Michael

I listened to Michael Buble's "Christmas" album, which came out very recently. Of course reminding us that the most commercial and superficial season is just creeping around the corner waiting to frighten us. Yes folks, I'm not talking about Halloween. Prepare for the yuletide because you'll be scared to death by how much you are actually going to spend courtesy of relentless marketing and Christmas-whoring, sometimes unconsciously. But I'm not going to talk about Christmas. Not just yet. But I like Christmas songs though. Though they are haphazardly rehashed to death by numerous artists, the glow of Christmas songs bring a cheer to me. The songs are what I really like about Christmas. Of course, the gifts too. But the joy in hearing a familiar tune, I'll Be Home for Christmas, for instance, covered to death by a lot of singers, is genuine. At least for me. I mean, others get irritated hearing Christmas songs because they are reminded of the horrors of the season, as I mentioned. This is beginning to be a Christmas post and I said I'm not going to have an early post about it so what I really wanted to talk about is Michael Buble. Because when I played the album, I remembered this companion we have on one of my work-related trips who commented that she does not really like Michael because he cannot or does not give justice to the songs he covers. I was going to argue with her but I was so looking forward to the prospect of an unforgettable adventure minutes away that I let it pass. What I wanted to tell her though was that when Michael covers the songs he covers, his purpose is not to give justice -- of course you want to do that to Sinatra -- but it's more of like paying tribute. After all, you cannot really give justice to an original. When you sing an original, you do not mean to give it justice by being equal to it. There's no such thing as that. You just have to make the arrangement cool, make it your own and not disparage the original in the process. Of course, it takes one's musical acuity to say that, otherwise we'll be okay-ing to just about every revival. But surely Michael's versions are a cut above the rest. Even if they are not to some, I hold it dearly because I have always this thing, this love affair for the past. Grew up with Abba songs, The Beatles, a handful of not-so-known pop tunes like The Monkee's She's Not There and Lesley Gore's It's my Party, Johnny Mathis, The Platters, and handful of others and although I find Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdink songs irritating especially when sung by drunken masters of the videoke, I still sing along with Kiss or It's Not Unusual (but please no Green Green Grass of Home or That Wonderful Sound). What I'm really saying is that when Michael (I keep on referring to him first-name as if I really know him that well huh) is that link between the past and present. In Woody Allen's recent film Midnight in Paris, there's this supposed syndrome where one constantly fantasizes of living in the past. I have yet to google if it really is something like that syndrome (forgot the term, d'or something) but when I hear Michael singing For Once in My Life or Summer Wind or You Don't Know Me, it's like that moment when the character of Owen Wilson is being fetched by the Parisian carriage to meet, unknowingly, Hemingway, Fitzgerald or Dali in the midnight air of 1930s Paris, amid smokes and intoxicating jazz music, somewhere where time is not hurried but savored, where life undulates in meaningful reveries and longings, ruminations of an unpredictable future.

Top Shelf

I was looking at the top shelf of my books today. The lower three "stories" are filled, though not exactly to the seams yet but filled from edge to edge, and not entirely with fiction and non-fiction I bought over the years. The space is co-occupied by my siblings' accounting books, folders and other stuff with words in it. Considering that I've only had the time to read excessively after college, and yes, considering that I am only financially capable of buying books after college, the amount is considerable enough. And yes, considering there are a handful below the top shelf's rungs that I have yet to lay my eyes on. Recently, I have successfully shied away from booksales because they are so irresistible. And also recently, the unread books in the top shelf have been piling up. I promise to read 4 more from the unread heap before the year ends and it sure is good luck to me. I was looking at the top shelf, the blend of colorful spines, pink from Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, red from Ellis' The Informers, gray from McEwan's Amsterdam, and wonder how lovely it is to spend your time reading away the days, weeks and years of your life. Escaping to the worlds both fantastical and lifelike. But while I find their stories most of the time interesting and worthy than real life, I guess I'm stuck with real life.

Homaygad

Homaygad it's been five months since I last posted a blog entry it sucks to be me right now I wanna die

