nothwithstanding all its problems, london is still cool. of course, the chance of bumping into gwyneth paltrow in budgens is as rare as sitting next to ian mckellen in the tube. but despite that incongruity, pop culture fiends are always aware that even if they're not part of the legions at leicester square during hollywood film premieres, london's theatre scene is one of the best in the world and at odd times a hottie like josh hartnett or even the likes of the excellent judi dench brightens the marquee at the west end. but even without familiar names, the stage is definitely a medium to savor for the sinuous and obsequious observer. but as i navigate the queries from my far east upbringing, some air supply, barry manilow thoughts make me ponder, why are musical plays not directly proportional with authentic western testosterones?
it's not something to drool over, a kind of monolith about a dog. it opened in north america on christmas day with the conglomerates, all aboard with their academy awards ensembles, enabling their moviegoers to think. but i have to wait until march for marley. even singapore has a january opening. if that's how the FOX gods play it, the quiet fan patiently waits with bated breath.
despite the findings of this study , romantic comedies are mere plots and storylines for a movie. they're great escapes from the tedious train wrecks and disasters that befuddle our diurnal struggles. prosy lasses like us don't watch romcoms to ensnare a hugh grant in all of his popcorn delights. it's a form of entertainment, nothing more, nothing less, though it helps if the leading man is as cute as bradley cooper or as lovable as jack black.
more than indubitable keepsakes from the scenic views of prague,
these tiny wooden pieces are emblematic reminder of the not so
distant past of THFC.
except for jenas, all the others are out of the tottenham fold. the keeper robinson is now with blackburn.
malbranque was shifted to sunderland.
while the former strikers are no longer worth my sports trance.
loyalty may not always be greatly rewarded in the world of huge cash and big four opportunities. but at the end of the day, nothing beats being part of the tottenham wave.
that's the thing about high school, it evokes remarkable nostalgic musings. but i always thought i could have done better during that inspiring period, if i could have studied a bit harder, tackled the schoolwork with a bit more relentless passion, i would have not disappointed my parents. by the time graduation was unveiling in front of the hundred year old main building, i came up short of my folks' expectations. most of my friends did well though, i was peering over the honor roll in my mind recently and most of them were close intimates. one of my dearest friends in fact was way up there at the top academically and for twenty years has never hit the skids in bringing kudos to special occasions or hold my hand in the most tearful of moments.
a particular topic in a repartee during our recent reunion and a friendster shoutout made me speculate on one classmate's conjectures. they're not necessarily conjectures but marriage and kids are always touchy subjects. to quote carrie bradshaw's opening phrase in her voice over in the later seasons of SATC, i couldn't wait but wonder, are all these competitions really necessary? as school kids we battle it out for the highest grades and recognitions, and as adults, do we have to joust for the most enormous house and the best looking kids? success and happiness are abstract points. every individual is unique and so forth. but really, do we always have to lock horns for the biggest catch?
it's kind of nonsensical, perishable thought. the spirit of giving during the holidays never fail to hit me on the groin. this piece was not merely contemplated because of the cheers, the parties and tips to avoid in being a bad santa. but what if i'm presented with something i don't dig? it happened to me a few times, not only during special occasions but a maudlin friday. like when one of the nicest persons on earth brought me a dubai dvd from the lovely tropics. he was seldom generous with anything material but a dubai dvd is like anathema to my spirit. one of my brothers also lavished me with kindness. in one of his scheduled stops in the town center, he picked up a colin montgomerie bio for me. it was a charming present, but i'm not a monty fan. someday i will read that symbol of magnanimity. monty is a great golfer and deserves to be read.
this is not only limited to objects. an ambiance of hospitality is also a medium for socially entertaining options. there's food, magazines or the tv, all wonderful sidebars to regale guests. knocking on a friend's abode a few days ago for a gathering, i was offered the filipino channel. television is a choice, between a drama or a comedy, a variety show or a reality program and the likes. but i'm simply not a banana split person. bubble gang anytime, ogie and michael v. are super hilarious. banana split was an hour's waste of resources, not only are the gags not funny, but the girls definitely lack a few acting chops. nonetheless, there was a viewing of pinoy fear factor, part and parcel to the judy ann santos network.
i know i sound like and ungrateful old hag. but i also give away run-of-the mill, state of the art boring presents. a pair of socks? aagh. the complaints pile up from the offended parties. but bestowing gifts is only one aspect of pleasant intropection. for any occasion, rather than a mr and mrs smith of any kind, a simple greeting for me would definitely suffice.
my tita wan's currently staging a one-woman art exhibit at the planta centro hotel and residences at araneta corner roxas streets in bacolod city, philippines from december 8-13. a cancer survivor and a former nun, she lives in brunei with her young family and is in bacolod for the exhibit and a family reunion. do check out her site for updates (photos courtesy of my brother).
haunted by the errors of my ways, i'm reeling over a misspelling of the piece i wrote seven years ago. how hard was it to spell? pacquiao = p-a-c-q-u-i-a-o. i spelled it pacquaio. if it was a blog i could just edit it anytime, but it was a column and it's forever embedded in the pantheons of the web, no matter how obscure and insignificant it was.
the hubby and i were in the philippines when we first heard of the news of pacquiao-dela hoya in august. dela hoya used to be a fixture in my 6pm tv sked with his exercise show with shawnae jebbia on the lifestyle network almost ten years ago. the golden boy has been a star since his gold medal win in barcelona. despite losses from shane mosley, floyd mayweather jr, felix trinidad and bernard hopkins in recent years, he banked on his savy business sense to be the force behind golden boy promotions. dela hoya was a brand name, boxing's number one pay per view attraction. but i still thought, the 70-30 revenue share was unfair for pacquiao. i've seen both these guys box over the years. pacquiao initially haggled for 60-40, but eventually settled on a 70-30 or 65-35 split and reportedly earned a guaranteed $11 mil while dela hoya received more than half of that amount at the final tally.
a lot of synthesizing space was generated on both boxer's weight. the golden boy, who fought all the way up to middleweight, was bigger, with a 4-inches height advantage and a longer reach, pacquiao, who started his career as a light flyweight was simply diminutive, the underdog. what were his chances to beat somebody who was almost light heavyweight? that was not the question on my mind. that was conventional wisdom. even revered writers stood by their match prediction -- dela hoya for size or dela hoya because of the left hook.
