The Paostian Deal

Celebrate the closing year one last time—its ups, downs and everything in-between. Know that 2009 will be better, as each new year should be. Now it's only just that we welcome it with fresh faces, zero credit balances, patched-up differences, lighter backpacks...

Give a minute and think... or feel:

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

I don't really do this tag thingy, but this pretty lady has been very nice to me that I shall now mirror her niceness and—maybe just this once—post this 'ex' Q&A tag. Quite timely, too, if I may kick. Keep blogging, Vannie. :-)

He says...Why did you let me go?

He says... Can I win you back?

He says... But I am very much happy with you back then.

He says...I still love you.

He says...When did we last talk?

He says... Can you go out with me?

He says... Hey, can i give you/ask for a ride?

He says... Were you able to move on?

He says... I regret losing you.

He says... My parents do not like you.

He says... You have changed.

The other day, I awoke to a very disturbing phenomenon albeit its being commonplace in the freak show that is my life.

My Colegiala beyond repair sister #2 on the phone. To relive the horror:


I swear. Would've been clearer if this post came with some audio effects to show the unifying intonation in that verbal pingpong. The world presents a bajillion questions for its youth and, apparently, my sister has all of them. And here I'd been worried about my own personal confusions, when my sister isn't even sure what her name is.

This happened on a lazy afternoon. One that I waited for for a well deserved power nap which I wish lasted for a few minutes longer... enough to keep myself in the dark about my poor sister's questions... I wish I could help her get answers, but sadly thinking of pseudonyms takes all of my remaining energy. Plus I'm too busy chanting my new affirmation:

I love my sister, I love my sister, I freaking love. My sister.

Save the colonialism plaguing the nation for all eternity, has this country become more confused to the point of hilarity as well? I'd like to pitch in and say no to a senile country:

I shall never wear polo to a mall again. Ever.

Passengers
Anne Hathaway, Patrick Wilson, Andre Braugher, Clea DuVall, Dianne Wiest
Director Rodrigo Garcia
Writer Ronnie Christensen


Sadly this plane crashed straight into the "Whaaaat?" category. Not only was it a bit dragging, but disappointingly predictable too. Even when the story spun out of control you could still pinpoint how, when, where and with what dialogues the mess would be resolved. The only mystery that lingered was, "How the hell does Anne do her eye makeup?" My mum Nicole Kidman's version remains more fabulous. But at least the what-really-happened scenes in Passengers was scary enough—for aviophobics, that is. My twin sister Anne was the only lovable thing in the entire 90 minutes. And Patrick's eyes.



The Women
Meg Ryan, Annette Bening, Debra Messing, Eva Mendes, Jada Pinkett Smith, Bette Midler, Candice Bergen
Director and 2008 Screenwriter Diane English
From the play version of Clare Boothe Luce and 1939 screenplay of Anita Loos and Jane Murfin


The admirable point with this strictly estrogen-only flick was that it stuck to its original idea: women and "real beauty." Then again, if I were to use the silver screen as part of a campaign for a bath soap I'd not forget that it's still a movie and a skit-ish presentation of scenes isn't "real beauty" for your ticket's worth. It was almost like staring at a corkboard slaughtered with Post-its of the entire color spectrum. Well at least all the eye bag action in this Women was justified with that effing "real beauty" gig. I guess. That, but NOT how Debra Messing kept channeling Will & Grace the whole time.



Madagascar 2: Escape to Africa
Voice actors Ben Stiller, Chris Rock, Jada Pinkett Smith, David Schwimmer, Sacha Baron Cohen, Bernie Mac, Will i Am, Alec Baldwin, Cedric the Entertainer, Andy Richter
Directors Eric Darnell, Tom McGrath
Writer Ethan Cohen



What was MTRCB thinking, rating this movie General Patronage? Not only did Madagascar 2 escape to Africa, it also zoomed almost past PG-13 with all the adult humor splashed all over. Uh, "the union wants maternity leave"? Animals dating? A lion beating an old woman crazy? "Moto moto means hot hot"? JULIEN?? Thanks to flicks like these we can expect a smarter-ass generation of youth taking over in a decade. FUN!

They keep... slipping.

[ INSERT HUGE SMUG-LEY HERE ] and yes I'm talking particularly to you, you fat wannabe scum shit. I know you're reading this.

Bloat with envy, booger. Boo-hoo.

Only Respect, not a withered social life, not a laughable ambition, and most definitely

NOT a rotting stack of cellulite,

begets respect.

Think not what more you can give your underpaying, abusive company; rather what more you can pilfer from the bundy clock.


[ smiley ]

What's with power and why are we so afraid of it, when we confidently know we won't abuse it? Perfection may not exist, but I remain faithful that there are capable people who deserve more to be in power rather than doubtful passivity; if I may coin a term, that'd be blind fear, and it's synonymous to pointless. I am not one of them capable creatures, unfortunately, but I believe I have a friend who is.