Pride chicken, honor student

I know I'm going to get hate comments after this but I'm gonna say it anyway, the Pacquiao-Mosley fight is boring and predictable. Even days before, I couldn't bring myself to get excited unlike the previous fights, especially the earlier ones (Passing by Sarangani the other week I saw a Pacquiao-Mosley ad and just looked at it as if it was some blank plywood). Just before the delayed telecast started i dozed off and woke up by a jolt when my younger brother shouted Manny was down. But heck, I mean, c'mon guys, we don't just want Manny to win, we know he's gonna win. He's 32 and Mosley is 39. Mosley whose glory days in boxing are over; he's standing at the twilight of his boxing career, and he's not going to lose anything more if he bow down to this relatively young and persistent fighter who only wants to bring honor and glory to his third-world country whose semblance of unity can only be glimpsed at during his mighty fights; who wants to bring honor and glory like it was some long-forgotten Roman code that will lift his ailing kingdom to its heydays. It's not a question of brining honor, not even a gargantuan task of uniting a long-divided people, but this brazen act of gimmickry (what's up with those yellow gloves? shouldn't they be orange?). That stuff is said and done. It's the big-ticket fights that matter after all. It's entertainment (falling off, really?), it's a money-making machine. You watch Martin Scorsese's Raging Bull and there you have it, boxing summed up in its glory and ugliness. Crowds of people, some strangers huddle in covered courts, restaurants, cinemas, heck everywhere, yet they are united by this invisible thread of pride. Buf after it, what? Manny gets richer, he buys businesses, grows his empire and we go back to our same sorry lives, the ones we have before we sat, stuck and hypnotized in front of that screen watching our hero battle his opponents, fighting his way through, as if he was boxing out our own.

#499: I Come With The Rain (Tran Anh Hung, 2009)

I think this is a bad film to start off from someone who has yet to see Scent of Green Papaya. I Come With The Rain was partly shot in Diwalwal, Compostela Valley province in Mindanao, Philippines – roughly around 4-5 hours (with the terrain in Diwalwal) from the city where I live. Everyone I know was excited to see this when news exploded that Josh Hartnett was flying here on to Diwalwal - a gold mine area - to shoot. But so far the film has ended in bootleg havens of the city, with the mass of Josh fanatics even unaware of its existence.

It was painful to sit through it. I think it was trying to be too serious with its battered protagonist and this psychological thriller that the entire mood can’t even get close too. Josh Hartnett trots across Asia (also visits Hong Kong) to track down a millionaire’s son only to find he is some sort of “messiah” or something to that extent, while he gets over his personal demons (and such creepy demonic recollections). There are some visual highlights but the pseudo-Christian symbolisms smacks right at you in the face I’m actually considering taking off that pseudo prefix. It does refer to Christian symbolisms clumsily. Hartnett, in exploring this character, reaches for something there, but I think it’s really a mess, that he ends up groping in the dark.

The 500 Film Challenge: Another Year (Mike Leigh, 2010)

I assure you that the film to start off the challenge wasn’t deliberately chosen at all, unintentional really. But to make pure coincidence interesting in this whole challenge, Mike Leigh’s ode to old age and aging, Another Year, is a gunshot that signals another year of film watching. Hope I can make it to another year of… 500 films?!?

On one hand, Another Year is slightly related to his Happy-go-Lucky. I can only speculate the Poppy would grow into Mary. While we peer into the lonely souls that visit and temporarily seek shelter into Tom and Gerri’s (yeah, how comically named right?) companionship – the openly unapologetic Ken and the subtly imposing but kindhearted Mary – we can only sigh in what might have been their revelries of youth. (I think it’s even hinted in the unappreciated, and I should say pretty much of the film is underappreciated, musical score.) Again, Leigh’s acute observation of the nuances of daily lives exudes in the words that come out of somewhat uninteresting, commonplace characters, in quick sharp stabs and quiet mumbles. Much has been said of the terrific Lesley Manville as Mary, holding her own till the end refusing to break down, but literally the closing shot, lingers on her face and we are also weighed down with this inescapable melancholy, whether it be the thought of aging, dying alone or the terrifying thought that we are unloved and uncared for.

I am ready for my close-up.

And I am ready for this challenge. I am up for it, I think I am. It's possible, but the odds are somewhat insurmountable. But I would like to be unassuming. Dahil malay mo, I might actually clinch this. That would be the greatest. This is what I call the height of cinephilia. Responding to the challenge is not much daunting as it is exciting; not really with the possibility of finishing it, but being in the moment, being in the zone, with a bunch of people who're also up for it. I've been thinking about this idea since probably after graduation when I got the chance to watch as many films as possible due the "advent of technology" coupled with the ever-burgeoning cost of commodities - ano na lang ang luxury, di ba? A former colleague who I have almost the same wavelength with in film, said he's willing to spend 2,000 pesos for ordering the Lou Ye's Summer Palace DVD in Amazon because damn if he doesn't get it. But I don't call it luxury, I call it a staple, just like Filipinos cannot live without rice.

In fact, I'm so gung-ho at that moment when I responded to the challenge, that I asked Ad if I can just put my own introductory photo. If this is going to be the only film challenge I'm ever gonna embark on, Antoine Doinel should be up there staring aimlessly and mercilessly, reminding me every time why I am in this whole ambitiousness in the first place.

So here it is. 500 films. One year. Versus 500 persistent preoccupations. Game on.

------
As a requirement to the challenge I'm posting the rules below (copied from The 500 Film Challenge): (Heads up as well the one who first dared, Princess.)

1 | Accept the dare by making a comment on this post or you can email me: adrian.lessegers@gmail.com. Anyone with a blog is eligible.

