Bill Murray on Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations

Saved this in the draft boards about a year ago. The words escaped me then just because... I was who I was. I could not remember what I was thinking then but certainly knew what I was going through.
Now all I can feel is that I am dying to pack my bags again, to roam the nooks and crannies of my choosing. And also, I'm hungry again.

The Happy Light Deluxe

Trying to come out of the bog that has swallowed me the past year. My only solace has been my DVR that always waits for me in my bedroom baring gifts-- Conan, Community, Parks and Rec, Big Bang Theory, Game of Thrones, Mad Men, The Walking Dead, even the schmaltzy Hampton fare Revenge... I could go on. Whatever feeds my flannel-wearing, olive-coloured fancy I ingest through a tube (as well as through cable and wi-fi) as my once youthful backside rots away like my hold to well-being. My sweet friend Shivaun has been imploring me to go back to blogging/writing/what-have-you, for that is just in her character to be supportive of me notwithstanding well, everything--warts, shingles scars and all. Truth is I miss writing but the quag is thick, unmoving and unpalatable as pea soup after 1973. 

Truth is depression is a bitch. Life is a bitch. I do not wish to tear at life's weave in a Love & Hip-Hop cat fight. I just wish to live it and, no matter my anti-social tendencies, live IN it. I am slathered in blessings yet I act like a first-world ingrate. I am sick of melancholy. I am sick of mundane bull-shit. I am sick of other people and the banal. I am sick of me. I am sick of being sick. Carpe diem even if there is not enough of it this time of the year (grrr) and even if youth and a fast metabolism are not on my side (arrrgh). At the very least, just blog the shit out of it....

the lust

I'm into my 48th hour of Anthony Bourdain's No Reservation marathon that has led up to his return to the city of his first episode, Paris, this time along with the bafflingly soft-spoken Eric Ripert. I also happen to be 5 days into my bed-in of nothing that is neither Lennon nor (Larry David's not Marriage Ref Jerry's) Seinfeld and more like sleeping next to a pile of laundry. As the last weeks of summer trickle away, the walls that smell like take-out, close in and I am swallowed by my cheap, crumb-strewn mattress, I itch to live a sliver of this person's life that I see on the idiot box. I have always been hounded of the there's-more-to-life but cannot necessarily act on it nor afford it all the time.

As the daughter of a school librarian/social studies teacher and a civil engineer my Potter-esque destiny is set in Muggle world. So aside from the encyclopedic (i.e. Book of Knowledge) wonders of world, the foodie fest, better weather and far better manners I wish to partake in, I thought I should keep these links in my backpack pockets. Slightly less magic. More nerd. Some caffeine.

1. The Most Amazing Libraries in the World

2. The Most Amazing Bookstores in the World

And something closer to home current zip code,

3.  America's Most Amazing Libraries

Niceties and Garbage

This is easily the kind of thing I spook my friends with. Except for a very precious few, I am surrounded by a confounding amount people that I have nothing in common with. Sure their concern may be sincere as much as the details that precede may be titillating fodder during mouthfuls of lechon and carbonara. I could be in a room full of my green-joking, work story-swapping and karaoke-belting ilk but I'd still feel hollow... and alone.

Happiness lately is to be curled up in an oft unmade bed, in a finally silent house that is not mine, cackling maniacally to the bleeped continental profanities of Craig Ferguson addressing his Skeleton Army or; witness Colbert in full-on right-wing smarm call a Coulter-clone's writing racist and banal or; swoon over Stewart and his fine Mexican waiter ass and all while commiserating with fellow absurdist comedy nerds in Team Coco. Even yukking it up on Chelsea's panel and eviscerating pop culture with sigh-inducing McHale have been salve to the spirits after January's clusterfuck. (At least until November.)