Let's call her Obachma. And I hope she's reading this, because this will probably be one of the last few times I shall tell her this fact before I become an enemy:

You can do this.

And while I'm momentarily sharing in the Obamania happening in spots all over the globe—it's like a pre-Christmas Christmas atmosphere out there—I'd like to quote the new U.S. President in his victory speech and hope Obachma and a few more friends pick up some inspiration:

Quantum of Solace
Daniel Craig, Olga Kurylenko, Judi Dench, Mathieu Amalric
Directed by Marc Forster; Written by Paul Haggis, Neal Purvis and Robert Wade

It was rather swift, but this 007 did manage a grand hour of realistic fist fights, amazing stunts, icky corpses, touching reunions and fabulous tailored wear. Or is that statement simply too much excitement over some tricky bridge to a promising Part 3? Anyhoo, divine hair styling for Daniel and Judi too!

City of Ember
Harry Treadaway, Tim Robbins, Bill Murray, Saoirse Ronan
Directed by Gil Kenan; Screenplay by Caroline Thompson

I'm not really sure what Walden Pictures had in mind putting together a cast whose names you can't pronounce without a degree in tongue twisting—that's "Sir-sha" Ronan for you—only to lead and lose you into a big world of vagueness. When a massive blackout hit the City of Ember into total darkness, it sure felt more preferred not to have the lights come back on.



Nights in Rodanthe
Diane Lane, Richard Gere, Viola Davis
Directed by George Wolfe; Screenplay by Ann Peacock and John Romano

It was actually a hit at "lonely and cheating wives:" Flirting men look sexy no matter their age; women are simply, comical. Plus they appear to regress to their teens at the tiniest interest in extramarital affairs. Acting was very good, but the Gere-Lane tandem didn't really seem right... Story was quite predictable, but it had a nice ending. Though I still wish they snuck in Gavin Rossdale's "Love Remains The Same" somewhere in the cuts.



Max Payne
Mark Wahlberg, Mila Kunis, Nelly Furtado, Olga Kurylenko
Directed by John Moore; Screenplay by Beau Thorne

A production design dollhouse which costumes were grander than the plot itself. And again: Mark Wahlberg was misplaced. He should really stop accepting roles entailing scenes of drama or any other involving strong emotions. That or he enrolls in speech and drama classes.



Eagle Eye
Shia LaBeouf, Michelle Monaghan, Rosario Dawson
Directed by D.J. Caruso; Screenplay by John Glenn, Travis Wright, Hillary Seitz and Dan McDermott

Chase scenes were too polished they were almost synonymous to Lea Salonga's fabulous singing. That and a disappointing ending stained what could have been a nice feather to LaBeouf's kiddy hat. Oh, yes: Shia is still a boy.



Body of Lies
Leonardo DiCaprio, Russell Crowe, Mark Strong
Directed by Ridley Scott; Screenplay by William Monahan

Very admirable how the writers bravely presented in such an expensive manner their pessimism on the world crisis that is war. While it is a non-girl flick, ultimately it also became a showdown on who pulled off the better botox: DiCaprio, or Crowe?



The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor
Jet Li, Brendan Fraser, John Hannah, Michelle Yeoh, Luke Ford, Maria Bello
Directed by Rob Cohen; Written by Alfred Gough and Miles Millar

This is Brendan's signature... everything, I get that (but gawd all his yelling was so... ugh!). But pretty please, we don't need any more boring has-beens: Jim Carrey currently owns that department. Hurray for Jet Li, boo for Maria Bello. Half-yum for Luke Ford.



Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2
Alexis Bledel, America Ferrera, Blake Lively, Amber Tamblyn
Directed by Sanaa Hamri; Screenplay by Elizabeth Chandler

That goddamn pants suffered the Sequel Syndrome almost miserably. Everything felt too fast it looked like the makers only wanted to get the whole Traveling Pants legend done and over with; they kept giving AND fixing ALL dilemma of all four leads and the effort was quite obvious that they seem to had forgotten it was a movie and not an HBO mini-series. (Nor a horror flick: Somebody give Alexis Bledel blood transfusion, quick! Or better yet, suck a few pints from Ugly Betty there already!) Props to America and Amber, but Part 1 is still way lovelier.



Tropic Thunder
Robert Downey Jr., Ben Stiller, Jack Black, Tom Cruise, Brandon Jackson
Directed by Ben Stiller; Screenplay by Ben Stiller, Justin Theroux and Ethan Cohen

This wasn't a movie. This was a long exercise for your decision-making skills: Do I like it, or not? Do I laugh, or not? Do I know research on Scientology, or what? Interesting opening sequence, though.



