added the bitch.) They also think Nickelback is Rock 'n Roll.

I also apologize. I've yet to research Feeder and Muse. Your European rock band IQ may be a little more sophisticated than mine Yank. I've lately been subsisting only on VH1, MTV ( it's not even MTV2) and My Space. I've yet to buy new issues of Raygun, Spin & RS and also per recommendation of one of my patients who used to learn guitar under the tutelage of Hendrix, Paste. The boob tube has been pelting me with the likes of Simpson, Hilton and Blunt.

I truly believe that James Blunt is in liege with the devil and so are those clueless souls who swoon to the strains of "You're Beautiful". Former captain of the British Army my arse (or is it Navy?). Priscilla, Queen of the Desert has more balls than that pussyman.

Anyway in the vein of the plebes, you have all the gifts to strike back with your grammar skills and poetic vocabulary the mediocre can't even begin to grasp. The blog is mightier than the bitch.

Albino monks all seem more palatable. Paul Bettany has got a hot arse.

Love you and take care. My best regards to Ant.

buttoned out

2006-08-30T12:28:00.000-05:00

I have been trying to loose weight since last winter. I've resorted to Budokon, Yoga, Pilates, power walking and yes, dieting like the Gwyneth.

Come June and early July I'd whittled down to 123lbs.-- my thinnest on record since I think sixth grade--sending everybody in my unit into a tizzy that I was anorexic or bulimic. I did not put much energy into dispelling the myth, for people believe what they want to believe and that's that. I felt good energy-wise, ample oxygen was circulating through my system. I felt healthy and just rid of the toxins that riddles American food. Most importantly, I felt really good about myself, a rare occurence in my angst-filled world. Then a death in my family occured and I was shattered.

In between bouts of crying and wallowing, I am just huddled in my cubby hole tying to seek solace in simple sugars. By then, I have fallen off the wagon compensating with some intervals of starvation and deprivation as the pounds start creeping up again.

I am desperately trying get off my butt and start firming it up again. Attempts at finding motivation through pop culture seem more detrimental as I just watch in awe, envy then the eventual downcast mood. Between the Victoria's Secret catalogs I keep in my bathroom near where my I place my weighing scale and the Pussy Cat Dolls' Buttons video I am tempted to switch my own off button. Somehow the cubby hole seems to cozy to leave from.

Felicitous

2006-08-30T09:54:00.000-05:00

I have always been in love with with New York City. I cannot ascertain the exact place and time where it all started nor can I, the exact event or specifically, the movie that started it all. It has always been one of those things that just is. Scorsese? Coppola? Spike Lee? Death Wish? Travolta in Staying Alive? Perhaps. Violent and gritty (or cheesy mediocre sequel) as they are, they have never seemed to repulse me from the city of my dreams. I know about the strippers in Times Square, the muggers and the infamous windshield washers. McCluskey's death scene in the Godfather just makes me want to eat authentic Italian pasta--you know none of that sorry swill of ketchup and hotdogs (tamis-sarap my arse). The moonshiners of those Charles Bronson flicks my beloved Tatay loves to watch made me long even more to stroll down Central Park. Woody Allen? Maybe. He is something that has gradually been ingratiated to me by my sisters, time and my maturing neurosis. My introd to him has been through his reputedly, relatively less stellar films, New York Stories and Everyone Says I Love You. The former in the Coppola ep made me & my sister want to name our unborn daughters, Zoe and the latter reminded me of my family- have we been living in New York, rich & Jewish and breaking out into song when left to our thoughts.

I have been too young for Annie Hall although I have no doubt I have unwittingly or not morphed myself into her over the years allargando. I've always been deluded enough to identify with, and mayhap moulded myself into the immortal New York heroines of celluloid & TV: Alex Owens, for the longest time as a kid ; Parker Posey's Mary in Party Girl, while in college raring to get out;

Felicity Porter as a new grad biting reality in Singapore wistful of college days; Holly Golightly as a growing film buff in a quasi-intellectual escapist phase AND;
of course, as Carrie Bradshaw, as a wanna-be writer & closet celibate

. Hmmm? In a nutshell, so far in a span of three decades, I have been a potty-mouthed welder/stripper with lofty aspirations, a falafel loving librarian/raver who's a master at layering in cold weather, an intellectual virgin/stalker who loves coffee and writing letters to her therapist friend, a fashionably iconic waif/whore with a cat and a promiscous columnist with great friends. All these and an eccentric, androgynous dresser with a penchance for nerds and baggy clothes.