Yes, that is me. That is my life. I can happily take your kid to school but I may blow-off your barbecues here and there. I may forget to buy a baby shower gift but that cake I bought from Ya-ya's is from the heart (and I promise I'll get you a real gift!) and NO, I will not go out with any of your relatives. Don't bother putting in a good word to the next available young doctor who comes through the door that I have to coach through ordering a protocol Heparin drip. Please refrain from advertising in my behalf that I am trying to land a white dude. Don't go asking people in happy relationships if they have a brother to spare, just because I happen to get along with them. I can call on you for being profoundly gauche but that just may go over your head or if just barely, leads to nothing but trite exchanges of douche-baggery from both of us. I'd rather be watching Quackers the shit-eating duck and, reliving Norm MacDonald's moth joke. I respect that you find rock concerts and clubbing bacchanal and museums are not your thing. Find a hobby like cross stitch or purchase new drapes. We may not be kindred spirits but I am still a friend. And yes, I have a huge lady-jones for Shirley Manson.

Now leave me to my videos.

Super Bowl Commercials

Okay, okay I must admit that I have skipped this year's All-American tradition to watch an ANTM Obsessed marathon on Oxygen, despite a sentimental connection with a much loved former mentor, who's been a resolute Yellow/White/Black speck in a sea of Purple Friday fanatics. I've known the Steelers were going to win in dramatic a fashion for that's the Steelers. My growing and  rather hard-won sports zeal has been anti-climactic with the Ravens' loss to Pittsburgh for the AFC championship. Oh well, from abysmal and laughable, to a head-to-head with a Super Bowl champ, isn't bad at all for rookie Joe Flacco and Coach Harbaugh. Not quite the Cinderella story yet but, there is always next year for a Purple Reign. So there, that's as far as I can go for sports. Coming from me, thats quite much.

My own motivation on Super Bowl Sundays sit-thrus have always been the commercials. This year I rather watch them online instead of foregoing bathroom breaks. The Doritos and the booze commercials (leather clad Conan, yay!) get the laughs but I go for expensive sentimental shit like the Pepsi commercial featuring a young Bob Dylan in full Gaslight glory. It invokes the same feelings watching those Pepsi ads of the Berlin Wall crumbling and the I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing Coke ads in childhood. My waistline and the back of my thighs have sworn off soda's but, thanks for bookmarking history happening in my lifetime, corporate titans.

A Charlie Brown Christmas

To simpler times and the enduring wisdom of Peanuts...

A Dose of Paul Rudd

Finally, a viral clip of the SNL skit from last November that hasn't been swallowed into NBC's corporate copyrighting vortex-- never to be seen in it's original state except in regurgitated YouTube tribute videos--pure and warm like dance biscuits. Features the yumminess that is Paul Rudd, Sasha Fierce and some interesting uses of leotards. Harkens me back to my Saturday ballet/jazz/hula lessons except instead of high heels (or in this case, Stride Rites) I wore these shaolin/mary jane/chinese shoes and had a bowl haircut. Nothing like a good laugh on nasty days like these.

   

"Happy Birthday, Samantha. Make a Wish."

or The Tao of Long Duk Dong and Other Wisdoms for the Ages From the 80's

"You know a girl in a hat is just so...vogue."--Farmer Ted

Eureka, HDTV! For reasons beyond my brain cells, my cable unit can finally grant my humble Sylvanna flatscreen/DVD combo to beam in pop culture images--rendered sharp, shimmery as a fond memory, courtesy of all-American hi-def mania-- into my confined hideaway in Suburbia. The landmark paean to teenage nadirs and nirvanas, seemed less dated and vintage and more like an ad tribute to John Hughes styled by American Apparel and Urban Outfitters. It also illuminated the fact that at least four or five of my grade school attires from '84 to'86 are different versions of  Molly Ringwald's outfit in the opening scenes. The hat came later.

"Why do you think you're a dork? I don't think you're a dork. I don't think Mom thinks you're a dork. "
"Mike thinks I'm a dork."

" Mike is a dork."  

"So am I."

 --Jim and Samantha Baker

"That's why they call them crushes. If they were easy, they'd call them something else."-- Jim Baker.

The dorks-and-crushes scene is every heart-to-heart father-daughter talk I've ever shared with my own Dad, down to the sleeveless undershirt and the pajamas and the sofa and the assurance of personal happiness only a father can conjure.

