Chance encounters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

why so serious?

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

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

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

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

Honey, honey

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

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

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

Filthy, sexy, moolah

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

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

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

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