Going to New York feels less like a trip and more a homecoming. I feel a kinship with the so-called weird, rude New Yawker. As my Baltimore friend Bruce the Cabbie with the PhD puts it, I may have been one in another life. I've been there three times before and each experience leaves me wanting to roam its streets less the cheesy tourist and more its denizen--caffeine and commuting and all. My time. My leisure. My pace. My terms. My self.

As the Fates would have it, I live across the street from Baltimore's cushiest tour bus line to NYC. On one of my extended days off, I hatch a plan to run away alone as I've always fantasized. I gather up the courage to dial myself a seat reservation. On the day, as I cross the street to the huge Shoppers parking lot where the bus is at and took my seat inside, I feel like falling into the great unknown, a familiar recurring sensation when I embark from my comfort zones to acknowledge my gypsy tendencies. The tour guide tells us there are going be no stops in other parts of the county to pick up any other passengers. He tells us our drop off point is at the Rockefeller in 51st and 5th and of the importance of being prompt on the time of departure and that we are on our own once we are there. YES!

I expect for us to arrive there at around 10AM but because of uneventful traffic and the expert maneuverings of our driver also named, Bruce, inside the Lincoln Tunnel, we arrive at 9:15AM. Stepping off the bus and I get welcomed by the sight of the adorable Al Roker doing a segment of the Today Show. After taking his picture and inadvertently getting caught on camera myself, I dodge towards Dean & Deluca only to find waif-like Campbell Brown crossing the street in the same direction as I am as she gaily gets greeted by an NYPD officer directing traffic, only she heads for her next segment. I order a cuppa joe and a spinach & cheddar muffin that draws notices from the neighbouring tables. Ah NYC! One of the only places I know where conversations spark without unease, subtle or otherwise. A tasty-looking muffin is a tasty-looking muffin. Like everyone else cares to admit inside that cafe, I surreptitiously glance around for Matt Lauer but to no avail. I have my itinerary which is to roam the halls of the Guggenheim and the Met.

Outside, everyone is armed in tanks and wifebeaters for the probably the hottest day of the year. Bottled water in hand I step out of the air-conditioning secure in my years of training under El Nino at the mother country. After lighting a candle at St. Patrick's, I walk 2 to 3 blocks or so to the station at Lexington & 53rd to catch the 6 train Uptown. Yes, in my J-Lo hat that makes me look more like a Maoist than Jenny from the Block-- stopping only at yet another cafe to realize bathrooms can be hard to come by in the Big Apple.

Secretly referring to the map inside my messenger bag, I weave through strange new streets that are somehow achingly familiar towards 86th & 5th to the Museum Mile.

In the Guggenheim, I wander through its meandearing curves, gaping at the Picassos, the Pollocks, and the Kandinskys-- fighting back tears and voices that say, "You've once only seen this in books,"-- wishing one of my sister were there with their two cents' worth--two of the five people in my vast circle who truly get me and my geeky preoccupations. And oh, upon entry of the first galleries I get welcomed by a gi-normous nude (upon initial glance and by popular expectations) of a female. Realizing it of a male and according to the audio tour head piece, it turns out to be a nude of actor Sal Mineo. Then I realize Sal Mineo is not circumcised. Needless to say, it's my favorite piece.

I eat a snotty lunch of asparagus & smoked salmon salad, write a couple of postcards to my friend, Shivaun and to my sister Melissa and realize I have enough time to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Once there, I get artfully overloaded more. I move through the ancient Egyptian collections in disbelief. I harken back to the days where I used to marvel at these pieces on a calendar from the 70's, while already a good way into the 80's. If only my mom is here. By the time, I get to the Cezannes, the Monets, the Renoirs and the Van Gogh, the VAN GOGHS, I am about ready to be on my knees. Van Gogh's Wheat Fields and Cypresses, I have always thought as a happy scene. Looking closely, I realize the extent of his torture as the idyll contrasts with the violence of his brush strokes, as if he wants to drown whatever it is that racked him with paint. His more popular portraits of flowers like Irises and Sunflowers have been done while he was in an asylum. I see his self portrait, yet another that I used to just gaze in an outdated calendar our Aunt sent us. It has used to spook me a tad bit as a child but looking at it close enought to see the steam of my breath on its glass case, defying that art be admired at a distance, he seemed more like a sad grizzled man, no different from the characters I come across with on the streets or on the job.