but i always reckon the golden boy was too slow, as my youngest brother observed a decade ago, he was more "pa cute-cute." that doesn't need translation. pacquiao always had the will. when you come from dirt poor poverty in the third world, it's like being ganged up by the bullies of the rich nations. after his defeat from 3K battery of thailand, i was actually dismissive of his desire to win. but he rose from the ashes. i've never thought he would be in the league of the dela hoyas of boxing.
next up would be probably be hatton, a surefire sidetaking in my home front and i'm a bad loser. it's kind of weird though because i've never been to gen san but i've been to manchester. there's just this hope that pacquiao would shun all whispers of another shot in politics or producing movies and concentrate on the real job. but at this juncture, bring on the motorcade.
the scourge caused by the financial deflation is spreading into the world of super fast cars and sybaritic comforts, quite too obviously. although formula one may be a source of huge wealth amongst its drivers and hierarchy, it's still a sport and down the bottom of the food chain are the little workers. when business is down, sports, which accumulate shimmering fortune through backers and sponsors, ultimately suffer. so it was more or less heartbreaking to read about honda's withdrawal from formula one, cruelly affected by the economic downturn and forced to protect its core enterprise. jenson button, one of the stars of race of champions at wembley stadium on 14th, would be without a team. rubens barrichello, the one with the sensitive demeanor on the telly, would be set to leave the stage. i'm still confused why button is that popular despite his underchievement, but then glamour posh boy looks triumph over talent at anytime. whilst i will always remember barrichello during his ferrari stint, aiding michael schumacher, another star for race of champions, secure championship points. those were pretty good memories. but all good things come to an end. that isn't such a bad cliche.
this link is such good news, that i cheered in glee in the bathtub. jason bateman wasn't quite accurate in the interview, arrested development was a supper feast i wouldn't mind having every night. it was great comedy, full of unexpected, hyper hilarious twists and turns, a great milieu of creative juices. the flick report arrived on my radar after a reading on shortlist men's mag, i have to stress men for that matter as i relate more to periodicals on men's pursuits (minus the naked chicks) than a spread of angst and insecurities on women's glossies. i still need to get the copy of the third and last series though, i always get busted by the gloomy crunch.
triggered by anger and endless exasperations, my temper used to overwhelm the members of our household as a kid. my dark side consisted of flying objects. i once alienated a short-lived infatuation in one water tantrum moment and high school was never the same again. several years later, after my mom's stroke, i became subdued and got turned off by confrontations. or any raised voices for that matter, especially now at work. but there's this pull of libertad, that's the market for our food in my hometown niche. every seller especially in the fish section display his/her lung power in order to sell the wares, thus born the cliche of my school life.
now as i'm slowly inching closer to the scary age, i'm transformed into the calmer version of my old self. there are still the occasional frozen shoulders and the always present ramblings of profanities under my breath and times when i shake my head every moment shreks behave like reigning monarchs or uptight bitches. but i remain stoic and controlled, or become too serious, i don't lighten up even one bit. all hail then to letlet and others like her --- those hilarious streaks provoke every inch of smiles and laughter.
suffice to say winter is not my favorite season. i don't mind the cold. it's the enduring twilight that creeps me over. the yellow brick road is just not as enticing when its dark. so i'm seeking refuge in my confined space, not quite the ivory tower of reckoning, to engage in contemplation rather than grapple with the infinite housework. i can't find the book i'm planning to read for ages and i know i'm the slow dimwit these present times.
and i miss my folks, especially when i want advice about the brothers brigade. the buck stops with me now. i'm still hazy why the clouds are missing their silver linings. well-meaning spirits are narrating tales of european sojourns with their parents and that topic alone rips my marrows. i will always be hurting. but then my rents were larger than life. broad-spectrum conversations were the order of the day. we lived through the basics but it wasn't that bad. the books and the mags were there and that was more substantial than hollow laxuries. i'm still shattered with disease processes but they bite sharply in the ass.
i still like mel gibson. despite one drunken encounter with a cop. despite his tragic ageing process. despite jz's blog -- a piece that brought about this random rant out of nowhere. truly that doesn't make me anti-semite. i still find kerri russell, who's jewish, fascinating. i still think spielberg is bitching cool. i haven't even seen braveheart. although it's always a possibility i might do so in the future. i didn't even reckon i would turn a corner a few days ago and pressed the clicker on frasier again, exfoliating my daphne snobbery. why i haven't seen braveheart? well, william wallace didn't exactly lived forever. but i was basking in the shallows, thoroughly enjoying tequilla sunrise when i was fourteen, taking delight in the adventures of brett maverick when i was much older. if we google mel gibson today, he'll be forever linked with that unfortunate mugshot, or his other peccadilloes -- infidelity rumors, church donations, etc. we always expect our chosen slebs to be perfect. but as the tabloid culture exhibits, they are not.
the practice, the gripping legal drama which was the antecedent of boston legal, another david e. kelley production was once a guilty pleasure. it was a more serious approach and a simplier version of LA Law, on which kelley was the executive producer. whereas the steven bochco drama offered a lot of convolutions, the practice was more centered on legal ethics and criminal law. the cast was streamlined after the seventh season due to faltering ratings and budget cuts and eventually evolved into what is now boston legal, of which i haven't seen a single episode. but with the practice showing reruns on digital tv, i can't help but go back in time to relive the stimulating cases -- a podiatrist with a severed head in a bag, priests on trial for murder, a 13 year old boy pulling the trigger to kill his mother, etc. dylan mcdermott was excellent as bobby donnell, the show's central figure. charismatic and very good looking, the character could have used a proper sendoff. but barring thoughts of warrick brown, resolutions are not always so simple in tv land.
i caught an episode of chelsea lately on E! recently, mocking jen aniston's barren state. i don't think life's that bad when you're in a cover of a leading glossy. some people are just more fortunate than others when it comes to producing offsprings. i should know.