Igor
Voices led by John Cusack, Molly Shannon, Jennifer Coolidge, Steve Buscemi, Sean Hayes, John Cleese
Directed by Anthony Leondis; Written by Chris McKenna

Animators for film have yet to name the god among themselves, and sadly those behind this one seemed to lag. "What poorly-dubbed telenovela is this?" ran in my head long after I finished my popcorn. Oh well. I guess it's the price for giving up childhood in exchange for coffee and porn: You will never enjoy things simply for their cuteness ever again.

Somebody sent me a "Which angel are you? request" in Facebook. I haven't done anything to it yet but it significantly intrigues me. I dunno, do tell me, was I supposed to laugh?


---

Local news reporters seriously need a new subject to tackle, really really really, especially with showbiz personalities. "TV and print supermodel shares hard experiences as family breadwinner." Like the rest of creation have it easy while she on the other hand needs to wear designer clothes and pout to earn money. To buy make-up and go to it's-not-Bora-it's-Boracay. Okay. How about this. "Overworked, underpaid mutt shares insanely unthinkable times striving not to roll eyes at headlines like that." Or maybe, just maybe, "Crap."


---

Why do we talk that way? Like we need a couple more sentences to clear our point. Look, there it is: "like!" How come we always try to define stuff by like-ning them to other things? I'm not complaining, because I also do it all the time. "You irritate me. Like, I get itchy all over by the mere sight of you. Like, I wanna barf on your face if you don't leave now." It's just weird, that we cannot seem to be sure of things outside the convenience of back-ups of sorts, like we are to be basically doubted if we don't offer an alternate description, like we always need second proofs to everything... And there it is again! Crazy. Is this century that cluttered already? Or is nothing simply, like, original, anymore?


---

Isn't it pathetic that my favorite Holidays song is "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas?" I dunno. Its melody always calms me down, especially when I'm about to show my heels up-close to another entity trying my nerves. There's even this weird version that would surely fit well in a bed scene for Scorpio Nights X... Anyway, I do that every time, actually, listening to those songs to pacify my hopeless barbaric nature, keeping me away from prison. Yes I'm a dwarf, uneducated bull. Too bad an iPod can only run for so long while the populations of dimwits biking on sidewalks and worms mistaking the moviehouse for a confessional keep growing by the second.


---

I just finished Twilight and I never felt more pressured my entire life. I wanted to experience the book first before seeing my ex Robert Pattinson's movie version. The novel is romantic, alright, nostalgic even. But up until now it's still only the classic love story that should never stay long in the hands of future colegialas-beyond-repair: A needy slut and a smug, what did Stephenie Meyer call it, "forgotten Adonis." But I think I will love Alice Cullen in the future.


---

Then I read in a magazine that our bodies naturally gain a pound each year. More than obesity, botany sent chills down my spine: So we're actually like trees, annually gaining a ring over the old wood? Ohmygoodness what about my jeans!


---

Red alert: the "metrosexual" virus is evolving into a stronger strain and more and more confused souls are now posting nude, be-muscled photos in Friendster. I mean, What. The. Apparently, assuming the form of the Incredible Hulk—plus emulating the look of an angry, possessed Linda Blair, squinting so hard it almost hurts the beholder's nose; think Triple H pouting a la Tyra Banks—provides a more appealing cover-up for all the inner Pride. And a better chance to snag a weekly one-night stand. With a hyperacidic Dave Batista grinning like Angelina Jolie. To each his own, forever, but come on, gUys, it's really very hard to watch... and keep puking.


---

All I know, is that I'm a headturner. I turn heads away. Seriously. Even random commuters' kids stare at me on the streets and I could read the curiosity in their eyes as if they were desperately trying to understand how frogs could be so big. What saddened me more, honestly, is that repulsive as I may be nobody still invited me to their costume party this Halloween when I could have saved lots on the outfit! As in, zero-expense... well maybe except cab fare. Darn.


---

Fab hi's to Vera, GrannyMomCha, Bachlightyear, Glenn, Sweet Taray, Brownman Cat, Señor Helj, Splice, Jojitah and everybody else who's kept wasting time visiting this space despite the void. THANK YOU and... here I am. :]

As if global warming isn't enough migraine already.

I come in peace, men, I Come. In Peace.


--

Btw, an update... Well, not really an Update. More like, an announcement of sorts, something I feel like making so as to make it official at least to myself and my fans:

I'm on a diet.

I like everything 9 and all its multiples, but 26 is like my final cut before I start panicking for my skinny jeans. Yes, Sweet Taray, it's for real.

I haven't exactly realized how long I'd been away from this poor space until I was moronically pressing "G" in an elevator while I was on the ground floor. I was alone but I still secretly wished security cameras weren't invented—because I even actually got upset when the doors wouldn't close and I stupidly kept hammering "G" before I came to my senses... then laughed at myself.

Which is self-explanatory at best, the laughing-at-self part. In fact it seems to be the only valid reaction on describing how some of the most ridiculously ambitious of us have been living their lives...