2 | Make an introductory post using the beautiful Anna Karina picture above explaining the project. Link all the participants of the project in the post as shown below (scroll down).

3 | Start watching 500 films and write about each one of them. Short films, feature films and extra-long films are accepted. Miniseries are allowed i.e. Carlos (2010), The Decalogue (1988) but major series are not. As long as you watched them after you accepted the dare its okay. So you cannot include films you watched before you have officially accepted the dare.

4 | You cannot repeat a film. Of course, duh!

5 | The first one to finish the project will have a special prize (to be announced before the year ends).

PARTICIPANTS:

1.) Princess Kinoc (http://underthefiretree24.wordpress.com)
2.) Jay-R Trinidad (http://pinoyfilmzealot.wordpress.com)
3.) Adrian Mendizabal (http://adrianmendizabal.blogspot.com)
4.) Epoy Deyto (http://kawtskamote.blogspot.com)
5.) Dodo Dayao (http://pelikula.blogspot.com)
6.) Clem Malubay (http://whatclemsaid.livejournal.com)
7.) Carl Joseph Papa (http://whatevercarl.tumblr.com)
8.) Nilhenwen (http://nilhenwen.livejournal.com)
9.) Etchie Pingol (http://etchieblog.wordpress.com)
10.) Sani Ajero (http://sanriel.wordpress.com)
11.) Paolo Barazon (http://titopao.com)
12.) Niña Domingo (http://ninsydipsy.tumblr.com)
13.) Jay Rosas (http://jayclopsz.blogspot.com)
14.) Minamic (http://casualcontrary.blogspot.com)
15.) Katie Yockey (http://mbandm.wordpress.com)
16.) Vince Dawes (http://shaved-ape.livejournal.com)
17.) Whammy Alcazaren (http://softcorecatalogue.wordpress.com)

2009 IN FILM

Because I've delayed this list for the longest time and because it's virtually impossible to stuff all the remaining films to see in one day. Anyway, this list might change as I painstakingly go through the unwatched heap. (At na-inspire akong mag-layout dahil madali lang pa lang pagandahin ng konti using a photo application.)

Runners-up:

The remains of the birthday.

"What can we ever gain in forever looking back and blaming ourselves if our lives have not turned out quite as we might have wished? The hard reality is, surely, that for the likes of you and I, there is little choice other than to leave our fate, ultimately, in the hands of those great gentlemen at the hub of this world who employ our services. What is the point in worrying oneself too much about what one could or could not have done to control the course one’s life took? Surely it is enough that the likes of you and I at least try to make our small contribution count for something true and worthy. And if some of us are prepared to sacrifice much in life in order to pursue such aspirations, surely that is in itself, whatever the outcome, cause for pride and contentment." ~ Kazuo Ishiguro, The Remains of the Day

And the pages turn and turn

Netherland by Joseph O'Neill. Blogged about it here. Bought it as a birthday gift to myself.

Short Cuts by Raymond Carver. These stories have been adapted into film by Robert Altman, who even wrote the foreword for the collection. I haven't seen it yet but judging from the stories it's the type Altman would really make good at. The stories are marked with simplicity and a keen observation of human behavior and emotion. Putting these stories together, one told in a poem, you create a milieu of suburban America, or perhaps any society for that matter, that is both restless and life-like.

Atomised by Michel Houllebecq. A story about twins who lived entirely different lives. Not Mara Clara, no. One is a brilliant scientist, the other a hedonist. Houllebecq might be referring to himself and his id, but clearly, the title also refers to how societies have become so divisive, thus its peoples.

Paris to the Moon by Adam Gopnik. When I go to Paris, and that will be someday, I will bring along Gopnik's incisive essays from his stint as Paris correspondent of The New Yorker. It brings light to every aspect of Parisian life but also sheds light to how he loves and loathes his homeland.

A Special Providence by Richard Yates. I loved Revolutionary Road and A Good School. A story about a single mother and his son who has been to war. Yates is probably one of the most acute chroniclers of the American 50s-60s era. He captures achingly the times that it resonates with contemporary fervor.

Dispatches from the Edge by Anderson Cooper. The guy is of royal descent - the Vanderbilts, but his accounts of his beginnings would tell you no trace of a lavish lifestyle, instead a painful memory from childhood which he carries and constantly looks back to, as we get acquainted with his insights from his known reportage and coverage of major disasters and war from the all over the world.

A Sport and a Pastime by James Salter. Last Night, which I copied and pasted from The New Yorker website so I can bring it and read it at home, remains to be one of my favorite short stories (not that I really read and remember tons of it) and one of my wait-what-the-fuck moments ever. The mood in A Sport and a Pastime is different, though Salter's staccato sentences makes wonders. Another of those American in Paris novels. It's erotic and features sex at least every other page. Or a couple pages.