the year of living dangerously, directed by peter weir, has been a fixture on the TNT channel, now turner classic movies for decades. but it was only the other day that i got a peek in its entirety. although gazing at a much younger mel gibson (aussie accent and all) titillate our inhibitions, it was the marked squalor and poverty that floored my qualms and compunctions. the film, based on a novel by C.J. Koch, was released in 1982 and a collaboration between australia and MGM productions. the narrative followed gibson as guy hamilton an australian journalist covering indonesia circa 1965, during the overthrow of president sukarno. but it easily could have have been the philippines in the early 80's with nary an end to the marcos dictatorship. shot mostly in the philippines, bembol rocco co- starred alongside a flawless sigourney weaver and a brilliant linda hunt, who won an oscar. rocco as kumar is a pivotal role in the movie. kuh ledesma is tiger lily, the dark beauty with very few lines. you have domingo landicho, one of the finest filipino writers, screaming maawa na po kayo, huwag ninyo siyang saktan!(please have mercy, don't hurt him!). i always wonder when i read about this line in the twisted books if the producers were too complacent to research further on bahasa indonesia. after this film, hot mel did mad max beyond thunderdome, then hollywood and worldwide stardom was in his grasp.
i was easily touched by the marked penury and deprivation. the setting may be jakarta, but one could feel the essence of manila. i like to think that my country has gone forward. if indigence has not been totally eliminated, at least it has been culled. or i'm just dreaming again.
it has been fun just reading and not blogging. i ran out of people and stuff to google, if ever that is possible. i was not interested in the US elections despite the news being all over the blogs and the papers. i was more into the stockmarket, the bank of england interest rates and the enviable bonuses at goldman sachs. i'm finishing up my christmas list and it's hard work trying to recall friends who were particularly nice to me the past year, despite arguments in the drug room over the reflective ennui of dean forrester. the character read hunter s. thompson in the first season and was relegated to marrying in haste and carpentry after that. would have i read fear and loathing in LV in high school? maybe if i had a dishy, dependable dean, not a rebellious jess or prank-playing logan to drool over.
scarred by the catastrophic effects of bad judgments, i'll be in flat confinement in the next few days, barring any phone calls, which seldom happens. i'll try some monica geller's impersonations, i never keep the nooks spic and span. with winter virtually here, the horizon is all dark twenty four seven but the streets are still filled with giddy uzis and incidental shoppers. i'll surf mytita wan's sitefor a few watercolor treats. she is flying home to bacolod in december in time for christmas reunion and an art exhibit. so if you have the time, check out her etsy page for some charming artworks.
attempting to widen my knowledge on a bit of my people's anthropolgy, i was trying to google relevant items on the web the other day and uncover this essay lurking within the confines of the vast networks of colorful sites and features. written 21 years ago, but still a relevant cultural piece in the digital age.
i don't read as many books as i want to either. i spend most of my free time attempting to get ready to face relevant chores and errands and accomplish sometimes virtually nothing. procrastinating is not a productive behavior. but since i'm trying to undo my incorrigible delaying maneuvers, my groanings need to stop and i have to commence the wearying vexations.
Filipinos are not book lovers
by arlene babst-vokey
Some years ago, a friend of mine observed that in Japan, the bookshop seemed to be the most popular feature of practically every street block. While in the Philippines, instead of bookshop, it was the beauty parlor vying closely with the sari-sari store.
In commiseration, I made the wistful remark that at the turn of the century in London, Virginia Woolf was already making good money doing just book reviews for newspapers and periodicals, and through her highly rarefied novels and short stories, some of which became bestsellers of her lifetime.
Even in those days, a writer as difficult as Woolf had an audience, those who were willing to exchange hard-earned money for her often esoteric experimentation with language and literary forms.
In sad contrast, almost a century after Ms. Woolf was able to support herself with her writing, Filipino writers would starve if he or she depended solely on “literary writing.”
It seems certain now that Filipinos will never become book readers. To paraphrase, George Bernard Shaw, Filipinos will go from being primitives to becoming exhausted as a civilization, without ever having been civilized enough to read books.
Why is this shameful fate of our lot as a nation? There are a few facile reasons that we could cite, we don't mean sheer poverty either, for even among the richest Filipinos, they hardly read books.
A book, whether a novel, a compilation of poetry, or a collection of essays or short stories, is one of the most demanding forms of intellectual engagement available, a one-on-one relationship and challenge. A book must be met in certain solitude so that the sentences and chapters will seep through the readers consciousness of the reader.
The problem is Filipinos hate solitude. Count the number of Filipinos you know who enjoy being alone, and being in a book. For them, it’s absolutely terrifying.
Reading a book requires time and patience; endurance, if need be. It isn’t over in an hour or two like movies or television shows. And Filipinos with our ningas-cogon tendencies, like our entertainment fast and light, have suitably short attention span.
Furthermore, books deal with ideas, worked out mainly through characters and plots. There is always some horrid symbolism lurking somewhere, and the conflict of one system of thought against another. However for most of us, we prefer our conflicts played out among personalities rather than in ideas–it’s much easier that way and more exciting. Ideas can be so dull.
Another factor could be, one reads a book in silence. Solitude na, ideas pa, and then silence? It is too much for average Filipino. It just goes against all cultural traits – the need to move in herds, in exuberance and gaiety, in love songs and dances. Rilke be hung, give Filipino `La Bamba` any day.
A great pity, of course, and dangerous, too, when non-readers like Imelda Marcos (who was never seen reading a book from cover to cover) get positions of power.
How much does Cory Aquino read, does anyone know?
Alas! Perhaps the only Filipino who read assiduously these days are the Marxists with their tones on agrarian reform, Nicaragua on its liberation theology, and the Latin American political novelists. No wonder they’re often ahead in the game.
