The Paostian Deal

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.