The Met still begs for more exploration. I have to go back to Maryland. Seeing there is still some time to get lost, I risk a bus to Midtown Manhattan, trusting instinct and common sense and get duly dropped off in front of the Rock with more than enough time for one more stop: The Soupman at 6th Ave. better known to Seinfeld fans as the Soup Nazi. Eventhough I'm the only customer at that point crazy enough to chug hot soup in 100 degree weather, I still expect to be screamed at, "Back in line!" "No soup for you!!" To my chagrin, the two fellas who man the cash register are awfully nice. I relish my chicken & corn chowder in quiet as some more customers filter into to the store but not before the servers snuck me a berry smoothie on the house. Wow! Not what I expect from the infamous soup nazi. Finishing my early dinner and waving good-bye to my buddies from my new haunt, I arrive perfectly on time for my bus-- a rarity for me. Smoothie in hand, I gaily say hi to our kindly silver-haired tour guide.

Once again, Bruce our driver gallantly slices our chariot through New York traffic. I look out the window unto the Manhattan skyline, silently I say to it, "Good-bye for now my lover, my New York," and promptly nod off into a deep restful slumber the moment we hit Jersey. I wake weaving in the familiar roads of Greenspring. We applaud our driver, our tour guide as I smile contentedly for the world is now alright again on this perfect day. Alone.

stoned

2006-08-30T07:48:00.000-05:00

Dear Shivaun,

I am feeling the need to slash and burn. Don't mean you dearie. Your blog on Mel has fired me up to throw a little piece of my mind into the ether.

I've always liked Mel Gibson but affinity has little (that I'm fully aware of) to do with me being a little too opinionated than my little Rabbit self allows me to be. Perhaps, it is just the current state of my physiology, being befuddled by the lack of sleep and my counter attack by all forms caffeine.

Lately, everyone with access to any form of popular media, has relished jumping into the bandwagon of judging Mr. Gibson (sparing any parallelism to Gibson's Passion of the Christ, and may this be my last mention of said matter), Hollywood power player, and citizen of a world of BILLION other people and BILLION other issues bigger than a Disney flick and an eccentric drunk with issues.

I just ponder, how many of us echo Mad Mel's innebriated sentiments in our varied forms of biases, within or out of earshot and beyond political correctness? in the privacy of our homes? in the company of our spouses and our children? in whispers among confidants? in mutterings over mundane aggravations? in muffled expletives over traffic inside our cars? or squealed out with the windows rolled down? or succinctly with a mere finger? in split-second looks as a strange face enters familiar territory to do groceries or get to the 5th floor? in the dark silence of our thoughts? and YES, over our beers?

I surmise it is just universally easier to sit back and toss our two cents at an easy target-- our latent barbarities and medieval prejudices in check by being PC and appropriately channeled through Fox and E!. Henceforth we can finish flipping through our People magazines, turn off our tellys and be on our merry way feeling better about ourselves, our little world alright, our insignificance a little lesser.

Love you, babe. Take it easy. Thank you for never failing to inspire me to write. God Bless you and your sensitive writer's heart always.

from the big apple, with love

2006-08-10T16:45:00.000-05:00

August 2, 2006
10:00 am
Rockefeller Plaza Dean & Deluca
50th & 5th, NYC

Dearest Shivaun,

Sorry.

I didn’t mean to ignore you. Somehow in between the printing and mailing of my reply, life over took and ran me over. July has been such a cruel month. I’m reeling over my uncle’s death, my father’s baby brother, by liver cancer. My cousin on my mom’s side just got married and she was walked down the aisle by her brother but closing in on the altar, by her dad, my mom’s eldest brother, who is also ailing of lung cancer. They both just got diagnosed this year. But, the sudden loss of Tito Jenny, devastated me. I’ve barely even come to grips with the fact that I might not be able to see two dear faces next year when I come home.