Still, here’s to the little band of Filipinos who do read, who scrimp and save to buy the expensive pocketbooks of the latest novels from Europe and Latin America, from Japan, from the Philippines. Even rarer than the Filipino reader is the Filipino Writer. But that topic is too sad for words.
in purely accidental circumstances, i collar news like this on my radar. just as my dad always reminded me, it's better to touch base with the state of the world -- the ailing effects of poverty in the philippines and the hopelessness of our political process-- than be fascinated by the puerile antics of the vacuous slebs.
but the entertainment folios are a light read compared to the heavy toll of the stock market plunge in the front pages. plus it helps me smile a little bit. it hurts to see colleagues parade their bumps and their babies or utter snooty opinions about how a child strengthen the knots in marital unions as if it's not like i didn't try or i'm not trying. but i'm digressing.
this piece is really about betty suarez and her good heart. the character sport a fashion ensemble reviled by the fashionistas. but do clothes really define a person? betty gets the guys (choices, choices) in the series, despite the mismatched coordinates, due to the fact that she is a good natured person and most men dig a sprinkle of nice -- stay-at-home virginal ingenues who don't party like lindsay lohan. but their being nice is sometimes all facade. deep, deep down the claws are longer and much, much sharper. however the betty in the story is really kind-hearted because she is fiction, a figment of imaginations. while a few real deals in narrow bays are more complex, pretending coyness amid the haste and noise. but are actually rory gilmore in light brown complexions, or becky, one of the girls of old town in sin city, disarming on the act, but actually engage in hidden subterfuges.
but there are those gentle souls, who are always helpful, never moody, constantly opinionated and eternally fun chums on the move --- the generous souls in my christmas list. i better start the cards and the tiny presents rolling.
i'm having sleepless nights thinking about my misspellings, dangling modifiers and the amount of time it takes for me to spot them in the blog. when i was younger i had an irksome struggle with prepositions. i still do. nowadays typos breed in my paragraphs, especially in my academic essays, which is not a forte. i abhor those kind of didactic assignments, the ritualistic references and the lack of imagination in every sentence. but that's work, the thing that keeps body and soul together. following the rules on references may be a tedious and exasperating undertaking, but those are the statutes of formal composition. hopefully i'll be more conscientious with my editing. no more rushing and dashing.
to perk up my day, i watch some bloopers and comedy:
ER, that famed medical drama, is now on its 15th and final season and the longest-running tv show i've ever kept tracked of. i never thought i could tune in even after doug and carol reconciliation kiss in seattle. i'm hoping against hope to compile every season's dvd's. i need nine more dvd's to round up the collection and another dvd rack for such insane hoarding activity. but reading about pratt's being dispatched to the afterlife by the buscemi ambulance was too painful a way (for a staunch viewer like me) for a laudable character to go. why not sail into the sunset by moving to new york or miami or join the peace corps by feeding the orphans in romania? but the writers and producers thought the audiences love tearful storylines --- dr. green dying of brain tumor, romano's catastrophic encounter with the falling helicopter, michael gallant being blown up in iraq, lucy knight tragic stabbing by a deranged patient.
there was no secret that abby was leaving but at least she's alive and there's a kid and a dishy spouse. but probably it was a flimsy thought to have abby introduce baby joe to carter, showing an ex-boyfriend that there's more to life than being the pathetic dumpee (photos : yahoo tv; nbc).
on the prowl last night, i was snooping on my closest friends' online turfs. though i'm not the photograph seeking paradigm as i always gravitate towards words and scribbles posted in their pages, i was unlocking the unique chromosomes that made the chosen throng my confidantes. i got stumped. these are usually the kind souls i contact in case of emergency and i felt out of touch from their reality. but in bold letters, most of their profile entries were empty except for work and location. a favorite film or a favorite tv show may not define a person or indicate the wealth and breadth of knowledge. nonetheless it still left me lost and bewildered. what's the drive in an empty pastime configuration? these are not merely second degree friends, these are basically my clique, my posse, my kindred spirits. what are our cumulative quirks? perhaps not a lot, or nothing at all. however i may not discuss the frenzied bits ofpopular culture with the throng --- my fascination with history, the sounds of metallica, the role of the clinton democrats in the credit crunch, the crisis in mindanao, but they are always steadfast in their fulcrum of support. a text here and there, is huge. an e-mail is fantastic and a phone call is great, and talking about common acquaintances is an uplifting repartee.
i used to be a fan of politics and elections. well, not anymore. it's not only because hillary capitulated big time or obama is the eloquent one loved by so many in hollywood. it's mostly because i've been shattered by my losing prospects. once i joined the bacolod campaign tour of the incumbent congressman early in the decade. he was good in his job in the three years he served but lost the key reelection battle owing to the mass appeal of his opponent. he was simply not as good in karaoke.
i wasn't able to vote for gloria. definitely the embassy being too far was not a proper excuse. look what gloria had done, granting executive clemency for a member of the elite who commited a random act of pure evil. that in addition to what my opinionated high school classmate enumerated in his friendster bulletin. well, the diminutive lady won the election and that was the will of the people.
i once followed the selection process for the pusa (president of usa), an election i'll never have to vote for ever but has massive repercussions to the rest of the world. but now i've lost interest. bush lost the popular vote in 2000 but the republican justices outnumbered the democrats in the supreme court, thus allowing him to win 25 of florida's electoral votes and collaring the highest echelon of power and the launch of some unabashed failures and disasters. bush got elected again four years ago after surviving a scare in ohio. that despite obama's audacity of hope speech during the democratic convention. bush could strew his legacy in a book just like what clinton did or what blair is doing, who is now in the process of publishing his memoirs . good or bad, bush was a pusa.
i've been eluding the news channels for close to 18 months. drawing into my disciplined facade in blocking CNN, falling off the wagon was never even attempted. i haven't even heard the voice of sarah palin and even if i try without websurfing, i can't name obama's running mate. it's a fact that obama's is profused with wit. while mccain is republican. whoever wins, hopefully will not only have to perform better than bush but needs to create magic for world peace, the standout answer in every miss congeniality pageant.
it's quite an easy task to ignore the prevailing moans and groans of the chattering class. when much less is shared, much less is being discussed in the chatrooms, landlines, mobiles and tea rooms. an interested folk is never too far away to offer unsolicited truisms about thy neighbor. but blogging about this song by muse furnishes a good vibe to the soul. life may not always be devoid of emotional crashes and disappointments. but our sentimental lot provides a colorful template to the title of this track. from the devon band's second album, the origin of symmetry.
my friendster blog was giving me the creeps with the redesign of the lay-outs. i have to edit each and every entry. trying rigidly to construct time when one is about to go to work is a bit disquieting. but the editing could wait. i've started the work on a few of the posts. i'm not done yet. the blog site is still a work in progress and there are elements that are missing. but it was fun going over my jibes the last couple of years. i'm no longer pricky. gone are the pestilent entities of the working life. i can breathe easier with normal saturations. thoughts such as skydiving as my facebook friend agnes was carrying out in france or traipsing in exotic ventures as one of the most likable chap irvin was exploring in turkey didn't leave a tinge of envy. writing a blog isn't merely an escape to bash immediate acquaintances. it has been a great respite from the tension of errands in the cramped career spaces. though my ardent yearning is to read more succulent articles from my talented friends.