In college, I was fortunate enough to have worked for the official school publication. Had I not been "discovered" by a Literature instructor who sidelined as a band vocalist every other night, encouraged by a fabulous senior named Karen who I wish had stopped smoking by now, and trained by a very good media practitioner who loves his portraits taken, I wouldn't have been able to resurrect the paper that was in limbo for about six years. And it was a great experience indeed, especially because I worked with an amazing group of colleagues who eventually became my Friends. Yet the most memorable part of it all was during my last year with the campus paper: when I lost almost everything while the publication continued to regain its glory.

One time, another senior, and a friend, named Daniel, scoffed when I told him about my plans for the paper. Had he not been leading us well in our dance group back then I would have let him taste my white sneakers which I wore every Wednesday. "Yeah, good luck with that," was his unbelieving, mocking remark. Weeks later the paper was coming out regularly, with the school rector and the rest of the campus admittedly awaiting our opinion spread every issue... My good friend Daniel passed away in an unfair crime two years ago. But I'm sure he's sorry he doubted the paper's ability to stand up strong again—and very much happy with the simple feat of his former "apprentice."

But the other side of that story was not at all bright. Daniel wasn't alone when he ridiculed my dream... That was why I allowed myself to drop everything else if only to prove them wrong. Of course I succeeded! But at the expense of, yeah, "everything else." In one of my final columns before graduation, our adviser allowed us to go a bit all the way and write our minds, so I penned:


Sadly I didn't get even a Pulitzer citation for that, or an Oscar nomination, let alone an induction to the Drama Queen Cheesiness Hall of Shame. Nonetheless a gloomier truth now mocks me: It is happening again.

But in a grander, more "real" scale, if you must, with all the minimum pay action going on around us. I'm 25, my college paper days behind me, but it's like I'm hearing Daniel's words again: "Good luck with that." Good luck with life, is more like it, right, Danes? This isn't entirely regret. I'm merely sharing my embarrassing frustration cloaked in denial disguised as content (yeah if that's not hidden enough then I dunno what is. Boink.) before I implode and get unnecessary expenses at the office—kindergarten kids posing as employees and managers—whacked.

Life today offers many opportunities for victory as well as immeasurable obstacles to achieve success. On the other hand it isn't absolutely true that putting "balance" in your life is the way to go... Never has, never will. Something always has to give if you want to reach a finish line while it's still in your itinerary. Unless of course you're a drug-prostitution-smuggling-gambling lord with immediate kins holding positions in at least 13 national governments per continent. Or you're Manny Pacquiao.

Life today will keep demanding that you push and push forward no matter what you lose. Time waits for no man, blah, blah, blah. Fine, call me greedy, but please don't pose as a saint: You keep slow but steady so everybody's birthdays and anniversaries stick do your head like leeches, you can lose your dream; you fight like hell for your dream, but you will temporarily—but dangerously—put your personal life on hold.

Which downfall are you willing to risk?

Missing the twisties.

At a grocery store.

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?

In a shuttle ride.

At a grocery store.










Strolled away...

In life today, the three hardest things to pull from the diaphragm are, by hierarchy:


No kidding. And they even sound like one big compound sentence. These three modern very-realities almost always get bashed by irony and end up unspoken, or even being thought of—at all. Yes there are a lot of idealist girl-power movements and tra-la-la groupies rallying for “great, fabulous, wonderfully amazing singlehood”; but really, can the mushier of the sexes keep zzz-ing each night knowing that come morning she remains the “single, needy, stubbornly in-denial loner”? Or when all the machismo and playboy chauvinism finally gets boring, and biceps begin to sag, eww, will Adam’s ally still neglect the fact that he does want to settle down with The One, after all?

Yet on the other side of shit: After several or even just a few years of marriage, when the promise of a highfalutin happily-ever-after had gotten blurrier and blurrier, who would still (enthusiastically) claim ownership to those shiny little jewelry on their fingers? I know. We’re shy when we’re still single and we’re shy when we’re finally hitched. Everybody bang their heads to a wall. Nine times.

On the top spot, it's the biblical Public Enemy #1. Let's pause from all life's poops and check out this little trivia in Wiki: Did you know that a certain bird called Zebra finch becomes a philandering maniac when exposed to noise pollution? Hell yeah. “It's too noisy in here, honey, lemme go fuck the housebird next door. And her peacock grandma. And her bestfriend's sister's teen twin ostrich cousins.” Indiscreetly fascinatingly obscene, no? But apparently it happens. Noise pollution too, says Wiki, forces some animals to communicate louder; but now if an anteater struts in the middle of the highway looking for lunch, absentminded be-iPod-ed ants would be in so much trouble because they missed the watchtower's predator alarm because the poor watchtower guy has a sore throat and the siren's out of order. Life. Finally, noise mess evicts some animals from their usual habitats, resulting to tragedies like beached whales. And more expensive apartments.