"I do independent study with her. I catch her lookin' at me a lot. It's kinda cool, the way she's always lookin' at me. "
"Maybe she's retarded." -- Jake Ryan and jock friend.

Question 1.  After 1984 and exponentially through the early to mid-90's, why is it that every teenage dream object of lust for the every-girl looks like this?

(Of course, until Jordan Catalano came along and started leaning on things and haunted the school hallways of our redhead psyches did we have an alternative but, that is another Zeitgeist and a whole other blog post... or website.) As one aptly titled essay succintly breaks down:

"... Jake stands the test of time, even in his good looks. His wardrobe -- cargo pants, plaid shirt -- portends an Abercrombie vibe years before it came. His haircut requires only minor tweaking in a mental update of the fantasy. "

Question 2. Why do above-mentioned teenage dream objects of lust always own a pair of topsiders?

"I can't believe I gave my panties to a geek." --Samantha.

For the past three years or so, before my friend Shivaun, before my parents, before my sisters, my BFF since birth, and whatever number of friends I have, way before I have no choice but to remember, without fail, the first entity to wish me Happy Birthday is... Victoria's Secret. And it always comes with an offer to get a free panty.

"Would you stop feeling sorry for yourself? It's bad for your complexion."--Randy to Samantha.

How many best friends in my life, including my mother, have said this to me in one way or another. And most times, in all grateful angst, I  reply, 

"It's really human of you to listen to all my bullshit."-- Samantha to Farmer Ted.

Then, there is the immortal utterance from Samantha that still echoes,

"Donger's here for five hours, and he's got somebody. I live here my whole life, and I'm like a disease."

Oh well, like she said to Farmer Ted,

"Well that’s pretty cool. Hey, but a lot can happen over a year. I mean, you could come back next fall as a completely normal person."

A girl can always hope, sixteen and twice over and more. 

BTW, the opener of this YouTube tribute brings back memories of my eldest sister dancing on top of somebody's tomb (pan-tyon) in my Dad's hometown a day before All Saint's Day

And in closing (and I could be paraphrasing),

"No more Yankee my wanky. Donger need food!"

SHOOED!!

Uhm, perhaps the phrase, "May the fleas of a thousand camels invade your armpits!" did not suffice?


Embedded video from CNN Video.

What do you think Carrie Bradshaw would have done?

Huhh?! WTF?

Bringin' Bitches Back

In the cusp of Hillary Clinton becoming Secretary of State, this is in honor of a role model or in this clip, three. After 18 million cracks at that glass ceiling, here's to hoping at running down the walls of a world where this is nothing but for women.

And thank you too, Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. You called it last February. You said it all.

another Mad night

Before the New York Magazine article, my writer sister has already alerted me through my Facebook wall about the works of this talented New York lady on Flickr. She captures immortal scenes from the beloved cult series down to it's essence. She might as well have pinned down every Mad Men fanatic and dissected their brain with a laser and looked into that smoky corner in their cerebrum where they hold Sterling Cooper dear.

I, of course, have the Twistin' Peggy from the Hobo Code and this eerily familiar set-up from the pilot with Ms. Olson and a not so noble physician. I have not been a fan of Betty Draper until Season Two when I've finally decided that January Jones may just be an actress to reckon with. Check out Dyna Moe's punk-rock take on everyone's favorite Nordic model-turned-homemaker. Ah, how's about Joan Hollaway? To adore the redheaded office Marilyn is a given.

Rumor alert! A certain gun-toting, former beauty queen Republican running for VP may just be in next Saturday's SNL and may be running into Donald Draper. Hmmm, I can envision a Bobbie Barrett kind of scenario ala The Benefactor ep. I'm sure they have a lot in common. Really.

more Fey, yay to the Queen, Marky Mark, & PBS

I was working Saturday night but I did get to catch this opening clip while transfusing PRBC at one of my darling ladies' bedside.

 

I caught these other two clips from the NBC website the next day. The first one is spoof of my favorite underwear-modelling, "little brother". Wink, wink to my fellow New Kids fans.