When somebody you know die in an apparent suicide on the way home from work after a night shift, there’s nothing but shock.
Before the korean wave in RP post-2002, i was clicking the remote for arirang tv, the english-speaking korean cable channel. i came across a soap one day and although the leading men were not robert sean leonard cute or not as dashing as keanu reeves or gabby concepcion, the characters seem to have tons of bottled angsts. regular tv then drove me to cliched ennui and this was pre-network war, before mulawin ruled the ratings in the national capital region and leave me with nothing but a bitter taste each time i read the comments sections of the local entertainment spread. i began watching korean soaps and movies in arirang. it was subtitled and i didn't mind reading the translations. the tale of two young friends with the same name sook hee blazed the trail of the habit, followed by fragrance of love to that weekly comedy about flight attendants i could no longer recall the title, to days of delight. when shim eun hwa of sook hee disappeared from the korean showbiz radar, i then tagged only three actresseses' work when time premitted-- choi jin shil, lee tae ran and kim hye su.
Choi Jin-shil of fragrance of love, was also a top movie star, with her tearjerker, the letter, a top box office draw shown also in arirang. but i especially enjoyed her perky comedies like ghost mama. there were her other soaps, memories (i couldn't figure the obvious ending) and roses and bean sprouts which i was able to catch a few episodes during a holiday in '03. she tied the knot with a baseball star, had two kids, made the headlines as a battered wife and got divorced in 2004. i google her from time to time and grasp the insecurity in her interviews. random conversations with a korean colleague two years ago made me discern the friable temperament of older stars. the term laos of my native vernacular never fails to spew its venom. i even caught a glimpse of choi jin shil in philippine network tv for my rosy life, for which she won an award,in my gloomy 2007 homecomings. tagalog dubs, i reckon, for korean dramas is somewhat uninspired. so with a startling reaction, i got to read this news in the tube. degrading comments will always hound our lives, it's always best to keep a blind eye. such fragile disposition shouldn't be the denouement in the saga of woes.
paul newman, 83 great actors never die. they live through every scene every performance in a career typified by depth and substance
one of my friends actually doesn't know who he is. but as several tributes attest, the actor with the bluest of eyes needs no introduction. for every passing of someone familiar, lies a sense of awe and sadness. such is life.
by the time i was ten or even younger, i could memorize the full names of her husbands up to burton. as a child left to my own devices, my mom's old mags, meticulously binded and lined up in a dilapidated shelf, weren't spared from my exploring grasps. i always gobble up history. pop culture history. elizabeth taylor's history. my friend joy described her ten years ago as the embodiment of decadence. for me liz taylor is the face behind the saying that beauty is skin deep. the erstwhile movie star might not have been able to preserve the optical illusion that had catapulted her to the role of cleopatra, one of the greatest flops of all time. but i relish watching her films -- from cat on a hot tin roof to giant,father of the bride even national velvet.
a soap sud at my most melodramatic, rhapsody (1954) is a favorite. i enjoy the simulation of rachmaninoff concerto no. 2 and the john ericson character's ultimate sacrifice for love. i know there's a profound daftness in following the rigors of these romantic stories, but at the end of the day, when one's energy level has been depleted by the exigent aspects of running errands for the genial, watching thought provoking dramas is more draining than work itself. as it's quite a challenge to acquire a dvd copy of this feature, i just content myself in clicking my TCM eclectic mixes.
the rough road leading to the ruins clearly tested our boiling patience. bump after bump after bump, i ventured into queries when the long and winding dirty track full of frangible holes seemed hellbent in threading the route to nowhere. my dear hubby was already resorting to colorful curses. but i dare say, upon stomping on the marked tourist site, it was lo and behold, an imposing structure in the outskirts of the city that is now talisay. innovative, all i could say of this concrete illusion that evoke a thousand blogs and articles. if only world war II didn't happen. if only the owners have the resources to restore the grandeur that was the mansion.
when i was in high school, i lobbied to get into the sports beat of our school paper. i literally pleaded with brizo (aileen grace), our editor-in-chief, my hopeful intentions. my prose then was dreadful but my enthusiasm was overwhelming. i was into the carl lewis-magic johnson world big time. i had fondness for the sports beat even in my whimsical youth. i reckon i co-edited the page with fritz, the student from the other class, who was the much better writer. but come RSSPC ( regional secondary schools press conference ) time, the annual writing event marked in every high school paper calendar. i was chosen to join the contingent for the writing competition. i had absolutely no idea why our adviser opted for me to contend in sports writing and represent the school in the rsspc in janiuay, iloilo.
at the time, despite cutting my teeth playing tingayuhanay in our etcs football field, i couldn't grasp the rudiments of football. i also alluded to the blatant reality that i was among the hypnotized shrieking fans of the national coke-go-for-goal players from two years prior to the invitation. who was the guy i was rooting for? i remember the boy but i can't remember the name. who would pay attention to the game when there were cute boys around? but back to the contest. since it was held in iloilo, the sports topic was of course about football. my verbs got confused on the spot and i sucked big time and didn't qualify for the nationals. i knew i lacked preparations but i should have done better. i was also entered in the newswriting category held at the same time. news was just thrown into my lap at the last minute as the original entrant backed out. i think i did news first then proceeded to the sports booth. maybe i would have done differently if my two categories weren't linked.
i was the big loser in our group. brizo won. honey, my BFF won two contests and was adjudged the highest pointer in the nationals held in tacloban, leyte. eduardo (edu) won. agnes and sigrid who were delegates from other schools won. alan john may not have brought home a medal from the awarding ceremonies but became one of our class most distinguished achievers. still the exposure didn't shatter my confidence. i didn't get the chance to enter any more competitions. but i'd like to think i did improve. i've studied harder, dug deeper and learned the proper mechanics from the vitriolic criticisms.