I’ve run away to New York to be alone. I need to be. I’ve done nothing but wallow last month that I feel like a hypocrite for all the soapbox preaching I typed unto my previous (unmailed) letter. Solace in the the gritty concrete arms of a lover and his urine perfume -- the city of my dreams. My Big Apple.

As everyone braces for the hottest day of the year, I shall commiserate with the voices inside my head over a defiantly hot cup of Felicity’s coffee and Javier’s spinach and cheddar muffin, both overpriced. I’ve already taken snapshot of Al Roker. I think I might have been seen on camera. My fifteen minutes on the Today Show: I slowly and surely am transforming into a Yank. Saw skinny Campbell Brown crossing the street. Now, where in the Rock is Matt Lauer?

I’m going to light a candle across the street at St Patrick’s then, walk three or four blocks to the 6 train station heading Uptown and the Bronx to 86th Street, and walk a couple more blocks to the Museum Mile near Central Park. I shall escape the brutal UVs of summer holed in the Guggenheim and then the Met. I am going to be in my quasi-intellectual elements and feel like I’ve come home and surely along the way, I am going to wish you, or one of my sisters, or my mom & dad are there to share the experience with-- just somebody whose hand I can grasp as I get overwhelmed by all that magnifiicent art.

I’ll be sending you a postcard from one of the museums. Please come and visit me one day. Miss you.

BTW, I’m glad Italia won, but I was rooting for a third world country, maybe Ghana cause they'd beaten the US. Nobody really cares about “soccer” in this country. I used to not care much about the sport but I tend to rebel against the inclination of whatever majority I’m amongst. Thank you for making sports poetic instead of an overrated celebration of dim-witted jocks by the hoi poloi.

Love,

cjb

Driving One Sunny Spring Evening (05-03-2006 at 11:30 AM)

2006-06-17T11:55:00.000-05:00

My whole being just can't wait for summer. Summer is in my blood. My blood demands it much as the night owl in me shuns the sunlight. I hate wearing socks. (I've been wearing flipflops since March). I yearn to be barefoot in the sun unhampered by a dozen layers. Much as I hate to sweat (that's what anti-perspirants are for), I would gladly have it over my skin not being able to breathe. Summer is childhood, about discoveries and misadventures. Summer is about being stripped down to the essentials, flimsy clothing, and the promise of cooling waters and you're out the door.

There is something about a Janis Joplin song that just invokes the summer dieties. Is it that lazy raspy voice that constantly seems to wake up at high noon? Southern Comfort on ice? the reminder of the Summer of Love? the age of the Aquarius? or is it just stating the obvious, with her rendition of Summertime? Is it the harkening of longer days spent reading under a tree beside a clear stream? hot bare skin baking in UV rays and chill into either chlorinated or salty waters? or just the site of young lesser-clothed flesh? Or am I just hell-bent on enjoying this summer because last year's realities have obfuscated me from basking in last years's sun?

After taking a much deserved, longed-for trip to Toronto to reunite with my eldest sister (whom I haven't seen for ten years,), my aunt (eleven years,), and my best friend-since-birth (eight years), I have come to rethink of what I stand for. The values instilled in me by my roots, my family. Money has never been at the forefront of our priorities. Character is. Substance is. Money may bring you status but not respect nor bring some semblance of dignity ....or happiness. Being able to sleep with a clear conscience is greater than any glossy SUV. A shelter that provides peace, respite, satisfaction and laughter is a home not a sprawling manse or an unwitting clone of Wisteria Lane or Twin Peaks. No amount of fancy clothes or fancy electronics can steal the fact wether you have bought them with your own hard-earned, honest money. I've also realized that fate despite its many twists and turns, albeit random and painful, comes with good reason and often with interesting comeuppances. Sir Isaac Newton comes to mind.

As I look forward to baring my toes (among other things) and soaking up the sun, while driving to meet my roommate and her family for some chinese food and furniture shopping, I happened upon this song. If you haven't figured out by now I consider rock 'n roll as the voice of God. The Powers That Be seem to be telling me from the stereo of my Honda Civic, "You're doing well kid, hang in there." And I say, "Thank you Lord, I needed that."

