Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
The track is included in his latest album, Call Me Irresponsible, which I find more diverse than the second one. There's a duet with Boyz II Men which resembles like that of a 50s or 60s blues song (Comin' Home Baby), think Steppin' to the Bad Side kind of groove, and a choral ensemble in a couple of songs. There's also the pop-catchy Everything, and Home-like ballad Lost, plus takes on Tony Bennet (The Best is yet to Come) and Henry Mancini (It Had Better be Tonight) classics.
So let me go back to Mrs. Jones, where he sings: Me and Mrs. Jones, we got a thing going on. We both know that it's wrong, but it's much too strong to let it go now... We meet ev'ry day at the same cafe. Six-thirty I know she'll be there. Holding hands, making all kinds of plans, while the jukebox plays our favorite song... We gotta be extra careful, that we don't build our hopes too high. 'Cause she's got her own obligations and so do I... I haven't heard the versions from Hall and Oates, The Dramatics and Billy Paul. But Buble's version makes cheating fun and run of the mill.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Seemed like I wasn't done with the waiting. If it weren't for a book and some magazines, the smell of hair products could have suffocated me to death. I grabbed this recent UNO magazine which featured Anne Curtis on the cover. As you can see, I'm a big Anne fan. I confess that I went to this mall tour of hers to get a picture of her and all, but just when I was on the verge of rubbing shoulders with her, the bodyguard of sorts carefully pulled her away from the screaming crowd. I could have forgive her saying, "the people here in Davao are really warming!", but that was just a sorry day for me.
So I was leafing through the pages of the magazine, or rather I was repeatedly leafing through her poses and wiping my drool over the glossy pages, when I came across this article on how too much polishing your pole can cause hormonal imbalance (jeezers. Talk about growing breasts soon) and long-term psychological effects of memory loss and constant 'pagkatulala'. So that's why I kept misplacing things lately or that I caught myself staring aimlessly at the monitor. Nah, but that couldn't be. I haven't even held a boobie, much less suffer the chronic effects of pole-polishing.
One attendant incessantly offered me an iced tea and tuna sandwich, which turned out to be free, which explained the exorbitant salon fee. Wait, is it just me or the tuna sandwich smelled fishy. Hehehe. My finger stinks.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
The Pulitzer-prize winning novel is an intimate look at politics because it does not necessarily expound on the immediate political sphere of the main character but is keen on examining the interplay of interpersonal relationships -- family, friendships, love -- and how these are transformed in within the sphere of politics. The novel has that grandeur in its ability to explore these emotions and Warren concocts his sentences as if he was enunciating a poem or explaining a novel in a literary group discussion.
The story is viewed through Jack Burden's lenses, and it is hypnotic at times because it seems as though he dissipates in the scene like smoke and arrive like a breeze. He narrates like as if he was a vase on the far side of the room. This is specially eminent when the novel tries to establish Willie Stark, the so-called king who believes that he is nowhere bound but the seat of the Governor. All the other characters revolve around his web and getting out of it is difficult and dangerous.
On the edition of the book that I read, Warren wrote a foreword explaining the book's semi-autobiographical flavor. The book is loosely based on Huey Long, the infamous Louisiana dictator back in the 50s. It was also believed that Warren was the novel's Jack Burden. The final chapter is an all-too familiar territory but yet Warren captures it with much honesty and gritty realism. One that reminds me that power is too tempting to resist but then we can still tread a life uncontrolled by it if we choose to. Here's an excerpt:
This is not remarkable, for as we know, reality is not a function of the event as event, which is not real in itself, but of the relationship of that event to past, and future, events. We seem here to have a paradox: that the reality of an event, which is not real in itself, arises from other events which, likewise, in themselves are not real. But this only affirms what we must affirm: that direction is all. And only as we realize this we do live, for our own identity is dependent upon this principle.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
So this is a film blog, or rather I should be calling it a blog about my movie experiences. I might sound like Ebert, A.O. Scott, or David Denby so I'm not gonna sound like any of those highly-revered critics. I'm just gonna write about films I saw that's it. Oh now I know, this is like fixation back in college because I wrote stupid film analyses about mediocre films in a mediocre film class.
This is a red carpet entry so it should be without-further-ado shit. Besides, my neurons are firing like baby rockets I feel my head is going to explode. But before I head to my limo, I'm gonna pose for the press first.
Monday, May 07, 2007
The photo in PDI last Saturday shows aggrieved Bicolanos lighting candles for their favorite volunteer Julia Campbell, who was slain in Batad, Benguet while she treaded the muddy tracks of Banawe Rice Terraces during the Holy week..
It was also during the Holy week that our German volunteer in the office working under the DED program, Sarah went to climb
Sarah came to the
When Sarah started asking about places she could go to – and I’m not talking about malls and parks here – that’s when I ascertained that an adventurous spirit resides in every foreigner’s heart and a pulsating fondness for the Filipino culture that you just can’t seem to contain. While some of us laid-back commoners shy away at the mere thought of shedding a sweat, they don’t usually give chickenshit about it. Last year, me and some of my friends brought Sarah to a pristine beach in
Okay, going back to
So where did the big chunk of government fund for national defense go? Oh, I had my math wrong, the fund is meant to counter terrorism pala. So that even when fighter planes start bombing us like
Thursday, May 03, 2007
To break the monotony of last Tuesday, I decided to go shortly to this long-standing booksale in Victoria to see if they have new arrivals or books which I may have passed by previously. Luckily, there was another new bunch of 35-peso books -- a welcome development from the last weeks' one section. I was beaming with excitement when I grabbed Vineland by Thomas Pynchon, Crash - J.G. Ballard's cult classic, and Perfume: The Story of a Murderer, the original German version of which was written by Patrick Susskind. David Cronenberg had a film adaptation of Crash which starred James Spader, while the film version of Perfume was released last year with Dustin Hoffman.
Because I am running low on budget these days, I hid the Willa Cather, the Margaret Atwood and Muriel Spark. Which means I cannot shell out anything for any pirated DVD as well. I saw the sophomore feature of Steven Shainberg - Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus - which stars Nicole Kidman as the famous photographer Diane Arbus who fell in love with her man-ape neighbor played by Robert Downey Jr.
I decided to give pirated DVDs a rest because Limewire and YouTube has been overwhelmingly generous. I now have 5 of Alfred Hitchcock and Stanley Kubrick films and a slew of other classics like Casablanca, Annie Hall, Apocalypse Now, and Blade Runner. Plus rare ones from Wong Kar-wai, Nicolas Roeg, Jean Luc Godard, and Akira Kurosawa. Plus classic silent films like Battleship Potemkin (Sergei Eisenstein), Le Passion d' Jeanne D'Arc (Carl Th. Dreyer), and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (Robert Wiener). To think, I only read about them in the library. No such luck though with Altman and Polanski.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Don't get me wrong though. I want to watch Spiderman but not with the entire Davao population trooping to every theater possible. I hate the idea of watching a movie with the theater full of fuckin' noisy people. Besides, I haven't gone to a single theater for what seemed like ages and practically coz I don't have anything to shell out for Spidey's web-slinging shenanigans.
So, see you later superhero.
Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?