i took delight in every moment of school paper life, especially when i edited my college sports pages. i know tackling sports topics is not as lofty as feature or literary writing. but it's not too shabby either and i've certainly relished the breaks that have come my way because i not only know my way around the sports channels and it opened doors to new friends and some enchanting horizons.
since as long as i can remember, i can't function when everything is in disarray. i can't write. i can't read. i can't cook. not that i turn on the stove on a daily basis. the last time i did, i nearly set the kitchen on fire. i'm really, really careful now. i'm in such intense focus whenever it's deemed necessary to be caught in our tiny cooking enclave.
once a person get hitched, compromise is a key to less arguments. not everybody was born annoyingly obsessive-compulsive. mess is a part of life. with the long hours at work, my clean as you go hysteria has become less frequent. i've been subdued by our highly-cramped, tons of magazines living environment. i've just been to a friend's house and they have lesser books and other source of stay-at-home enjoyment. they're so content with their collection of datu puti vinegar and UFC banana ketchup (not getting paid for the product placements is fine by me). i should really do more tidying up rather than typing this slobber. but just like breathing, a few good words matter and the shredder and ironing board can definitely wait.
i was scrutinizing in detail my whining sketches a few hours ago. reading through my thoughts from the past, i've pinpointed one weird lament. it's a conundrum amongst the compilation. still, just like any other bleeding pride, i was served with a frozen carcass and i had to retaliate with my winded pen. but despite that one instance, i've been offered tantalizing fried fishes recently and read an article about the best kansi in bacolod. most of the mild blue ladies are kind and helpful and that's no metaphor.
the tension headache from last night had all but disappeared. my mom used to tell me from across the shores that human beings need to work in order to eat. that was merely months after her stroke and she had this only daughter not getting along with virtual strangers in secret, the same drifters who cannot identify monica seles pounding two-handed backhands and forehands blaring live french open final on the tv screen.
these days, i have a choice whether to interact with fellow rovers during my free time or to simply grovel in my sentimental pool.
i write to ease the tension.
the point of all my denudations is to calm my nerves.
this is actually in no particular order. i could have made them alphabetical or list ten rather than the limiting five. but i'm always pressed for time, mastering an irresistible ploy to hibernate. i pay my respects to all the social networking sites for making the proverbial slumbook of my younger years alive and well. to paraphrase our high school salutaturian's embedded quotes, "our choice of films reflect our personalities." the italicized excerpt has actually wavered from the original passage about the environment and i quite reckon jen would not be able recall ever constructing verses for my pleasure.
the five choices may mean that i'm ancient. but in reality i'm just too slow to catch up with the dark knight. i'm pretty circumscribed when it comes to films -- no brangelinas, no keira knightleys, no cb or any of her clones, as if i've i've never said that before. there are exceptions like the pirates of the carribean series, but only because of johnny depp.
west side story(1961) (directed by jerome robbins and greg wise) --- i was already a teenager the first time i got hold of a copy of this film. i told my mom during the closing credits that the gangs could have taken tony to the hospital instead of maria singing somewhere. then there were george chakiris and rita moreno -- bernardo and anita, scene-stealing roles that deserved the oscars. i was dumbfounded by their dancing. up until now, i've never seen someone dance as elegantly as chakiris while moreno was bold and grandiose. natalie wood as maria was at her most beautiful. the world should remember her no less than an adept actress and the absurd rumors surrounding her love life and death are just products of the mean streaks of the hollywood machine.
gone with the wind (1939) directed by victor fleming -- a young doctor on new year's eve categorized this drivel as the ultimate chick flick. but this only make me marvel about the first and third world analogy. while hollywood was producing this wondrous colour combinations in 1939, our local showbiz was still embedded in black and white milieus even way into the 70's. the concept of an english theatre actress playing a celebrated american heroine was an idea for the ages. vivien leigh was mesmerising. scarlett was the bad ass other woman with great resilience. melanie was the goody two-shoes, dutiful wife. and i'm a great fan of the actresses who played them.
wizard of oz(1939) directed by victor fleming -- another classic from 1939. one of the great films that has launched tons of cliches and metaphors. as kids and teeners, it's a kaleidoscope of colors, a magical land with witches and leprechauns. a pensive nostalgia to how wonderful judy garland's voice was.
the godfather(1972) -- directed by francis ford coppola a staple of every best films list. the depth and breadth of this gripping saga of the corleone family belongs to the ages. i got sucked into the vortex of the story and the performances of the fantastic cast -- brando, pacino, robert duvall, james caan. michael corleone was the silent water, the great chameleon, the pseudo-reluctant mobster whose penchant for ideological bloodshed is more ingrained than his father. marlon brando as don vito may be the most lampooned character in all of history. but don vito corleone was no caricature. he held court in his kingdom and his minions are submerged in the resonance of power in those jarring voice and piercing gape.
the godfather II (1972) -- directed by francis ford coppola how could you, michael? how could you? that was only me wailing after the closing credits. the sequel to the first godfather may have also been a prequel as we see a young vito corleone played by de niro rise to the top of his world and michael corleone descent into the pathos of obsession. critics are a bit harsher to the director on this compelling aftermath. how could they? it still leaves a lot of queries and i'm still asking.
when i was in grade three, our adviser took us, her pupils, to the garden in front of our homeroom. or was it a different garden? i can't remember anymore. it was too long ago. anyhow, she asked each one of us to draw the vista hovering in our midst thinking we were all future van goghs. i was dumbfounded, i couldn't even draw a straight line. i was sweating and panicking. but i was nine, too young to be jittery. i probably did miserably but i was not reduced to tears. i couldn't do any art, i accepted that fact by the time i learned how to write the alphabet.
but the teenage beauty is truly exquisite. when i was young, tita wan was the uber-musician with the voice to behold. now she's this iridescent artist i simply adore.
as a person who bask in the dazzle of hermitary lifestyle, spending time on my own or with my nearest next of kin is a joyous moment. not being a people person though is hardly socially crippling. i just limit the convivial stages amongst my kindred spirits.
and aside from watching tons of crap tv, i try to read. practically my whole life, i've been a highly-delinquent reader. i should read more than i what i'm doing presently. i should add to my reading items everytime i'll be in transit rather than ramble and mutter under my breath for the eternity i have to loiter in airports while waiting for my flight or the confounding hours spent boarded in the plane crossing the oceans of the earth. i've also been trapped in queues, lots and lots of queues. the dizzying capsule i try to consume by foaming in the mouth and lingering in limbo before an appointment or the ordinary activity of sitting stagnant in the tube, i should be perusing a classic paperback.
spending time with the written word, no matter how shallow, or whether or not the mixtures of vowels and consonants, sentences, gerunds and phrases are fluid and rhetorical, is simply bliss.