Mercedes Benz
by Janis Joplin

Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz ?
My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends.
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends,
So Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz ?

Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a color TV ?
Dialing For Dollars is trying to find me.
I wait for delivery each day until three,
So oh Lord, won’t you buy me a color TV ?

Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a night on the town ?
I’m counting on you, Lord, please don’t let me down.
Prove that you love me and buy the next round,
Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a night on the town ?

Everybody!
Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz ?
My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends,
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends,
So oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz ?

That’s it!

Yet Another Sountrack to the Mean Reds

2006-05-02T15:17:00.000-05:00

Doesn't Remind Me Lyrics

I walk the streets of Japan till I get lost
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
With a graveyard tan n'carrying a cross
It doesn't remind me of anything
I like studying faces in a parking lot
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like travelin' backwards in the fog
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

The things that I've loved, things that I've lost
Things I've held sacred that I've dropped
I won't lie no more you can bet
I don't want to learn what I'll need to forget

I like gypsy moths and radio talk
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like gospel music and canned applause
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like colorful clothing in the sun
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like hammering nails, and speaking in tongues
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

The things that I've loved, things that I've lost
Things I've held sacred that I've dropped
I won't lie no more you can bet
I don't want to learn what I'll need

Bend and shape me
I love the way you are
Slow and sweetly
Like never before
Calm and sleeping
We won't stir up the past
So discreetly
We won't look back

The things that I've loved, things that I've lost
Things I've held sacred that I've dropped
I won't lie no more you can bet
I don't want to learn what I'll need

I like throwing my voice and breaking guitars
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like playing in the sand what's mine is ours
If it doesn't remind me of anything

Epiphany in the Bathtub, 01-30-2006 at 08:19 AM

2006-05-02T14:41:00.000-05:00

After another grueling night at the Transplant Unit, I longed to soak in my precious bathtub. Like any other, exhaustingly bad working day lately, I tended to wallow in self-pity and mull over the series of unsavory developments in my life the past year. How I long to exorcise these forces that dog me, to soak out all that anger, regret, all that wasted time and flush them and walk away leaving nothing but a lavender cloud. And after an hour or so, I DID with help from unlikely sources of wisdom: supermodels and the former lead singer of Wham!

As the hot water soothed my tired bones, a memory of George Michael's hit, Freedom '90 and its equally popular video came to mind. Having a penchance for always paralleling aspects of my everyday to pop culture, I found that both unsurprising and a bit unnerving.

Perhaps it was the lyrics that bespoke George Michael's frame of mind then when he wrote the song and the circumstances that led him into such that my head found that I emphatized with. Or was it the imagery of the video aided by supermodels, (the First Name Wonders: Linda, Naomi, Cindy, Christy), for which one of a half-covered Christy crouching in the shadows and (or was it Cindy?) writhing in a bath tub lipsynching to the lyrics that I Identified with?

Wether I just am too fixated on supermodel perfection and perpetually insecure or just plain deluded, it doesn't matter because a light bulb has been turned on inside my head. As Oprah would call it, I had an Aha! moment.

Amidst the thick steam, eureka! The title, the words, the video, the song speaks for itself. Thank you George Michael. Wish you could have a more positive experience in bathrooms as I have. Respect.

I AM FREE.

Freedom '90

I won't let you down
I will not give you up
Gotta have some faith in the sound
It's the one good thing that I've got
I won't let you down
So please don't give me up
Because I would really, really love to stick around

Heaven knows I was just a young boy
Didn't know what I wanted to be
I was every little hungry schoolgirl's pride and joy
And I guess it was enough for me
To win the race? A prettier face!
Brand new clothes and a big fat place
On your rock and roll TV
But today the way I play the game is not the same
No way
Think I'm gonna get me some happy

I think there's something you should know
I think it's time I told you so
There's something deep inside of me
There's someone else I've got to be
Take back your picture in a frame
Take back your singing in the rain
I just hope you understand
Sometimes the clothes do not make the man

All we have to do now
Is take these lies and make them true somehow
All we have to see
Is that I don't belong to you
And you don't belong to me
Freedom
You've gotta give for what you take
Freedom
You've gotta give for what you take

