celeb road trip

spain on the road again, the food and travel series featuring chef mario batali, actress gwyneth paltrow, new york times writer mark bittman and spanish actress claudia bassols was an enlightening vignette on the beauty and substance of one of europe's most exquisite of destinations. i'm not a gwyneth paltrow fan but i was an avid viewer of mario batali's molto mario on the food channel and i'm always beguiled by the scenic and gastronomic appeal of a spanish road trip. the mercedes convertible was a useful product placement. the views, as the cast were driving, were majestic. the show also included a tour of great spanish structures like frank gehry's guggenheim in bilbao and gaudi's creations in barcelona. although as the 13 episodes were wrapping up, the eating and dining replaced the previous activities of cooking demos by famous spanish chefs and mad me long for the impromptu paltrow quips, " i cook like this at home, she's not teaching me anything."

the cast drifted in and out of the show for breaks to see their children and cater to their commitments. thus there were a few episodes without mrs. chris martin and about two or more sans the rotund silhouette of mr batali. the lovely ms bassols meanwhile was present during most of the proceedings and enliven the tedious program with her linguistic skills, perkiness and all-around appetite. whereas miss paltrow shudders from the smell and sight of meat, bassols chews her jamon with relish. the men provided the informative voiceovers and shouldered most of the driving at the outset but relinquished the reins of the wheel on the way to madrid. the visit of michael stipe was inspired. how did they know i listen to REM? as a friend of both batali and paltrow, the rock star was there to give the show even more luminary panache. i couldn't shake off gwyneth paltrow's exuberance after her first bite of mallorca's ensaimada (i reckon it perceives the same nibble as the ensaymada of my people) and the thrill in munching her favorite paella. though as a child of one's of spain's colonies, i would chose valenciana over paella any day.

kate and leo

" hey leo, do you think you can date supermodels and win awards?"
--jack black in a musical skit during the 79th annual academy awards --

"do you think leonardo dicaprio would ever win an award?"
"no. leonardo dicaprio cannot act."
- random conversation in my marital nook -

as one of the few people who have not seen titanic, i've never been really mesmerized with the pretty boy from the tragic cruise ship. i'm not such a tree hugger either while he's passionate about the environment. but i watch dicaprio's films every now and again (except of course that james cameron movie). his starrers are not all brilliant but rather that than some inane features i would never get. although i'm still tiptoeing on revolutionary road, another study of suburban disenchantment from sam mendes, the reunion with kate winslet is certainly a charming idea. both have come a long way and have become even more skilled thespians. winslet has more academy award nominations than any other actress her age. although my husband believes the academy of motion pictures, arts and sciences is merely a secret society of ageing actors (the first rule of the academy is not to talk about the academy!) and time surely flies since i've read about the acting plans of the talented mrs. mendes, i thought kate winslet is still on a sabbatical and floating in domesticity. but two years hence and here comes excellent portrayals in both the reader and revolutionary road.

the machinery of hope

cutting my teeth in the homeland with a childhood partially rooted in the marcos dictatorship, my adolescent years bore witness to the return of the pinoy oligarchs in the aquino and ramos years while my adulthood got hopelessly frustrated with unabashed rumors of graft and corruption of the estrada and macapagal-arroyo presidencies. philippine government has been a merry-go-round of political promises gone haywired. in high school, i truly enjoyed social studies (araling panlipunan) as a subject, granted that i went to a state school for my elementary and secondary education. i was oblivious to the schools of the rich in our city, places of learning managed and run by the catholic nuns, the laSalle brothers and the wealthy chinese. but my brand of education was competitive enough to prevail in any local or national university where the rules for good grades apply whether or not your family own the entire archipelago. but after finishing school, the rules suddenly changes, money and family connections come into the picture, it's a wee bit trickier finding the right job if your surname is not connected to a huge business conglomerate.

as i read the pages of echoes, (delivered to my grasp by the gorgeous ivy) a slender book of discerning observations of the filipino psyche, norms and value systems, i began to question my culture's third world mentality. within the diaspora, it's not that bad, despite proliferating in the comfort zones of gossips and karaoke sessions. but the adjuncts of poverty are rooted in the mainstream -- the changing of attitudes and mentalities, altering laws so that majority can benefit rather than the country's gilded few, like the eye-opener from my personal experience, e.g. the contractual grinds for stock shelvers and salespersons in department stores and supermarkets and the friendly wait staff in the food industry without philhealth and other benefits. it's obvious that giving the workers permanent jobs would incur severely on profit margins of the severely wealthy. but there should be a lawmaker bold enough to help out the improverished rather than cuddle the corporate pockets of the country 's commercial hierarchy. but through the years, no matter how much the truth torments us, we all know that the idea of a model pinoy politician is a pipe dream. still ever the optimist, i'm not losing hope with the future ingenuity of my people.