More than six years ago (2002), I wrote a piece on the jagged landscape of philippine soaps. Just like any other observer, my commentaries were not devoid of impartialities. A mere decade earlier in 1992, soaps were merely afternoon staples on Philippine tv. Then came La Traidora from Venezuela on RPN. After valeria and Morrel tied the knot in the jungle, primetime on Philippine television, which was dominated by news programs and sitcoms, changed its algorithm in 1996 with the vengeful and confrontational Mexican soap Marimar (played by Thalia) still on RPN 9.
With Marimar thrashing the competition, ABS-CBN moved the diary riddle of Mara Clarato primetime. The ever-suffering Mara then transformed into the good-natured Esperanza and the rest of the wannabes followed suit. But even before Mara Clara made its presence felton primetime, GMA-7 was already showing Villa Quintana with Donna Cruz as the lead. At that time, I couldn't feel Villa Quintana's impact at all, as though nothing was happening so we'd rather watch the news.
In the present landscape, soaps dominate and the foundation of a showbiz career. Cinema is too costly, relegated to second fiddle status. Viewing a soap is hardly an exercise in brain function. There's always a love triangle, a love twist, a love so endearing it travels through time. More than likely, we know how it is going to end. Most story lines are highly incredulous. Some writers indulge on too much whim, too much flair rather than keeping it compact and simple. The tube is inundated with too many remakes and fantasy series. the scenes are replete with confrontational acting -- characters bawling, slapping, drowning in shouting arguments. I don't believe in the manifestation of bad manners, even on this escapist pursuit. It's high time to bring out to fore the practice of values education, learned and inculcated in school or taught to us by our elders.
Like the weather, soaps are a conversation piece amongst one's peers. But I solely focus on JAS whenever I'm able to receive transmission. While a peek of Iisa Pa Lamang was to marvel on how Gabby C. could be passed off as Claudine's childhood contemporary, so it shoudn't be offered to me as part of my entertaining snack. One of these days, TV's movers and shakers will realize that the pinoy mind isn't made of rubbish and local television will come up with something substantial, not just the main meal ticket for the great pretenders.
For the Philippine remake of Marimar, it's the role of a lifetime. I'm not a fan. But I would look back at the video above with fondness. All the girls who auditioned will carve a successful path and those with talent and charisma will prevail.
i love michael phelps and kept tracked of his remarkable accomplishments from the sydney olympics, the world's in '03, the olympics in athens, the world's in 05, the world's in 07. unlike ian thorpe's predictions, i knew the phelp's is an immense achiever. usain bolt and the jamaicans are a revelation, although the trash talk is quite off-putting. nevertheless until now, i still can't shake off the image of marion jones falling from grace. didn't she have the all clear back in the sydney olympics?
ma lin finally won a major title while the lanky frame of wang liqin snatched up the bronze medal. i don't get a lot of table tennis fix these days as i did with espn-star sports asia days except for an odd broadcast here and there in eurosport. if there's one discipline i favor a chinese win, it's definitely pingpong, in contrast to the manufactured divers, weightlifters or boxers. zhang yining against wang nan for the gold medal, nice.
for every michael phelps or kosuke kitajima, there was laura manadou or katie hoff or even brendan hansen, swimmers whom i thought were going to win but didn't. it's been fun to acquaint myself with the likes of chris paul, carlos boozer, tayshaun prince, dwight howard, chris bosh and even dwyane wade -- one amazing player. lebron james, simply lives up to the hype. i have to mute the commentators against the matches with spain and argentina as they were hoarsely screaming for the underdogs. the gap is now non-existent between the NBA players and the europeans as the likes of wade, james and kobe bryant were still on the floor in the closing minutes just to fight off the pesky spaniards in the highly-competitive gold medal match (photo:getty images).
the legendary british team was simply superb in the velodrome. as the documentary from the beeb states, a medal haul is a definite possibility when a sport is "well-funded. " it's quite odd because you only read about chris hoy and bradley wiggins during the olympics, not even during the world championships. Team GB has done well with their best olympics in the past century. we'll probably witness veritable knighthoods awarded in the days ahead. i still have time to play back the equestrian events, rhythmic gymnastics, probably women's basketball and all others, if i get free time in the hour, taekwondo. and after five years, i got the hang of michael johnson annotating for the bbc. matt biondi , janet evans writing for yahoo! sports were captivating reads, for me at least.
london gets its chance in 2012, a tantalizing prospect. would the same athletes shine? would there be a new breakthrough of stars? would the same nations flourish? it all boils down to resources and grassroots programs. china have 1.3 billion people. jamaica's population is only 2.7 million, several notches lower than manila alone, but collected 11 medals. while the philippines is aligned with pakistan and bangladesh as populous countries with no medals.
as the utmost armchair fan, i ask for nothing more than bronze for RP, any other hues is merely an extra special bonus.
the first week of the olympics wasn't exactly ideal for me. the tv in our bacolod abode only had one channel for the olympic coverage and only during the evenings with tons and tons of infomercials during the day. one cable provider in my hometown doesn't cut it for sports enthusiasts, making me muff watching the gymnastics events, one of my favorite things. i got the brunt of the hubby missing his team GB parade during the opening ceremonies and that's because of the adverts, one minute coverage for ten minute commercials. we were watching more product ads than the show itself and compelling us to sing the Coke pinoy jingle by heart. it's probably not fair to compare the RP's olympic broadcast with the beeb and eurosport coverages, their websites alone are olympic candy delights, but a UK IP address an absolute must.