Heaven knows we sure had some fun boy
What a kick just a buddy and me
We had every big shot good-time band on the run boy
We were living in a fantasy
We won the race
Got out of the place
I went back home got a brand new face
For the boys on MTV
But today the way I play the game has got to change
Oh yeah
Now I'm gonna get myself happy

I think there's something you should know
I think it's time I stopped the show
There's something deep inside of me
There's someone I forgot to be
Take back your picture in a frame
Don't think that I'll be back again
I just hope you understand
Sometimes the clothes do not make the man

All we have to do now
Is take these lies and make them true somehow
All we have to see
Is that I don't belong to you
And you don't belong to me
Freedom
You've gotta give for what you take
Freedom
You've gotta give for what you take

Well it looks like the road to heaven
But it feels like the road to hell
When I knew which side my bread was buttered
I took the knife as well
Posing for another picture
Everybody's got to sell
But when you shake your ass
They notice fast
And some mistakes were built to last

That's what you get

I say that's what you get

That's what you get for changing your mind

And after all this time
I just hope you understand
Sometimes the clothes
Do not make the man

I'll hold on to my freedom
May not be what you want from me
Just the way it's got to be
Lose the face now
I've got to live

Freedom '90 by George Michael, Listen Without Prejudice

The Return of the Club Kid, Transmogrified, 01-27-2006 at 01:41 AM

2006-05-02T14:22:00.000-05:00

After being rendered inutile by the rough and tumble of the last few months, with its cosmic and physical shifts, plus the toils of the everyday, for which I considered myself blessed to have survived through with most of my dignity and my ideals still intact, I was percolating to give my karma a major revamp. Or perhaps on some plain my karma didn't need the makeover. I just needed to rev it up by taking back something I've never really taken full possession of for a hefty while-- ME.

So with a chunk of a year's worth of my life still in boxes- feng shui crammed into my hapless new closet, I set to make a vortex of nothing but good vibrations. The warzone that is called Transplant as always, has been my biggest, most unexpected solace from the chaos outside the ultramodern atriums of UMMC. Making like a character of Gray's Anatomy or ER is not difficult for the ample supply of young georgous specimens in scrubs. And the affection of friends, friends, friends coming out of the woodwork of the unit who call me their girl, their crazy girl but nevertheless their girl- their comrade-in-arms. In relation to that, but more importantly, to finally start feeling that I have gradually earned the respect of my colleagues and the doctors; to be made to feel that my opinion matters; to take part in some difficult yet important undertaking and actually contribute; to take pride out of one's work; AND for the longest time in this friggin' awful year, to finally start believing in myself. What a motherfuckin' year it has been!

You know what they say about all work no play. Determined not to crash and burn, my dear friend ZR, along with her son, and husband make our way to Towson. It wasn't exactly a beeline 'cause I went into the wrong exit at first but with brand spanking new bumpers for the new year, me and my car Ashe (my pet name for my Civic, as in Corbin of The Crow II and most times as in Kutcher 'cause who wouldn't want to ride him? Anyway,) managed to find our way after 14mile or so. ZR and I head straight to the salon and call for what is to me a leap of faith.

A dear friend once implored to me not to transmogrify my trademark long locks into J.Lo lightness fearing perhaps that the chemicals would affect my gray matter as bouncy hair is directly related to brain damage (borrowing from Daria). Long story short, I lopped it off and YES my dearest Shivaun, dyed it blonde. HAH!

Psyche. Nah, it's not that short but it's a long way from the small of my back. I just got sick of the length, the combing, the detangling, the me-love-you-long-time vibe long asian hair inadvertently puts across. It's back to some Angela Chase-like lenghts but retained some hippie-ish layers and rock n' roll shag. It's just highlights but it's the color of my gypsy tendencies and the call of the surfs of Bali and the all of the world's white sand beaches. It's just hair and it'll grow back but for now, shit! I FEEL DAMN GOOD!