mixed bag

writing blogs, as it often does, never fail to resurrect my dilapidated spirit from stupefying stupor. but it's such a hindrance when i couldn't construct sentences as fast and as frequently as i want, as my workload would only allow a few traces of downtime. television has been great company. still avoiding E! but a few glimpses of the delightful reality programs has kept me enraptured to the consumer driven lives of their protagonists. life is so much greater when one is rich and famous but to think about the number of people in the payroll --- the assistant, the agent, the make-up artist, the stylist, the bodyguard, the press relations officer, the butler, the gardener, the nanny, the driver, the chef, the housekeeper, etc. the amount of staff in the entourage guilelessly bewilders a non-people person like me.

flaunting my threads in the wintry air of central london, biding my time for summer, a lot more visits to the cinemas would be forthcoming this year or i would follow through my usual, miss the theatre run of a must-see film anew and wait for the dvd or blu-ray release, giving the large screen features entirely a miss. yet i'll be a dutiful spouse and catch the wrestler, get my hands dirty and paint a wall because i have no choice. revolutionary road or not, dicaprio is no mickey rourke.

living in a vacuum where no else is a sports fan aside from my immediate family may not have been an ideal existence but it's still a sustainable environment in the universe of various condiments. although i always wish it could be different and that there would be more enthralling topics for regular murmurs rather than the run of the mill gossips or at least a few more pop culture subjects. it's fine that the blue ladies may pay homage to nadal, federer during the wimbledon fortnight. but outside that continuum, from lance armstrong to bode miller to carlos sastre to valentino rossi to the biggest market in the sports world which is none other than football, interest is close to nil or nothing at all. better an armchair fan or none at all?

these days the scales are my enemy, stemming from my typing these very words, not balancing my meals and stagnating in sweets and oil. i'll be using proper cliches soon once i manage to powerdance. i'm such an avid procrastinator, it hurts.

spite alert

not one to imbibe diabolical guises from the people within the cultural faction, i always cringe when i'm a witness to incomprehensible temper. not that i'm immune to random splurge of anger. quite the contrary, as i used to be quite the glass-thrower in my not so long- ago youth. but then i got older and decided to shed off my harrowing blaze of immaturity. however potent exposures to lethal looks and chilling animosities and sarcasms deflate the vitality of the most charming of dispositions. it's not as if the couple of cruella de villes are well-versed in the topic of discourse or recondite in all subjects and very articulate in the discussion of the fine points of baader meinhoff complex or the surreal images of waltz with bashir or can namedrop russian authors. but despite the engaging beauty of their images, they're still able to forge friendship amongst the status quo and mingle in the same very limited circle we all circumnavigate.

message in a jar

It would mean getting up at seven and cooking him eggs and bacon and toast and coffee and dawdling about in my nightgown and curlers after he'd left for work to wash up the dirty plates and make the bed, and then when he came home after a lively and fascinating day he'd expect a big dinner, and I'd spend the evening washing up even more dirty plates till I fell into bed, utterly exhausted.

And I knew that is spite of all the roses and kisses and restaurant dinners a man showered on a woman before he married her, what he secretly wanted was for her to flatten out underneath his feet like Mrs Willard's kitchen mat.

as i read sylvia plath's words from her novel, the bell jar above, i'm reminded of the irony portrayed in the poem henpecked husband by robert burns (1759-1796), one of scotland's finest poets.