Bob Dylan: The Essential Interviews edited by Jonathan Cott. Finally, I finished the voluminous compilation of interviews of the most enigmatic musical artist of all time. Reading this omnibus feels like a worthy companion to Todd Haynes' I'm Not There, five ruminations on Dylan, as portrayed by 5 actors including Gere, Bale, Ben Wishaw, the young Marcus Carl Franklin, and the staggeringly amazing, Cate Blanchett, only that you have 33 interviews to gaze or peer at. Which only leaves you still in awe and enigma.

Child 44 by Tom Rob Smith. An amazing thriller from a long-hackneyed subject matter. Smith crafts this chilling tale of a fallen Russian spy who investigates a series of gruesome child murders in entertaining fashion that it works like a film. Is any in the works?

Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut. At times humorous, this classic tells the story of Billy Pilgrim, a captured American soldier who experiences hallucinatory bouts in a Dresden slaughterhouse, the book's version of prison. A must-read of post-WWII novels which explores the horrors of war and the evils spawned by it.

Less than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis. Another cult classic I read only after years of looking for a booksale copy. Finally, a copy is available at NBS which was also discounted, in tandem with the release of Ellis' Imperial Bedrooms. Such bleak, bleak novel but with unnerving tenacity and seriousness. Haven't seen the adaptation, which stars a young Robert Downey, Jr., but it's scary at best and deliciously written.

On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan. "This is how the entire course of life can be changed – by doing nothing." Or, "All she had needed was the certainty of his love, and his reassurance that there was no hurry when a lifetime lay ahead of them. Love and patience- if only he had had them both at once- would surely have seen them both through." As usual, McEwan never fails to grip me and tear me apart and then lifts me up on such rapturous literary hallelujahs. The words work simply and beautifully. On Chesil Beach tells a very basic story of reluctance but oh how it resonates with such universal clarity on our failures and limitations. I hope Sam Mendes will get back on the saddle with to finally helm the adaptation rumored to reunite Garfield and Mulligan.

Ilustrado by Miguel Syjuco. I have to read back to that particular chapter ending just to make sure because at the end of it I didn't know what hit me. A novel shouldn't be castigated for being ambitious, especially if it achieves and hits a lot of points. In Ilustrado, we see the Pinoy not only in its different time periods, but at his worst and best. Hopefully, the best churns into something good.

The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen. It also took me a long time to finally pick this up from the unread heap, but glad that I did. When I finished it, I said, why the fuck would they sell a gem like this for 10 pesos even if it was in booksale? When I was reading it, Pynchon always come to mind. Franzen's incisive prose cuts sharp into the core of American-ness. By dissecting a dysfunctional family, Franzen creates a monumental landscape of our time - where, why and how we live in the contemporary troubling times. Read this towards Christmas. The family in Franzen's story is expecting their "last" Christmas. How's that for bleak and misery. My 2010 book.

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Caroll. Last month, I vowed to read a classic each month and that I have to finish 3 for December. This was fast and convenient and accessible and I ended up only reading this. As usual, the usual.

The Accidental Billionaires by Ben Mezrich. Oh no, this is the facebook book made into the now ginormous facebook movie. Contrary to what many think, the film, while borrowed heavily on the narrative, differs greatly in perspective. Saverin may still be the moral core of both sources but the film offers much more realized and entertaining characters. Of course there is Sorkin's explosive screenplay.

Chronic City by Jonathan Lethem. I like to hate it for selfish reasons but the magic, though not readily palpable, is there. The ambition and rare talent with those words are so difficult to top that it feels like Lethem invented them to work specifically for this novel. Maybe if I lived or living in Manhattan I would've related to it more? Perhaps in a setting like Manhattan, fictionalized at that, the hazy truth is hard to find. Maybe that vast distance between Chase and Janice, stuck in space tells us something about it. But it's fun to read. Marlon Brando, Criterion, just about the most quirky pop culture references, and weird names like Perkus Tooth and Strabo Blandiana. And malevolent migratory birds and an escaped tiger out in the city and an amputated dog in a hotel/apartment for dogs.

Rabbit-rabbit

That is, as they say, the croak of an American frog, whereas the Pinoy frog would say Kokak. Jeez, what a corny way to start the obligatory new year post. Napaka-echoserang palaka naman eh year of the rabbit nga. Which means, people will copulate more this year? A ballooning population from an already ballooning and burgeoning one? The RH pundits better get their acts together because the moral pundits would unleash their hidden powers and strengths and illogical and impractical wisdom. I should put quotation on wisdom. Bigla kong nasingit ang RH tuloy, and the way that this sentence is going you might say it's a cheapskate segue, because I'm going to say that the bottom half of the year has got me working with something related to RH. But no, that was just coincidental, or no, consequential? Or rather spontaneous. There I go again with spontaneity. It reminded me again of Jack Kerouac and his concept of spontaneous prose, which is like blogging actually. Mas enjoy kung bigla na lang dadaloy ang mga salita galing sa iyong brain transferred my neurons to your kinetic fingers and you find yourself typing more rigorously and faster than you can think of the next sentence. Perhaps what I'm really saying is that I should record my thoughts more. That's what you get from receiving tons of notebooks and planners and organizers. Which is not to say it's a bad thing. The notebooks are swell. There's this one notebuk cum planner which has the word PARIS Depuis 1968 in it and has this really cool stamp logo and really vintage look with a miniaturized Eiffel in one of the pages. The pages tell me to write. And maybe write more.