SO WHAT? WHAT DO AUSTRALIAN BIRDS, STUBBORN WHALES AND CRAWLERS WITH HEARING DEFECTS HAVE TO DO WITH ME, THE SUPERIOR INHABITANT OF THIS WRETCHED PLANET?

Nothing, really. But wouldn't it be nice to simply let them animals enjoy/endure their lives without bothering them with the powers of the human voice? After all, if you will look at it, it's gonna be just the damned icky cockroaches after The Deadline... So instead of promoting noise pollution by reciting litanies of Hey You Don't Look At Me It's Your Fault You Lowlife and I Only Did It Because I Needed To Save My Ass And I Deserve To Be Worshiped More Than Any Of You in an endless chase of pinpointing who faulted whom—when you perfectly know you are the culprit—simply apologize. I. Am. Sorry. It's only three words. Two, if you're casual. One, if you're a bit shy. A weired sound if you're a donkey. It can be hard since we're all superstars, but it always makes things way easier for everyone, and it's more environmentally friendly too. Lessen the pride. It's only for the number of one night stands, anyway... or not.

So: Live and let live, even if life gets harder and more embarrassing each day. It's gonna be fine.

Admit the truths and let them be heard. Save the whales. Protect the ants. Love the birds—I know I do.

And that's that. There wasn't even a memorable theme... sound, other than Brendan Fraser screaming like a gorilla. Good lord he's like a Vin Diesel in tutus. He so needs a new trick. It's so old. He's so old.

Move on.

Aimless, absent-minded-ly simple, yet subtly charming: Mamma Mia!, which now also translates to, Holy Cow, Meryl Streep Is A Headbanger. And Pierce Brosnan is one hot lip-synching piece of ass, hot being the operative word—except when he pranced around in the encore in the trademark Abba catsuit. Now that was OFF. On the other hand, the film generally served a good purpose of showing the world how the ever-omnipotent Hollywood actors can also make complete clowns of themselves and still mine gold. And that's a compliment for my granny Meryl: Silly antics, superb acting, lotsa money. Not one shy moment. Amanda Seyfried was also swell, both in the singing and acting-out-a-bimbette categories. I haven't seen the stage version but I'm betting the simplicity of the screenplay aimed to keep the musical's original execution.

Which made the film appear somewhat lost. After Streep's acrobatics in the Mamma Mia and Dancing Queen numbers in the first half, the story began spinning in all directions and the effort to rope it all together in the last 10 minutes was pretty obvious. And again, a little more creativity could have salvaged most of the single-shot performances. It was a musical tribute, and the songs needed to be performed, I know, but it should never be at the expense of the audience's yawns. Glancing back at The Producers: more humor would have been nice too for MM. Luckily in the end the film conveniently used the human emotion trump card and smoothly closed the curtains without leaving the audience—or at least the ladies—scratching their heads, let alone disappointed.

Seyfried played Sophia, a young bride-to-be who wanted to meet her biological father before she ties the knot, and who subsequently invited her mom (Streep)'s exes over, played by Brosnan, Colin Firth and Stellan Skarsgard a day before the wedding in hopes of pinning down the truth—for everyone's sakes. The movie went on versing and discoing among the characters' positions in the plot, ultimately chorusing in an unexpected ending. Julie Walters, Dominic Cooper and Christine Baranski also starred.

“Our goal for the next six months is profit. If you up my money, then maybe we can talk about your concerns. Bago kayo, ako muna ‘no! Hello!”

--A VP during a sorry excuse for a company planning





“We’ll implement that strategy right away. Now, for Finance— Ano ba, nahuhulog ang bra ko (Damn, my bra keeps slipping)!”

--Again, the VP with knees darker than umbra





Corner of a street, 8:43AM. Waiting for a clean jeepney. Two college girls to the left.

Wind blows. Piece of paper flies from their folders.

Stupida: Eeeeeee!
Idiota: Owmaygaaadddddd! Eeeeeeee!
Stupida: Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Idiota: Ouuuwmaygaaaaaaaddddd!! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Stupida: Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Note: None of anybody’s limbs was moving.

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.)

SPOILERS, including the flick itself.

Waiting for its DVD release should give everyone ample time to brush up on their mythologies before finally mis-spending on watching Hancock. Well, not really; you just need something sensible to talk about after heating the couch. Meanwhile, Superman fans are advised to spend their money wisely, like seeing everything else but Hancock. It's too trivial to escape the label of stupidity: With all the resources the production had, why of all executions imaginable did they have to emulate the one thing almost everyone in this universe knows? When the hero's music theme finally played it became more boo-worthy than amusing: You're not Clark Kent! If not for the "rules of the gods" twist, the let-us-now call pysstonites (verbal kryptonite, only it infuriates the gods instead of weakening them, it was actually cute) and Charlize Theron's fabulous waistline and eye make-up, the film was simply a poor rip-off. Will Smith was--as usual--tiring. So was the repetitive giveaway cut-scenes when a plot about superheroes are mandated to build mystery, thrill and surprise especially for the first 20 minutes. And what's up with all the asshole action? Either the makers had a fetish or they each have a closet full of wigs. Now I'm missing Ororo Munroe. 4 out of 9.

