The Paostian Deal

Watch until the very last second and see Simon Baker's cute smile!

And being damn happy about it. Transgender Thomas Beastie, who was once this:

before becoming this:
is now a happy mom... dad... mom-dad of a baby girl. And I keep spending my life wondering about C-sections and hating science. (Photos from Hollywood Grind.)

The summer + tropical country + over-population heat is murdering my cells and I entirely can’t be any slower.

This happened the other week, when I woke up to a very intriguing… dawn. Wait, is 4AM dawn or is it midnight doing overtime? Anyway, cuckoo, I was supposed to wake up and get up that early because I had an early day at work. More than it being a Monday doesn’t make it peculiarly something else, it’s how I awoke that made it intriguing. You see I woke up to a dream… about Judy Ann Santos. I know. Weird. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve no real problem with that actress-celebrity. But WTF was she doing in my dream? The last time I talked to that woman in person was about 10 months ago. And we were talking about bread. Apparently this is how delayed my subconscious has become: Interact now, remember a decade later.

Anyway, the dream. Juday and I were in a wash-slash-dressing room and we were washing our faces. Then we talked about cosmetics, facial care and—wait for it—how she admires my skin. In that dream itself I knew I was dreaming. Then the follow-through: I turned on the tube to have company in the breakfast table. Then. I saw. What was on. Ghostrider. A.k.a. Nicolas Cage At 439: Hollywood Goes Botox-Free.

What in the world could this mean? Dream Moods tries to help me makes sense of that morning:

To see one’s face in a dream, says the site, means you’re hiding the real you from other people. Hmm. But if do let out my “true self”, then the world will be less, less, LESS populated what with me taking good care of all the idiots messing with my nerves—including smokers getting sick because of their hobby and complaining about it. Not bad a message. On the other hand, it could also mean your “willingness to deal with problems in your life.” Hell yeah, I am very much willing. Truck exhausts, be prepared.

Water symbolizes life. If you’re “splashed by it” in your dream, it shows your need to be revitalized and be more expressive. I am hell out of the current shtint—shit stint—at work right now. Check. I have told the powers-that-would about it. Check. They are working with me to fix it. Bullcrap.

A woman in your dream, DM continues, signifies “nurturance, passivity, caring nature, and love. It refers to your own female aspects…” I knew it. It’s the estrogen. And everybody else keeps denying it. Oh well. On the other hand, it can also mean temptation and guilt. O-kay. Yet I’m no Eve—for I’d have taken that reptile home as a pet instead of playing hypocrite.

To see Judy Ann Santos in your dream means you’re having a soap opera overload. But Beauty & the Geek is so addictive, and Philippine news always catches me in the morning!

To see your reflection in the mirror means you’re mulling self-perception. Guilty. I’m too nice: Maybe I should just shoot dog owners in the village regularly-losing-their-pets-and-finding-them-in-our-laundry-area and get on with our blasted lives.

Washing one’s self means pride on “social life and personal endeavors.” HOGWASH. Five days a week I rot in an UN-air conditioned office in the middle of a rice field only moss can grow on, play Tea Party with officemates who obviously hate one another, then almost never see Friends because they just want to stay in on weekends. When your colegiala-beyond-repair sisters’ OhMyGod! Gang pay your house a pest visit. Also that dream element could mean getting rid of “unhappy experiences or emotions in life.” Now there’s a perpetual job.

So what of the follow-through? I certainly don’t fancy Nicolas Cage—not that I fancy Judy Ann either, sicko. Only one message I could think of: There’s always a nightmare after every dream.

Thanks to Ras, a tri-athlete hopeful who also loves dark places, for tugging at my sleeve on this. And Sydney, Australia.

Here's a very nice stint. On March 29, 20 countries, including the Philippines, will turn off their lights from 8 to 9PM. It's called Earth Hour 2008. It's self-imposed regression to the Ice Age and it couldn't get any more fabulous.

It's to reduce our impact on global warming. Pause iTunes for a minute and learn:


March 29, Dealers. 8PM. One hour. Get in touch with your dark side--ONLY literally, smart ass. For Mum Nature.

And feel free to lock the front doors and windows while you're at it.

The Vatican lists new sins to pay for. It highlights offenses against Mother Earth. I see galactic bans on Sarah Geronimo "songs". Woohoooooooo!

Plus, in the middle of the ruckus that is the Janina "Aha-ha-ha" San Miguel headliner, my favorite Melanie Marquez finally butts in. (The clip has horrible images, just pay attention to the audio.)

THEN, when I twirled on my storeroom of a desk, I saw this:


I knew this was going to be a fun week. :-D

... everybody seems to screw their priorities. Too many protests, too long squabbles and too much politicking only makes a government uglier.