So with my new locks, I marched off with my friend ZZ into the the chill Baltimore night to Ram's Head Live at the Powerplant in Market Street, to watch Have a Nice Gig, a battle of top local bands to be Bon Jovi's front act for their D.C. concert. THIS was upon invite of one by one of the bands, Fools and Horses. YES BITCHES, an invite. Dressed like a bar room wench/ dominatrix/Nebucchadnezar spy/supernerd in my black corset top and long black trench coat, ZZ and I weave our way past the college kids, the bands' moms (and some grandfathers) and their bourgoening hardcore fans dressed in allegiance to their camps, to the bar. Like a good designated chick driver I ordered non-alcoholic beers (bummer). We just people watched from our seats from the bar. ZZ points out that we just might be the only ones who do not have the words, school night and curfew floating over our heads.

I ponder for a moment, wether I am getting old for this, but then I have partied with models, superstars, celebs, MTV VJ's and drag queens in clubs, ballrooms, a chinese junk and the ubiquitous pinoy birthday parties, raved in the floors that have vibrated to the Chemical Brothers and Moby while UK undergrounders The Dub Pistols played. I have been a band's muse for the night at the Hard Rock Cafe as the whole establishment sang to me, Happy Birthday on my 24th. I have been to my first big rock concert, a girl alone armed only with her Pentax, sang Happy Birthday en masse to the lead guitars and waited at the backdoor as the band toasted us from the windows, only to find out a few month later Richard, the lead guitarist/prodigy had a nervous breakdown after we helped usher him into being 21 (not our fault, of course). All that, with the pictures to prove it, and I still excell in holding my liquor with minimum hangovers and nil morning-after nor nine-months-after regrets.

Feeling so wussified from all that non-alcohol, I managed to swindle from ZZ some of his real booze, then coolly shrugged off the early stages of a come-on from a jock in the intermediate stages of being shit-faced drunk. I was starting to be in my element.

My band played last. By that time, we were already perched on top of what I surmised as the VIP ledge. YES BITCHES, the VIP ledge. And by then I was already banging my head. Fools and Horses sounded like pros- surprising for a band so young and SOO easy to look at. There is already a certain intelligence to their catchy lyrics, a wink-wink humor to their act, and a polish and for every hook, riff, Converse stomp, and primal falsetto, an ease to their sound and its layers as they tip their tousled hair to every great rock 'n roll tradition that sublimely formed them . And did I mention they're all HOT? Plus,their bassist Kent has the most perfect blond bob I had ever seen on both man and woman.

Of course, they won hands down. I know my bands. And a good one if I hear them, BITCHES.

I came into Ram's Head, as the band had put it, their "newly befriended friend" and came out a fan. For fuck's sake you are never to old to rock 'n roll!!

Breathing in the 20-degree F air, we both realized we were hungry. We ducked into McDonald's like any self respecting club denizen. As I and ZZ, wolf our Spicy Chicken Sandwiches, we lay witness to the sight of underaged girls in flimsy embellished cotton-polyyester halters and gauchos risking frostbite and pneumonia to impress boys who don't know any better.

One blond girl puked her liquor and what-not through chattering teeth as her equally blond friends held her hair back. They ducked into McDo as well, but earned the ire of the eagle-eyed security guard when they put the vomiting blonde's high heels (her Mom's) on the table.

The cold wind whiffed into McDo as the disparaged blondes went out again to brave the elements. My mind drifted back to the girl who haunted the clubs of Singapore on her first taste of real independence, the same girl who had been sent into hibernation by life's little realities, mundanities, inanities and insanities. "Novices!" I mocked the blondes as ZZ and I laughed quitely . I smiled into my Diet Coke as I heard the voice of my club kid past, whisper "I'm back."

dearest joy, 10-30-2005, letters to a writer

2005-12-07T16:17:00.000-05:00

i could see realities of partnerships getting tangled with insecurities and selfishness. you're not there yet and that is something to be grateful for. others are in a hurry, trekking yahoo and msn messengers, and delving deeper into the high school yearbook to find the handsome lad of youth who is ever so uncommitted but who is willing to give up freedom for a life in the first world. that is so pathetic. your john frusciante is just around the corner. he might be lurking within the walls of your ward, or not. jerks are also aplenty so you need to be careful. some crossed paths with their blokes through watering holes and clubs. others settle for porters. others meet through a book club, or wonder of wonders, pinoy parties. i know we would not be happy with blokes who cannot spell led zeppelin but would you rather settle and forever be heartbroken or wait for mr. right?

always, shiv