Screw this.

It's 7:52. Plans of going home=nil. The whirr of the aircon. Alone again in a two-room office. The hard rain that just died down. Noises from vehicles. The semi-bitter after taste of orange juice. Christmas lights from the department store up front visible from the slits of the window sills. Picture frames in front of me that should convey meaning, but don't. The music player that stopped playing my self-professed favorite person of the year. I want to shrink or implode and let the universe just forget about me. Dammit. Fuck this spontaneity. Fucking overrated.

Hell hath no fury like a geek scorned.

Jay | is finding it hard to find a decent copy (Torrent) of The Social Network online. (3 days ago)

Jay | saw The Social Network on his favorite bootleg haven! Jesse Eisenberg, with a precocious-looking smirk, dons the poorly laid-out cover with pictures of the cast during of the gala premiere which is totally unrelated to the film. (18 hours ago via Mobile Web)

View all 4 comments
Rey | Jay, I saw it already. The pirated copy has been around for days!
Jay | You should have texted me.
John | I saw it na. Naka-download ako. Pero halata sa sinehan kinunan. It’s so talkish. I don’t like it. So boring
(Write comment here)

Jay | is slurping ice float at McDonalds and seeing from afar a poster of The Social Network in the Coming Soon portion of the cinema. Can’t wait to get home! (16 hours ago via Mobile Web)

Jay | is watching The Social Network now. (hyperlink) The Social Network HQ trailer http://www.youtube.com/watch?=mygtlkjsfd (10 hours ago)

Jay | just finished watching The Social Network and feels like it’s still growing in him. (8 hours ago)

Jay | “Hell hath no fury like a geek scorned.” Haha. (an hour ago)

Jay | is fighting the impulse to talk, in feverish jolts, like Jesse Eisenberg.
Rey Perandos likes this.
Jay | I guess that’s the way he really speaks. I liked Jesse way back The Squid and the Whale. And his precocious way of talking really works astoundingly in this film. It’s like don’t talk to me if you aren’t able to catch up.

Recent Activity
Jay likes Jesse Eisenberg (actor).
Jay likes Andrew Garfield (actor).
Jay changed his Profile Picture.

Jay | “You’re not an asshole Mark. You’re just trying so hard to be one.” ~ The Social Network. It’s kind of funny, that no matter how Mark maybe trying so hard to be an asshole, or an asshole, if you’re on Eduardo Saverin’s side, that you don’t entirely loathe him. Somehow, you still root for this guy. It’s like, if you hate him, you hate yourself too. (35 minutes ago)

Rey Perandos, Ever Abasolo and 2 others like this.

Jay| “Sorry! My Prada’s in the cleaners, along with my hoodie and my fuck-you flip flops, you pretentious duschebag! …You better lawyer-up asshole, ‘coz I’m not coming back for 30 percent. I’m coming back for everything.” ~ The Social Network. Love this line. But the reaction shots shifts confusingly from Justin to Jesse that it looks as if the “duschebag” was intended for Mark. Eduardo is Brazilian, but Andrew’s version has no trace of the accent. (30 minutes ago)

Rey | Jay, Saverin is a Harvard student.
Jay | Ganun ba yun? You know, Eduardo is tanga. He’s an Economics major, and he got busted out because of a very obvious legal lack.
Rey| He believed that he was facing their (including Mark’s) lawyers.

Jay | “You’re going to be successful and rich. But you’re going to go through life thinking that girls don’t like you because you’re a tech geek. I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that won’t be true: It’ll be because you’re an asshole.” ~ The Social Network (20 minutes ago)

Ever Abasolo, Rey Perandos and 2 others like this.
View all comments
Rey | Jay, we only see Rooney Mara’s character twice, but it’s really a pivotal character. She basically started it all! Mark shouldn’t have messed with her name. You know, Albright to Albrecht and then call her a bitch.
Jay | I think what really pissed her off is when she referred to her bra size. “She’s a 34 B. As in barely anything there.”
Rey | Hahahaha
Ever | Hehehe. The best talaga si David Fincher.
Jay | @Rey. But really, Erica is important because she embodies what Mark cannot get and will not get, his failure to connect. Ironic, noh? You are like this bazillionaire inventor of a technological revolution that supposedly connects people, but you fail at this basic human relationship tremendously. Btw, Trent Reznor really does an awesome job with the music. (1 person likes this)
@Ever: I think Fincher has put his stamp on it, his attention to details, etc. But he worked on a very brilliant script by Aaron Sorkin. It plays out like a Greek tragedy even.