The second one is dedicated (warm fuzzies & all) to my two sisters and befittingly, our parents who had never resorted to whoring us out despite our many talents and my incessant whinings to join Little Miss Philippines  and Binibining Agham (Miss Science). I ran for the Senate seat in my Catholic high school with nary a beauty title, except maybe Miss Grade One and failed attempts to get past the talent portion of Miss Future Homemakers of the Philippines (my talent was to beat the shit out of a boy. Yeah, seriously!). Thanks, Nay & Tay.

Palin comparison to Fey genius--the goddesses have spoken II

Another reason to worship on the altars of Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. What blows the mind is that they still maintain the dynamic of Fey as the straight man and Poehler as the manic Jerry Lewis-type despite that the latter has been assigned to the more "serious" role, i.e. Rodham-Clinton, Couric. The fact that Fey's Palin still comes out the wacky one in this equation reflects on Palin pretty much like how this New York Magazine article depict the state of her political image. Or this one on her comparable inarticulateness to another SNL character.

the Goddesses have spoken: "AND I CAN SEE RUSSIA FROM MY HOUSE."

If you can not see the video on this site, it is likely because EVERYONE is watching, embedding, sharing and emailing this instant classic skit as soon as it hit the Net for our downloading pleasure.

It speaks volumes about how despite the rhyme and rhetoric-- ranging from the lofty & beaming to Paris Hilton & idioms on porcine cosmetology--about change and making history, it still is an old boys club and they still get to choose who plays in the tree house.

There is ten times more forthrightness in beholding Roger Sterling going, "Crab, Duck. Duck, Crab."

In my humble (non-voter) opinion, CUT THE FUCKING TREE DOWN!

Hail La Fey!! Viva El Poehler!!! Kudos to Seth Meyers, you little cutie.

Killing Time Until The Season Premiere of Mad Men

House of Cards by Radiohead. Album: In Rainbows (2007)

Sorry fellas but Camden, NJ is just a tad too far from my side of the East Coast for one grrl to drive alone to. The area around Tweeter according to my Googling sure ain't no Columbia, MD. Please consider stopping by the BW area next time or maybe if you decide to extend your north American leg.

out-culture vulture

Click on title to know why then read on.

Well bless my bulgur and call me UNDRA queen. This third world progeny is hoisting the overtaking dirty finger at the New York literati for being slow to have caught on the show that is her "Freudian death wish," as Pete Campbell would put it. I may just be getting as cocky as the show's period chauvinists. My sister, Melissa, & I have dissected the disturbing deja vu Mad Men can incite from our sibling psyches despite that we have not really known that we both are obsessed with it until we get to reunite and catch up in my Vegas hotel room (yes, my life is never tawdry) which was kinda apropos (had to use the word. Hah! Take that Dan Kois and Lane Brown). Like Andy Garcia in the baby carriage-down-the-train-station-steps in the Untouchables she shoots, "Doesn't it remind you of old BISCOM?" I still have to turn our eldest sib, who has a namesake in the show btw, into a convert. Give in to the pomade, girdles and claustrophobia, sistah! As I am a Miranda (according to a Facebook app) in the SATC universe, I definitely am a Peggy (complete with irrational attraction to brainy, irascible jerks in the workplace) in this alternate thread.

The series plods but not in a bad critique kind of way but much like the eerie, poignant strains of an impending (symbolic?) suicide permeated by the music of the opening credits. We just sit back and watch the countdown of lives imploding in an era at the cusp of radical change. We tsk-tsk at the archaic standards of couthness and perceptions as much as we inwardly wish ourselves back into that world.

Personally, the lead character, Don Draper, is both the tip of this iceberg and the cherry on top. Jon Hamm is hot damn! I have not even bothered to mull on his Golden Globe-winning, Emmy-nominated performance. His Draper though is an antithesis but somehow reminds me of my father as I've seen him as a girl growing up. It's the immaculately combed hair, the white t-shirts, perspiring over a playhouse on a hot day, a hand laying on his sleeping daughter's forehead as he piles on the blankets after coming late from work and the scent of pomade, after-shave & nicotine that came with the strong, implacable air that both lead, awed and cowered lesser men. Ala FPJ.