What My Monster Mom lacked in creativity and--surprise, surprise--originality, it salvaged itself with the fulfillment of its one true promise: Annabelle Rama. That. Woman. Is a natural. Never mind the lousy executions. Never mind the over-stretched EXTRA scenes. Never mind the family affair happening in the flick, although I wonder why they left one child out of the picture that titillated all naturally... gay minds. (Happy states, people.) The flick simply re-enacted the much-publicized and much-much-loved hostility between Rama and daughter Ruffa Gutierrez. Translation: The production only needed additional make-up and more jewels on Rama and they were done. It's actually a good business move, since everyone in the flick invested on their strengths. Ruffa with her twang. Annabelle with her... self. Eugene Domingo with her... self also. And director Jose Javier Reyes with his magic (or casting, except for Bubbles Paraiso who should just absolutely stay in the modeling industry while learning other sentences other than "Are you sure, girl?") in turning everyday, normally-offensive material into something light, hysterical and even part friendly. It was a good evening laugh.

We find the simplest of tasks immensely impossible.


We over-complicate some to the point of ridicule.


And we tend to prioritize the wrong-est of all things--or at least, keep thinking of Only One Thing.

SPOILERS.

WHAT'S HOT: James McAvoy. Move over Tobey Maguire, there's a new hot dork in town. In Narnia 1 James was cute as Mr Tumnus, the perv goat guy. Now he's cuter even with only two legs. Plus he plays with guns now and those lovely blue eyes paired with leather jackets are the best offset for the lack of a six-pack. But now that I think about it, I was so busy staring at his eyes that I forgot to check if he can act or not...

HOT: Wanted's script. While the sufficiently linear presentation had a few twists obvious to neurotic minds further-corrupted-by daily crime news and personal goals to get back at bullies in high school, the story did make up for with littered surprises, subtle humor and nice tracking.
NOT: Morgan Freeman. I think he mistook Wanted for another Almighty installment.

HOT: The positioning of gore. Think of Wanted as a Sesame Street version of Kill Bill: You know exactly when skulls will explode and blood will cover the screen and so you can synch your puke reflexes.
NOT: The gore. You people are sick.

HOT: Amazingly, Angelina. On her first scene I gasp-whispered, My gawd Nicole Richie has an actual movie? A few minutes later, Lara Croft was grinning with a gun with a tablet PC attached to it then I knew I wasn't in Neptune. In this flick Jolie didn't act. She strutted for 2 hours simply to let the world know that she's still in control. Even the fag who kept whining about why he hates aisle seats was wowed. And no wonder she went anorexic: Plus-plus-size women can't play sandwich with trucks and tunnel roofs. CG tricks or no.
NOT: Me missing a step at a 7-11 branch and almost pulling a Miriam Quiambao in front of bystanders. I think I was emulating Fox's chin-up walk and forgot I wasn't yet an expert stair strutter...

HOT: The red carpet-vibe at Shangri-la's Cineplex. In cinemas like this you don't go to the movies to watch films. You wait until everybody gets in, then PARADE yourself to the middle row just before the lights go off. Not bad for a minute of celebrity-hood, on a weekly basis.
NOT: Sitting next to a latecomer colegiala who moronically knows nothing except the words, "Euww raaats, grosssssss!"

HOT: The Calayans' new billboard along EDSA-Guadalupe. It's a quarter pounder yum-burger with lotsa cream cheeeeez.
NOT: A gazillion Koreans jogging along EDSA at 1AM. I'm not kidding with gazillion. A surprise "EDSA Quatro" can be an adventure for the virginal but the thought of it wasn't exactly thrilling especially when I'd already been sweating in my spare top because of the tropics. A revolution of fair-skin people IN WHITE jogging uniform is a whole other story.

HOT: Payday.
NOT: 17 days before the next.

HOT: Morgan Freeman saying, "Oh, crap".
NOT: Yeah, the gore. Huge sickleS through an old lady's chest? Sick, sick, sick!

HOT: The Loom. "Destiny chose you". "It's in your blood". "Control your fate or let it control you..."
NOT: Yeah keep encouraging closet serial killers and junior maniacs, you idiots.


---
BTW this is a tribute to the "film" a torrent of which I'm saving for a fatally blank Sunday afternoon: Hottie and the Nottie. I had planned to give it a shot but on my way to the cinemas I was distracted by tummies doing somersaults at the Philippine Belly Dance Festival and so yeah Paris Hilton--correction: Pares Hilton, according to a tongue-wag in an MRT line--is still a runner-up in the Actual Talent department. Pares Hilton. The line was so stagnant I thought somebody had begun selling "rice value meals" to resist insanity.