it's gravely disappointing that my home country is not in the medals table, we've not been in the medals tally since 1996, not even close, not even a single filipino athlete was in contention. what happened to the boxers from bago? a city that has produced world-class amateur boxers? if a team from mongolia can win a boxing gold medal, what about us? is it so highly-imaginable for the philippines to mirror the sports program of vietnam? we're not talking china here or even russia or not even thailand or indonesia or malaysia. singapore has a medal. singapore? our ASEAN neighbors have sailed past us in the sports arena and our officials are still quite nonchalant. there's more to life than catering to the least common denominator.
i'm still in a quandary whether i made the right decision. should i have uprooted my baby album from our family house? heavily tattered by years of wear and tear, i had to re-package my first collection of photos into a new picture anthology, still preserving my mom's legacy by retainingher lovely captions. my baby book with all the vital informations is still with the youngins. the photo above was during my first birthday held at my lolas house. my titas one and two were starting grade six and tita ais was in high school. my lola cel and dels, my mom's aunts, took the place of my maternal grandmother who passed away two years before i was born. with the outpouring of emotions, i miss my lola cel and dels terribly.
a bit of nostalgia has bitten me when i was repairing my album. this is me with my tita jon, my mom's cousin. she's my brother butch's godmother. she was only 19 in this photo. the last time i can recall any conversations with her was during her wedding way back when i was eight. she has settled in new jersey since the 80's and and because it's not exactly next door, i can't remember seeing her again. but her kids, especially the younger one, i reminisce with remarkable fondness.
it's a long standing cliche that i've never ventured that far south of negros. the farthest i've been was isabela and that was only because it was my dad's hometown. i've conveyed through the north a few times. literrally in transit as it was, as escalante is the gateway to cebu and jomabo island, another offshoot of my white sand frolic.
yes, sipalay is a wonder and provokes one to forget boracay exists. from bacolod, the roads leading to district six are quite tricky especially when it's dark, lamp posts or any lights for that matter are not aplenty, driving very carefully is a must. as hazy as my memory is, i can only remember a few road towns and cities (i've got mention them officially) on the way to sipalay -- bago, valladolid, pontevedra, hinigaran, binalbagan, himamaylan, kabankalan and cauayan then there's sipalay, 173 km from bacolod, the farthest i've travelled within the negros island. not a keen traveller nor an ardent backpacker, i gaze at the travel photos of my friends with a hearty smile with nary a hint of jealousy and envy. but every few years, there are photo ops. i savor those provincial and regional encampments during the girl scout years and the solitary student writer's conference i attended outside of bacolod, in janiuay, iloilo.
the mountain views in the chicks (cauayan, hinobaan, ilog, candoni, kabankalan and sipalay) area are a sight to behold. how i wish i would always have ample time to do my bit of exploring. once in sipalay, the concourse leading to the various sights and resorts is even more perilous than i expected, charting the route during nighttime requires a more intense concentration. but once we reach our destination, it was all worth it. the beach usually burns my skin and it did. that was what occured when i didn't dig deep to acquire the right sunblock. the island hopping was exquisite but my epidermis was already too distressing from the sun rays to even try spelunking. we enjoyed the spatter of history in campomanes bay and gawking at the opulent english divers in high gear at the resort makes me content of being a non-diver. if plummeting to the deepest oceans is for the posh and adventurous, then judy ann santos is posh with her diving endeavors. i'm one for sitting around the edge of the pool and swim in the pool for sissies.
there's also whale watching across the road in the oriental side of negros and a bunch of other beauties not only in cauayan nearby but all across the province. cauayan is huge. on the way back, i've noticed that we were driving for an hour and we were still in cauayan.
as a prelapsarian youth learning the ways of the world in bacolod, i was only accustomed to punta taytay. in high school, our farewell parties and day-long tidings to the summer consisted of a few miles outside the city--- taloc beach in bago sophomore year, balangigay beach in pontevedra in junior year and canonoy beach in hinigaran. those were already joyous moments. a few more in adulthood wouldn't hurt one bit.
i've come across pages from my psych assignment in my freshmen year in la salle avenue. it wasn't that awful. my sentences were mostly grammatically correct and the instructor was generous. but two years before that i was rebuked by a high school teacher for over-reaching on a paperwork -- i featured three topics instead of one with photos. i didn't compose it badly but was nonetheless announced to the class as an example of what-not-to-do for the subject task. in retrospect, i think the teacher was a bit backward in her approach. my words may not have been high-falluting or great sounding as written on the essay she gave the highest mark on but it was certainly far from the tedious outputs of some classmates.
during my schooldays and a couple of years post-grad the typewriter was my fantasy possession. getting through class would have been breezier if i owned just a compact word device but since we were hard-up -- that and the most advanced calculator for my high school trigonometry woes were not the top ranked priorities in our family's financial scheme. by the time i was able to afford and purchase a portable word processor, the laptop was all the rage and i have to slowly succumb to all things digital and its peripheries.
gazing through old photographs, my mom certainly had the words, especially with her captions. her handwriting were always top class as presented in our family albums and old letters. i grew up dusting and organizing her collection of books. she was an avid hoarder and a wide reader and a speckle of her good qualities rub off on me. so when i was thrown in the deep ends of the chiz pits in adulthood, i may have been grasping for breath and got categorized as highly-peculiar without the lenses but the view is bereft of uncivilized edicts of the snobbish ton.
some tiny ants though have attacked a copy of my jane austen classic and three works by dickens. they simply adore a taste of singapore paper. to utilize an overhyped slang, there's no use crying over spilled milk as i can easily avail of copies from an oxfam branch. a 1991 magic johnson paperback profile was heavily battered and needed to be thrown away but i found another copy untouched and all pages secured -- quite a charm.
nothwithstanding all its problems, london is still cool.
and an art exhibit. so if you have the time, check out her etsy page for some charming artworks.
miami or join the peace corps by feeding the orphans in romania? but the writers and producers thought the audiences love tearful storylines --- dr. green dying of brain tumor, romano's catastrophic encounter with the falling helicopter, michael gallant being blown up in iraq, lucy knight tragic stabbing by a deranged patient.