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to a tyrant wife!
Who has no will but by her high permission,
Who has not sixpence but in her possession,
Who must to her his dear friend's secrets tell,
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell.
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit or I'd break her heart;
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch.

the bell jar is a fascinating account of a woman's descent into mental illness. esther greenwood is an easy character to like and it's not always easy to like overachieving women. they might be smart and highly-talented but some have imperious qualities -- uptight bitches who have the knack to antagonize anyone who falls on their wrong side, it might be a spouse (thus the poem), colleagues or friends or merely people in general. though tyrannical attitudes are not merely limited to overachievers. there are also nonentities who can be such great pain in the ass. but esther, despite her straight A's, was stricken with debilitating feelings of inferiority and in the end you wanted her to conquer her fears and rise above the challenges and sad circumstances that befell her young orbit. sylvia plath, who unlike her heroine's attempts, succeeded in the curtailing her own life at 31, but the bell jar and all her other works are more than enough legacy for her adoring public.

kate's globes

kate winslet's twin triumphs at the golden globes were not exactly the shock surprises of pop culture. the greatest actress of her generation is bound to exhibit those coveted statuettes in one of her houses. she is in all magnificence, a gifted thespian, adorable in The Holiday, and even more excellent in her more serious and significant roles. but. there's a but, you ask? she's english, with a middle class upbringing in Reading, or even if she grew up in the estates, there's a not so secret code in the impropriety of showing emotions in public. stiff-upper lip is an attribute of the british people. it's remarkable that an english rose prevailed after a string of nominations, however she should have shown restraint in her acceptance speeches. i didn't write that. it was emblazoned in this headline and in this article and all other big and small papers printed in the UK. the daily mirror even came up with their top ten list of tottering oratories. as for my views, i have yet to learn proper articulation and decorum in my public elocutions, so i think the winslet rhetorics were absolutely splendid.

*Best Supporting Actress – The Reader

"OK, you have to forgive me because I have a habit of not winning things. [She puts award on the floor then picks it up]. No that doesn't feel right putting that down ... Penelope, Amy, Marissa and Viola. It is such an honour to be in your company ... Sorry this is going on a bit but I'm gonna make the most of it. I must also, I really must also thank our hair and make-up department ... Anthony Minghella and Sydney Pollack were producers on this film. They died while we were filming and they never got to see the finished product; I hope they would have been proud. My husband Sam for your incredible support ... I'm sorry I was so mental at the end. And my children Mia and Joe who are watching this on TV. Look, I won!"

*Best Actress – Revolutionary Road

"I'm so sorry Anne, Meryl, Kristin, and oh God, who's the other one? Angelina. Now, forgive me. Gather. This is really happening ... Thank you so much. You should wrap up. You have no idea how much I'm not wrapping up ... I want to thank the late great Richard Yates for writing this remarkable novel ... Leo, I'm so happy I can stand here and tell you how much I love you and how much I've loved you for 13 years. And your performance in this film is nothing short of spectacular‚ And my husband Sam. Thank you for directing this film, babe, and thank you for killing us every single day. It made me love you more."

january nine

january nine is my mom's birthday. her passing had been a tremendous blow to all of us who will forever love and cherish her. when i was in high school, she would always cajole me to let her read my mother's themed essays written in the classroom. this piece constructed in the month of my wedding do not do her essence, her all around beauty, justice. one of our last activities together was browsing around in bookstores after dad's funeral. she loved reading. i've casually inherited her talent for congregating books and magazines. she taught all of us, her kids, the good graces. we deeply miss her.

shelf boxes

e conteas a brand new year unfolds, some of my witty friends are contemplating in hibernation as marked by their facebook's walls. the needless bustle on the so-called middle-aged urges a withered spirit to discombobulate. if one is single, no matter how rich and successful the individual could be, his or her life is incomplete, or to some simpletons, a failure because of a lack of a romantic entanglement. if a person is dating, the macrocosm is all abuzz on the date of wedding bells. if a poor soul gets encumbered into marriage, his or her little corner of the universe would be rendered lamentable if there are no patters of tiny feet in his or her tiny abode. there would be a lot more squares to tick for one's category. but i'll mark a period on the last square as i've reached my stage. i have two white labeled carton boxes on top of our bookshelf containing my babies' ashes, the boy and the girl i was supposed to have, born lifeless, their heartbeats stopped beating by 20 weeks in utero. i know there are lot more cases of stillbirths around. i once asked, why i had to have two remorseful episodes? the tea room clique would offer their theories but not the help in toning down the temper and the stressors. but the truly nice ones prevail over the rest of the subjective few. although i'm still shattered (what a wimp!) whenever i see expecting colleagues on desk jobs, display their bumps to all and many, my heart goes out to those who struggle especially the soft-spoken, the helpful and the well-mannered who have also bled and lost.