---
Speaking of dorks: Shia LaBeouf leads an action flick? Wow. The male Anne Hathaway.

This is the problem with making a name in TV first: You end up turning the cinema into an insanely oversized boobtube and annoying the rest of the animal kingdom. And this is the problem with making a face in TV first: Your fans will notice even the micro-est of drops of botox. Or, in this case, the lack of it: Made Of Honor. For balance in the cosmos I understand the need for a "guy version" of My Best Friend's Wedding and the need to mock Cloverfield with an as-crazy-slash-stupid cinematography in a mushfest; but how Patrick Dempsey still plans to continue deluding himself that he's a movie actor is now beyond me. Watch the flick if you want to hear Oasis in a sunny Scotland slideshow.

I haven’t had a decent sleep since yesterday morning. And it’s all because of my stupidity, a child-traumatized man and The Happening.

The film was good. So good that it forced me to pretend to be asleep all night. Why and how I let myself be fooled into watching again something very disturbing—after my icky point-of-trauma in the 2004 remake of Dawn of the Dead—is beyond me. I should’ve known better than to expect wonderful things from free premiere tickets.

When bizarre suicides began happening in a Philadelphia park one cloudy day, America suspected terrorists had unleashed shitty airborne virus to drive humans to want cover pictures on tabloids and Ripley’s Yearbook in unthinkable ways: car keys to the eyes, strap-less bungee jumping, Lawn-mow Me Over, My Temple Needs A Bullet Now and Time To Feed My Arms To The Lions. Yet science instructor Elliot Moore (Mark Wahlberg), despite his perfectly systematic methodical thinking, soon realized there’s no solving it and even running away from this unfathomable happening isn’t gonna save anybody. Was it the trees? Was it the hot dogs? Was it the old couple who love hot dogs? Or was it that thing on her head trying hard to pass as her hair? So bothered Elliot’s wife Alma (Zooey Deschanel)’s—and everybody’s—head while ransacking a model house-&-lot unit. The clock ticked, a widow with anger management issues slapped cookie lover Jess (Ashlyn Sanchez)’s little hand, yet everyone in and everyone watching the silver screen was left clueless of the shit until the last cloud rolled in the closing credits. Shivering!

What wasn’t thrilling, however, was Mark’s performance. He knew he was acting, but the moviegoers needed not to. All his moves were almost that predictable, when he’s no longer shooting undies ads for Calvin Klein. Zooey deserved more claps, even including the minute scenes where she looked like Shannen Doherty whose effectively pretentious acting I miss.

SPOILER. Now of all the things, why did Shyamalan have to use trees and wind? Why turn something so-everywhere into something so scary? People have it hard already with global warming and all—now they have to worry about backyard grass having genius IQs too? Then again I would have walked out of the theater had he used huge rats with bloody fangs and red contacts…

And how come dogs never get infected with these mind-messing viruses, when they too piss on plants? More importantly, why did they have to use the granny-distorted old doll tandem?? It’s always so creepy. And girly. Old-girly!

Yet, on the other hand, M. Night could very well be offering just another explanation on suicides, notwithstanding how silent or gory victims commit the already-disturbing act. Hello, it kinda like happens everyday. Break-ups? Bankruptcy? WAISTLINES OVER 36? Duh.

The Happening is an enjoyably absorbing film, if you’re into that whole Armageddon-paranoia thing. Plus it has a better ending than Signs. It was quick, strangely to-the-point and leaves one helluva pair of eye bags to match that impossibly fast heart rate. Except if you’re me.

I grew so paranoid I wanted to sleep over at the driver friend’s house. Then I remembered his girlfriend was in the passenger seat. So I had to resort to my second best diversion: flirting with the neighbor.

His name is Ariel. He’s taller than I, dark and lean. Blah, blah, blah. Last words before moving on with the night? “It’s happening.”

4PM. Holiday. Phone goes off. Steam dream with Jonathan Rhys Meyers gets cut.

Liver Lady: (sic) Woi! Msta? No blita? Hay holiday nga ngyn my psk nmn mya. Kw, CHILAX ka lng ata ngyn e.Ingats!

Lost In Translation: (gets a pen and paper and a dictionary and a thesaurus)

...

Lost In Translation: Bob Marley?

Liver Lady: (sic) Gagi ka tlga!Praning!Msta?

LIT (sees "Woi!"): Chinese Bob Marley?

Liver Lady: ...

LIT: "Chilax"? Is this an infotxt on bubble gum?

Liver Lady: (sic) Hay nako ewn ko seo ___!Msta nb?Nonang blta seo ha?

LIT (sees "seo"): Colegiala Bob Marley?

