The Paostian Deal

It's been ages since my last trip to the cinemas. So even with "ang pula na ng mga mata mo kulang ka sa tulog" red eyes and feet exhausted from window shopping, I wholeheartedly grabbed the now-elusive opportunity to watch a movie when it waved at me; life is short. I was debating with myself and my empty head which to pick between Big Stan and Death Race. While the ticket lady was comparing the number of available seats for both flicks, I felt a subtly moving force... I was too tired to bother looking for the source of the strange... feeling. Stan had won my shallow being and I was handing out a crisp bill when suddenly:

"Hoy, ano ba? Ano'ng oras pa kayo aalis diyan sa Quezon City? Nandito na kami sa Makati, ang tatagal niyo! (What time do you plan to leave Quezon City? We're already here in Makati, slowpokes!)" My soul was there and then filled with surprising energy, the likes of which I only get from pizza, 13th month pay and James McAvoy.

Annabelle Rama was right beside me.

DEFINE STARSTRUCK. Hello! Not only is she among my favorite TV personality nowadays, but she's also my most super favoritest TV personality nowadays! In a split second my arm halted for a bit and with half-lives of their own my brain overruled me and my mouth blurted, "One ticket for For The First Time, 5:40." Apparently, my idol has that dissecting effect on me; that's how fabulously powerful she is. Anyway I was also planning to see that flick, for patriotism, her presence simply pushed me to do it now.

Pinoy movies since the 90's has always been more about make-up and physical projection than stories and actual acting performances. Especially in this case, with two of the local entertainment industry's dynasty offsprings at play—KC Concepcion and Richard Gutierrez—the default settings is just like that. However, I now, um... bend, corrected: For The First Time—after a looong time in Filipino movies—proved that some "golden children" do ACTUALLY work for and deserve their family's supposed fame. And let me just say now for clarity that we are NOT talking about a Gutierrez. KC has jumpstarted, fastracked and now almost done it: own the Filipino (sucker) showbiz devotee.

The biggest danger now for her—as with other dynasty babies—is to become her predecessor, her mother. First let's describe the movie this way: FTFT is an e-p-i-c divided into two parts, the first half being a series of Bubble Gang skits helmed by the rockstar Candy Pangilinan and the other half bearing Maalaala Mo Kaya's aura via, of course, KC and her support Richard. (What can we say? The stars' mother networks perpetually want IN on EVERYTHING.) FTFT had a fairly acceptable story enough to keep you from regretting that popcorn bucket. Given that, and following the premise opening the fifth paragraph of this post, we can now say the flick had its fate naturally relying on the acting "prowess" of its cast. Which only half of them satisfactorily delivered, but nobody really noticed save for the main course: Sharon Cuneta's firstborn.

Philip Salvador needs to step away from the tensed-face technic patented by Maricel Soriano. Pilar Pilapil should stay just as fabulous. TJ Trinidad needs to confess. Waaay overdue Richard needs to learn acting. And his daddy Eddie to make real films like all veterans should and for beefcakes stop piggybacking on his kids. CANDY PANGILINAN ROCKS. Denise Laurel needs to shut up, and Karla Humphries to stay away from face powder. Gee Ann Abrahan, Beatriz Saw and Bruce Quebral need to disappear, NOW. Bubbles Paraiso needs to redirect herself and her entire life to more useful things away from filmmaking. KC needs to review mommy's entire filmography and learn to AVOID EMULATING SHARON CUNETA.

She gave an applaudable performance in For The First Time. But some Sharon-ness just reeked off the big screen and it was a bit tiring.

But what do I really know. Or care. I saw a movie with my idol and that's fabulously enap.

I've been commuting for over a decade now and I can almost say I had experienced all there is to be gotten from riding public utility vehicles. Experienced, not necessarily accepted.

I understand that as high-thinking and ridiculously emotional creatures most of us can not ever resist the urge to bug an ear. There is the constant need to speak and the must to ensure that what we say fall on an ear whether it's functioning or not... We are so compelled by this annoyingly fascinating characteristic that oftentimes it's a speak-or-die situation. But now I ask you:

Why perform sandwich conversations in PUJs?

You know, talk to your mate inside a moving jeepney which is absolutely normal and okay—only it's also too annoying for that total stranger sitting between the two of you.

I would have lavished in the experienced had it been Josh Hartnett to my right side and George Clooney to my left, exchanging views on what's comfy wear for them when sleeping at night, or maybe even shoe sizes. But if it's two beyond-desperate housewives yapping about their daughters' menstrual cycles or dog fleas, then for goodness sake, people, spare me from that sandwich.

I know I know I KNOW. I haven't mastered yet this new timetable I'm shouldering; thought I'd have after a month but apparently doing roundtrips to Neptune on an almost daily basis isn't as easy to absorb as dust along EDSA.

Speaking of which, question: Do belts vibrate by themselves? I mean, more locally, do buckles... pulsate? I momentarily went sardines-mode back at an MRT trip an hour ago and while I was squashed and sweating and listening to grandma Meryl's Mamma Mia rendition and helplessly abusing my neck looking in all directions to the point of sprain striving to avoid (a) damp armpits, (b) bad breath and (c) damp armpits and bad breat—pant—I swear: I felt some twitching against my left arm from something SOLID presumably the belt of another passenger.

Is this what fantasy writers call, living metal?

Be dashing back later.

Take note of that dot.

This is not philosophizing. Neither, preaching. I was simply pissed at some idiot who kept uttering “Nothing is perfect” for the duration of a miserable 2-hour traffic jam. So I got me some peanuts, stared at some cute passengers waiting for buses on the shed, and struggled to keep myself from throwing my plus-size seatmate at the moron.

Then I tried to use what's left of my microscopic brain. It sounds highly rewarding, but due to natural human disbelief and basic idiocy, it goes on reverse and bars us to experience the very thing itself.

I'll keep this short, as I'm not as intelligent as theorem writers (and according to Mr Teacher, I nobody knew that “Nothing is perfect”. That dead pube.). And yes this is a sorta-disclaimer too.
Now. I see “perfect” as a mere limiter, its concept acting like cancer infesting our cores. It is originally a positive idea, almost always promising the best of light emotions to anyone who would aspire for it. Yet today perfection appears as a huge, immovable boulder blocking our systems. Per. Feck. Shun. Today I look at that word as an ironically debilitating concept: It stops us from feeling happy. Its “impossibility” sets us back... or sends us in all other directions but still with the same end. It forbids us from acknowledging happiness.


But that is exactly the point: People DO get contented. But at that second when “Nothing is perfect” begins ringing in our senses, that's when we fail:

I get a free piece of my favorite donut. That's perfect! And I eat it with gusto (i.e. in three seconds flat—yes I'm a 5-foot monster). But if I start wanting ANOTHER free donut, the experience now becomes trash. I missed that point where I was happy with my free bread. It was perfect but now I'm stupidly back to nothing but, more unfortunately, greed. I missed perfection when it was right in front of me (glazed and all). There was perfection but now I'm unconsciously reminding myself that “nothing is perfect.”

What if it's already there? What if inside we already feel... satisfied? Things do become perfect but we let our jaded principles dismiss them in a split second and push us to want more...

There is perfection. It's happiness. Subjective as that emotion is, in our raw states it still means completely the same and gets us off the same way. It's a fleeting thing but come on, if we believe “nothing is perfect” then surely in our world “nothing comes for free” as well. What's a challenge every once in a while.

When speaking of perfection one may dream of spotless ecstasy or rally for eternal euphoria, but really,

Does it get any better than happiness?