Anyways, back to the middle finger. Even New York Times & Vanity Fair are in the bandwagon that dollies through the office of Sterling Cooper. Hmmm? So can you blame my cockiness? Perhaps I am just the product of my roots? As the saying goes, "Guina pala kag guina piko ang kwarta!"  and of course the immortal, "Indi kami tikalon!" To the literati, go figure that out.

Click here for Season Two teaser.

P.S. Thank you J. Harvey, you lovable, snarky Boston bear and the old Socialite Life site.

SEX DREAMS

"Year after year, twenty-something women come to New York City in search of the two "L's": labels and love. Twenty years ago... I was one of them."

It doesn't start with once upon a time, the middle is a shattered attempts at happily-ever-after, and ends with the possibility of a lucrative sequel. That is the most I can tell about the plot for I loathe to spoil this for my friend Shivaun who introduced me to the series and these characters whose lives we aspired for and the city we dreamed about.

Sex in the City has always been a personal thing for me that I watch alone except for my cat, Rodman and occasionally my sister Melissa, only to share and discuss extensively via text with Shivaun. After watching the movie surrounded by the literally well-heeled, pre-movie inebriated equivalent of Trekkies and Star Wars fanatics, it pretty much is the same with every fan wether they are into Gucci and Vuitton or Proust and Bronte.  This is more than just a chick-flick, it is a major catch-up with one very dear friend with some very pleasant surprises:

1. It's got something to do with the NY Public Library which by the way behind it is Fashion Week mecca, Bryant Park which I know could induce a sigh from my writer friend and fellow bibliophile Shivaun.

2. Charlotte Yorke whom I considered the fluffiest and scoff-worthy of the four, in three pivotal scenes brought in the biggest laugh (hint:Mexico), the loudest applause (with Big) and one rather out-of-character, feral moment on the street by Bryant Park which I didn't think Kristin Davis had it in her.

3. The two kids they casted as Charlotte's and Miranda's respective children, Lily and Brady provide precious touches, from Lily being the precocious, unwitting participant in the girl talk, to red-headed Brady sharing his mother's smile.

It just goes to show how much the actors have embraced their characters and how invested we are in their journey. The movie feels like one continous season marathon and like every season four years ago, we laugh, sigh, shed a tear or two, and say, "Oh shit!" fervently, religiously. Just like any night with your best friends.

The ReBUTTal

Should have posted this days ago but I have to go to work. Wishing I am doing the dirty with both Will Hunting and Jason Bourne at the same time (go figure) may be a lovely thought but that don't pay the bills.

I SO WISH...I SO DEFINITELY WOULD...

I am irrevocably besotted with Conan but Kimmel seems like an upstanding kind of guy. This goes to show all my lusting for 2007 People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive is not the least bit misguided and so worth the campaign from Pitt and Clooney. Sarah Silverman is one of the most insanely, deliriously, oh-no-you-didn't funniest persons on earth and one cool Jew BUT bitch totally stole my song!

of homecomings, random anxiety & mad men

Just my luck to happen into an AMC marathon for Mad Men. It has had a slew of good reviews for its spot-on depiction of the corporate world in the early 60s on the cusp of the Beatles, the sexual revolution, women's lib, and the surgeon general. Back then, Dylan was just another beatnik unknown from Minneapolis yet to sing his way to the Gaslight. America was still replete of poodle skirts, segregation, picket fences and girdles. It was an era where career women are secretaries and called dollfaces to impunity. The men stared at you until they have their fill as if sexual harassment never existed because it didn't. When the new girl Peggy revealed insight reputedly uncharacteristic of her gender, it's likened to witnessing "a dog playing the piano".

The blogs have been buzzing about it but I don't find it it that shocking at all although I like it. Maybe it's just me or I just find the supposedly period & surreal scenes all too eeriely familiar. That life, glimpses of it, is just a 20+-hour plane ride away or in the next pinoy party...

Shudder.