Jay | Review of The Social Network (2010)
“In the last scene of The Social Network, Jesse Eisenberg as Mark Zuckerberg is refreshing the page of the “girl who got away” every 5 seconds or so to check if she has responded to his “friend request”. It’s an indelible scene, not because it encapsulates what the film is trying to say about his character (creator meets creation), but because we saw ourselves in Mark, endlessly glued to the monitor and trying so hard to “make friends” with everybody, trying to connect the threads of relationships that were never there in the first place. The Social Network is terrific entertainment. You think you wouldn’t get more than technogeek-speak out of these Harvard-bred wisecracks, but the story (never mind if its fact-based or not) speaks to a plenty of contemporary social realities than say your current FB shoutout or relationship status.
See more…
5 minutes go via LivingSocial: Movies | Comment | Like | Rate and Review

Recent activity
Jay likes The Social Network.

Jay | is watching The Social Network for the second time tonight. (a few moments ago)

This is a repost from here. I won a shirt, so sue me. Haha

No surprises

When I realized that I left my laptop charger on top of a table inside a municipal gym somewhere in Davao del Sur, it was already too late. Or maybe not really that late; the vehicle could turn back, amidst the drizzle, and allow myself to realize once more how disoriented I am. I should be alarmed. I know a charger costs that much enough for me to surrender one more time my desire to buy a new pair rubber shoes, a pair that has eluded me for more than a year now, hell, like forever. How destitute, yes. But I wasn’t alarmed. And I am even more alarmed that I wasn’t surprised I wasn’t alarmed at all, enough to just shrug it off and tell my companion if she can just check with the people there tomorrow if they’ve seen the stupid charger. I checked at a computer store and found out that a universal laptop charger costs 2,700. The Adidas shoes I’ve been eyeing since 1939 costs 2,995. So there, goodbye Adidas. Waking up the next day, my sister pointed out that the stupid charger is sitting comfortably atop the DVD player, one of the most reliable, cheap things I’ve bought. In my mind - Oh - and I wasn’t surprised at all. My usual self would have attributed it to some craptastic supernatural shit. But I took it and put it in the bag as if it was some lost pen I’ve stopped searching and caring for.

I didn’t event surprise myself smoking a joint, something I haven’t done in, what, like an eternity? I had three joints (not marijuana, as the am-slang would usually put it) for the past two weeks and don’t plan to go back at lighting one, but lately I saw what used to be my favorite brand and felt an inexplicable itch. It’s as if the joint and my lips are meant to make some forbidden kind of love. It’s obscene I know, but again, didn’t bother myself at all. Is this from reading too much Ellis? Obviously not because the characters in an Ellis book are either usually drugged out, boozed out of fucked up. I am not some Clay Easton or Victor Ward (Glamorama I am reading now; Less Than Zero I just finished), and don’t aspire to be, but the disaffection kind of transcends from the pages of the book to my own version of fucked-up reality. A few days back, or maybe a week ago, I caught myself staring blankly at the wooden stairs. Or maybe I didn’t really catch myself at all. The distance between the steps, the spaces between the cacophonies of neighborhood sounds, are solar systems, eternities away. You know, it’s really kind of dangerous. The plunge into those unknown eternities can pull you into oblivion that you need to have some kind of earthly force to pull you back. It’s like spacing out from too much dope only ten times scarier, I think, though I haven’t really spaced out because of dope, though, for the nth time, I think it wouldn’t even surprise me at all.

The kids are alright.

Sometimes, I really think my eight-year old half-brother has this split personality. When his temper flies off, he becomes this uncontrollable dynamo of rage, sometimes spitting, wishing us dead, wishing he was never born, or that he was not born having us as elders. He says this with eyes that pierce like Damien the satanic child from the Omen series. I don’t know where he gets this stuff; I hope he doesn’t comprehend just how big and hurtful those words are. Just this afternoon, we had a nasty bout which turned me into the usual monster he thinks I am when I get angry. I spat the curse, which I always, always regret. I didn’t were coming off my eyes, it was just a useless moment of pouring out, a recital of an uncalled for litany of personal hurts for an unintended, inappropriate young and unmindful audience.

As do kids of their age, they get annoying and brutish. His brother, only one year older than he is, is also not an exception. They get into unapologetic fights that really wear me out. They are lovable kids. In fact, they are reasons why I still wanted to stay with my incapable father and stepmother-I want to make sure that at least they do good, even though influence from other gala kids outside and the miserable upbringing is hard to shake off. I love these kids even when they really push the button off me they think I’m just a useless kuya, who sometimes won’t give in to their little whims that I think are just too much for their age. I want to teach them prudence, good manners, which I think we three siblings have always had despite the consequences that would have made us do otherwise. I want to stress to them that we are poor, and that I’m just a struggling nobody wanting to prove something out of the misery of life, and that they should be thankful they have food to eat and that they are able to go to school, in uniforms and all, even though it’s just a public school that never really cared how much they learn, or if ever they learn at all. But then I realize, was I made to comprehend all these realities when I was their age?