Liver Lady: Wah

LIT: Crybaby Bob Marley?

Liver Lady: ...

LIT (goes back to "chilax"): OMG. Did we travel back to 1995, and I'm being recruited to Tropical Depression?!

Liver Lady: I HATE U.

LIT: Look, my hair's forming dreads on its own!

And this one's for a lady named Joan, ray of sunshine by day, hitman by night.

If there's one thing sadder than loneliness, it's loneliness because you're dateless. Yes, if it takes you all day figuring out when you last went out on one, chances are you're romantic life is lagging and you're days away from—yeah—a celibate introvert-hermit's life. Extreme, but fairly probable. But then you wonder, after such a dating dry spell, how in creation can you get back in the game?

Conviction is the best, so telling yourself that you want back in and believing that you want back in can get you on your feet. Now think back a little: Why did I go “on-leave” from dating in the first place? Was it exhausting? Was it too much of a hassle? Did I get fed up with all the odd dates? At the same time, ask: What do I want this time? Am I looking for a long-term partner, or a simple... snack buddy? Do I need to re-tune my attitude towards dating and stop demanding for perfection? Speaking of which, the “perfect date” is a myth. So if you're going to be as picky and judgmental as you previously were, then you might as well get yourself a Stepford date.

Meanwhile, if you are looking for a long-term partner, it is best to live by the saying, “Patience is a virtue.” Avoid rushing things if only to find the “perfect guy or the girl” you'll exchange vows with. On the contrary, don't wait too long, either. As they say, time lengthens the minutes when you wait. When you wait, you get bored. When you get bored, it's back to Tables For One. Be clear on what you're looking for in a date, but keep an open mind. Like in a bazaar, great things sometimes come in hidden, unexpected places. Be willing to take risks.

Talking about time, it's also good if you set time for dating. You go to work, you shop for clothes, you pay bills, you argue with your credit card collector and you find time to go on a date. Exert effort. Ask your friends if they know someone whom you can go out with. Ask about nice date spots. Hear about their recent positive experiences in dating and let it encourage you more. Yet don't overdo it—you don't want to stress yourself out, especially because you've been away from the dating scene and the industry may have new regulations. Do not oblige yourself. Take it easy. Enjoy meeting new people. Enjoy learning more about old acquaintances. Enjoy the quest! Prepare for the icebergs that still lie ahead, but more importantly, anticipate better, richer experiences.

This is for a gal named Shella, who loves getting up at 4AM.

It can be a most exciting thing to do, but no one’s ever really assured of a fantastic ending in this Adventurer's pastime-slash-Desperado's saving grace: blind dating.

Scarier, you risk spending at least two hours with a stranger, 107 minutes of which could spell a-w-k-w-a-r-d. Come on, both of you can only turn your head sideways so many times before finally snapping it off because of boredom. Now how about picking a place littered with common-interest things for the, dare I be politically correct, first meeting? Like a tasteful snack bar. Everybody loves munching. Plus, that will ensure a long list of things to talk about after the “Where were you earlier?” queue to a possible “Ah, I see. I don't know that place.” Fine dining can wait until your third or fifth night out… or in.

Or maybe try a bowling alley: You can talk and have wholesome-interactive fun at the same time. The movies can wait for next couple of weeks, so can that other interactive fun, if you’re both into the “liberated” style of things. Guys, of course you will shoulder the bills, but if the “modern” ladies offer some bucks because they had a great time—they wouldn't if they didn't—crack something like, “Thanks, but you're buying me coffee next time.” Corny, yes, and you will mean it as a joke, funny man, but it could segue to an invite to a second date. Or bad review from the girlfriends.

Be sure to have the givens: Comfy outfit a.k.a. your style a.k.a. not too flashy, not too uptight; smarts a.k.a. your own personality and open-mindedness; budget a.k.a. emergency cab fare. Hey, you never know when a flat tire could happen.

To save yourself from a tragic dismay, you can expect the proverbial worst from that other person whom you've never met—but why do that? Instead, go the other way and anticipate a very nice time with that person who, after all, is just as blind as you are in that hook-up. Focus on what you have in common. For starters ask about, compare notes about or simply verbally abuse the mediator friend that fixed you up, but you should only do as much. You are there to see each other, and the whole point of it is to try find someone who you can be with in the coming days or weeks—or years—so do just that. Talk about safe but interesting, familiar but non-invasive things: like how her day was and how she felt about it, or what he loves most about his job and how he plans to improve his craft, or how the world will be a more beautiful place without Sarah Geronimo in it. Then, if you want to, let your opinion on their stories ease into the conversation. Offer compliments, but do not patronize because it's obvious and, well, lame. Dwell on the lighter side of life, where you as persons are sure to find common interests. Then let the chat progress. Never try too hard. Simply enjoy it. Before you know it, you'd have shared your third banana split or have tied at 16 strikes each.