Enough bickering, sirs and ma'ams, the residents of Eastern Samar could really use MORE help right now. Copied this from So far, So Good, as pointed by Ederic:

Sigh. I give up. FINE! Pester my mailbox all you want! (Why am I laughing?)

From a spam mail from Canadian Pharmacy:

For a man riding alone over the rough forest paths. Pardner
has chosen camp out of earshot, you feel vous soit en aide!
(you swear by the faith which is her own fau't, entirely
she has refused very to cicero his great work de lingua
latino. In might even now repay the industry of some keen
the gaps and down into the trench. If anything, 3, close
together, and which concealed the infernal it is worse,
said sir george, bitterly. Scarce of these ideas to certain
minds is such that no to hastinapura with speed carrying
that wealth great energy, apava, o mightyarmed king, seeing
in ignorance, and which is productive of misery, readeth
this story of the birth of skanda, attaineth to shed tears
in wrath. Addressing king uparichara.

Hastinapura! Apava! UPARICHARA!

Nothing like WWW bloopers to perk up your afternoon.

---

Pete Rahon, a Pinoy currently staying in Korea, believes that "Filipinos are for real multi-lingual..." And I don't think anyone should contest, what with the Po-Opo (Hello po! Kumusta po? Ay, po, opo, ako po nga po 'yun po!), Me-U (Eat n b u? Eat me n rn e!) and the Ishuh a.k.a. Dumb Colegiala (Hello? Like, duh! Ano buh'ng shinabi kuh sha'yuh? 'Di buh shabi kuh you pick me up at 8? Sheven pa lang ah! You're sho shtupid ta-luh-gaaaa-uh!) Movements have taken leads among the Tongues spoken in the Philippines. (No, please don't try to get that last example. It may be strangely enjoyable, but it's fatal especially if you're non-innate.)

What we have, fortunately, is perhaps a new slang for "multi-lingual", courtesy of an online survey. It's smarter and less... rigid and scientific--hip, if the young-in-you likes:

Tagalong. We can't be certain, but perhaps there was no Filipino--or an actual linguist--among the surveyors to check for errors while they were drafting the thing. Or it's simply a misspelled word in an 8-year old survey. Or maybe there was an "expert", only that his knowledge stems from a traumatic experience in exhaustive Pilipino/Tagalog translations:

Désolé.
Patawarin mo ako.

Amigo!
Hoy pare, kumusta? Saan ang inuman? May chiks?

How dare you!
Ang kapal ng mukha mo'ng walanghiyang hayup kaaaaah!

Never forget the h.

One more good thing about the word is that it also connotes a most positive trait among one of the happiest people on Earth: the warm, forever welcoming camaraderie. Tag. Along. Filipinos are highly adaptable on one side and very much open on the other (which is a good thing, IF we're talking about taking in Change to improve lives). This leads to impeccably instant friendship no matter where either sprouted from. Sit with a Filipino for two hours then the only thing that would lack later is a blood compact--and you were only talking about peanut butter. Or Gretchen Barretto. Tag along. Very convenient too, if you think about it: Watch local shows and witness eternal remakes. Go to the local movies and you can occasionally feast on Filipinized Hollywood.

Tagalong. Reality is one smart ass.

Grabbed those from Stylehive. They're pegs from an ad campaign by Belgian fashion designer Diane von Fürstenberg who became American in 2002, a year after she married media Goliath Barry Diller. I don't know her, but supposedly it's her grand comeback after the re-launch of her clothing line in 1997. The images simply looks pretty, especially on the white space here. Joining her in the campaign--which can be called cost-cutting when discussed here in Manila--are French artist François-Marie Banier, Russian model Natalia Vodianova and American advertiser David Lipman whose comment on the DVF-Banier project I find so anti-Adobe but nice altogether:

"In this world of plastic surgery, with so many images in magazines that are so retouched, to go in the opposite direction and show the soul of a woman is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my career. It's aggressive and strong in the most elegant way."

After a writer's strike, that can potentially spark a... make-HOLD-up. (Boink!) Imagine the extra space in photoshoots... and three more pizza boxes!

Click on any pic to see more preview of DVF's campaign. (I'd LOVE to write with a paintbrush.) And don't miss the video! It has a strangely-nice track like a mix of Amelie, Poltergeist and The Others that's somewhere between haunting and calming.

And the Xio is back.

Not with his mind, though...

But with magazine covers!

The Xio 9 miles away from the monitor: "Is that monster from Cloverfield driving that box/shuttle thingy?"

And I thought my lovelife was eerie.

Fantastic photos and more secrets of the American ways here.