I never had a kuya, and even up to now I still wonder what it must feel like having someone to be always at your rescue, rather than the one always being depended upon. It seems like childhood was light-years away. Maybe this is why I get so grumpy at their ADHD-ish behavior. For I cannot remember the time when I bullied other kids. I can’t remember the time that getting into trouble is always no big deal as getting an earful from mama or the proverbial belt-slap from my father. I and my 21-year old brother never really had a genuine bond with him after mama died ten years ago. Perhaps the falling away took some of the familial intimacy or tenderness. Not concern, because I always have been, on their welfare. Now sleeping, with teeth that have been unkempt, bodies frail and thin but surprisingly agile, especially when it comes to play, I feel sorry for being such an ass. How am I to rear kids their age? When not in their usual boxing bouts, the kids are sweet, just hard-headed. Which I think, I often am.

Must be the clouds in my eyes.

It was as if Elton John was breathing in my neck last week, like a devilish whisper the automatically sets your mind into some kind of trance. Daniel is leaving tonight on a plane/I can see the red tail lights heading for Spain. Oh now, I know where this is headed – Spain. You know, like a vamos por todos, etc. No, but honestly, you know those times that a song is just so stuck in your head it feels like the notes have been imprinted in your cranium? It’s not even a last song syndrome (LSS) but a last-sung syndrome. As I can remember, the last Elton John I heard before I was suddenly humming Daniel in a soundless jeep, was Your Song, the proverbial piece of my officemate who incessantly thinks he is Ewan McGregor looking for Sabine, while singing it in the videoke. But really, you know when it hounds you and follows you like dirt in your sweaty skin. As if I’m gonna get through with it already, when I traveled this week to an adjacent city, the oldies guitarist in one of the rooftop grills we ate at suddenly belch an oh-so familiar tune. God it looks like Daniel/Must be the clouds in my eyes. I dunno, I’m not really leaving for Spain right now, nor even flying on an airplane. Oh I know, I have to add this to my videoke repertoire next session. I think I may be getting it now. It’s really hits me probably on the leaving part. I’m like on a letting-go-moving-on mode right now. And waka waka couldn’t be any more timing. I think with the WC coinciding, things are looking good in the near future, not that I equate soccer with anything going on right now but maybe there is. Must be the clouds in my eyes.

Okay, fine.

It’s still a little tough to think about it, and I dunno why I give a fuck anyway because I stopped giving a damn about this game, since like, high school, or probably the time when it really did hurt, the time I accidentally made my left arm a support stick when I tripped which left a bony protrusion in my wrist up to this day, or the fact that I stopped giving a damn about boring PBA games which I religiously followed, or that I haven’t really given a damn about NBA in the first place because I think it should be named Global BA or African-American BA, but damn, that loss hurt. It hurt because they were so close. It’s tough to think because though (from my point of view) the greens were relatively ahead in most of the three quarters, the opponent was just an inch away from them. 83-79. It's a kind of loss that makes me think of these stupid conspiracy theories, eherm, ticket sales, eherm, usual b-ball entertainment. With the last two points from freethrows from someone who hasn’t really been on the floor for like five times throughout the finals, but is reportedly good at freethrows, plus he’s Slovenian. The Celtics really played a good game, it was a good game for them overall. Even though the boorish Lakers fans overpowering the Staples Center (homecourt advantage) refuse to acknowledge. Teamwork was there, and Rondo was smoking, that orchestrator. It was just bad with the fouls, especially during the last quarter. While dominating the first half, I had it in me that sense of doom. It’s like, oh my god, there will be this abrupt decline, the opponent is gonna have their revenge after being pummeled with shots and great defense. And it did happen in 4Q. I’ve always rooted for the underdog, well not really, in this case. The Celtics still hold the most number of championships, but with the Kobe team clinching this one, it’s now 17-16. Maybe because I’ve never really liked the Kobe team, and I feel like I’ve had enough fucking overblown superstar hype with KB. That Magic Johnson relinquishing the greatest player title must have blown Kobe’s liver, I bet. MVP, though given the Game 7’s picture, not at all. They should’ve handed it to Gasol, but no, the overblown superstar will have his fifth. I dunno but its like a play/act, you know. Overblown superstar not really getting into his game in the first half, being walled up by these Celtics guys and all (Scalabrine looks freakishly like Glen Hansard), missing his shots, then suddenly, perhaps the Magic of Johnson, in a crucial jumper he regained his might, rebounding like crazy, clinching his freethrows and there you have it, hero saves the day, and has his moment standing on one side of the court chairs wailing his hands having his James Cameron moment. Oh gosh, there, I think I’ve said my piece and I congratulate the Lakers fans, and Phil Jackson, what a tremendous man. Kobe, someday I'm gonna love you man, but I hate, hate, hate you now. It’s still a little tough, but I’ve moving on to catch the World Cup fever. Go Argentine!

Two Months.

Sometimes we feel the need to take note the absence, the loss. It comes all so sudden, the urgency to fill the gaps, as if it bridges the then and now by the inconsequential details that we pile up feverishly like stones and sand in the shore we know would crumble into unimportance amidst the roiling waves. But we do it anyway. We recall what has been, how it has been, but then realize again that there is nothing but loss – we lost all of it to time. But then, it also reveals ourselves, and we’d like to think we’ve triumphed somehow. But we know there will still be waves to brave, lapses to fill. And time, how pockets are sewn not to accommodate you like coins.

a critical analysis of political ads for the 2010 elections.

My colleague said that such idiocy in our surroundings does not merit something as haikus. We had a laugh reciting this, I for one, think that this is my first haikus. Well, yeah, haikus maybe too divine for such idiocy that have refused to be pummeled by reluctant intelligence, but there goes the irony, right?

A lengthy piece would be such a total waste of time, so here goes:

These fucking retards

Shameless as they are shameful

Philippines is doomed.

Syempre, di ko palalampasin 'to. Our education has now depended on chipipay bon-bon shakers.

Sex-bomb girls, grind, grind.

Probe the circles, look for eggs

And shake your bon-bons.

To cap it all up, sabay-sabay: Shade, shade, AWWWW!

Oscar 2010 roundup

Last year, it was a couple of hours before I did my usual Oscar roundup. I dunno, it’s the usual cramming, gets me on my nerves. Jolt energy to my fingers. And apparently, I seem to still give a shit about this prognostication. Anyway, let’s get this done and over with. The 2010 Oscars offers a huge format change. The Academy will choose a Best Picture from 10 nominees, something that has not been done since the 30s or 40s. We have to expect something new each year, which began last year, all in the name of ratings. People don’t gather around their boob tubes to watch stupid award shows anymore unless they see someone or something familiar. Everybody’s a sucker for Brangelina. It’s what ups the ratings.

Coming up with 10 seems to make matters complicated and difficult for the AMPAS, but with this year’s race, it actually isn’t. Make it 20, it wouldn’t matter too, because it’s always been the pimpin’. Let’s start with the three likelihoods. I threw in Inglorious Basterds for the big smackdown between Avatar and The Hurt Locker, because it has its precursor, namely the SAG. There are a lot of actors in the Academy, and the Basterds won ensemble. That’s still a lot to consider. Numerically though, it’s The Hurt Locker’s to lose, gunning down, PGA, DGA and the rest of the major precursors. Avatar, well, because it’s the biggest in whatever. Talk about grandiosity, Mr. Cameron. The Globes also gave it a boost. You have hubby and ex-wife battling it out for director. So that’s a big marketing pitch already. I would like to give it to Tarantino, deservedly so, but I wouldn’t hurt if its Kathryn Bigelow. Shaming the opposite in a male-dominated genre is big enough a feat. Plus The Hurt Locker is really intense. Wonderfully lensed and acted as well, so you’ve got Jeremy Renner there. Saw it early last year so I didn’t wonder.

I still wish it would be Carey. For toppling Emma Thompson in that unforgettable scene, I’d give it to her. But it looks like Sandra written all over. Meryl should not have been nominated to save her from this horrendous crime, should Sandra win. Sandra definitely has the ace. She made history by becoming the only actress to really score big at the box office. That could clinch the gold. It’s not even the acting, she was much better in Crash.

It’s also Jeff’s to lose. It would really hurt if it’s given to say Colin Firth who does some really fine acting from among the crop this year. But Jeff in Crazy Heart is so strong, such an affecting performance, which I saw only yesterday and glad that I did. Chrissakes, let’s give it to the dude.

The supports are pretty much cut out to Mo’Nique and Christoph Waltz. Man, I can’t get over that amusing Nazi, and that opening scene, and the “bingo” scene, and every scene he inhabits. And I was terrified by Mo’Nique’s perferformance, the last scene was way up the top of the league. The supports have been inclined much towards the villainous recently, with Javier Bardem the other year.

I’m really interested in seeing the foreign film noms, which are so inaccessibly hard in the “popular” market. I can’t make a prediction, but it looks intense, base on the trailers alone. The techs are pretty much The Hurt Locker’s or Avatar’s, having at least 9 noms. Up in the Air, which was a frontrunner way back when, would I guess settle for an adapted, though I’d really, really want Nick Hornby’s adaptation of An Education to win. If Quentin’s not gonna go up for the Director nod, I’m sure he’ll be up there for the original screenplay. It better be or I’ll smash some Nazi heads, or carve them ala-Aldo Raine.