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....

little black dress, little dark world

There it was. Here was a chance. In the back of a closet of jeans, graphic v-necks and scrubs, was a bourgeoning fruition of girlish dreams that started with vintage-inspired secretary-Peggy Olsenesque junior sizes, then Madge's H&M foray, the labeled staple I bought for a steal online and then there's that number--my Audrey Hepburn movie waiting to happen.

It's my friend R.'s birthday and it's a black & white affair in some club on the peripheries of DC. I've not been out for what feels like a lifetime except for that time last spring where the sweet, crazy, cool Russian un-princess D. invites me to her own b-day, where my fashion choices I deemed rather rusty and unfortunate, although that jaunt through Georgetown was exactly what I needed.

So I'm trying it out- a Black Halo classic with a twist hoping for an iota of Sienna Miller-dom. Dress, opaque tights... now all it needs is a bad-ass bootie. Dress, opaque tights, I march downstairs to the general shoe/coat closet, on all fours and...nada. Dress, opaque tights, I march through a Bosnian war-zone of laundry hampers in the basement (where my shoes regardless of importance and frequency of wear get relegated to) on all fours, and still no booty.

As always my life, notwithstanding my contributions is shoved in some random, second priority slot. I think of the party and ask myself, am I missing much? I do not know anybody else coming to that. Despite our bond, R. has carved a life of her own-- a relationship, a host of friends and a hell of a social life. I am just another guest. Another body seated on the VIP table in a tight dress.

So here I am. In this dark, mess of a room that smells so strongly of reed-diffused lavender, I have a headache. Cats 101 is on marathon. The Lexapro just dulls the edge of despair. The Audrey Hepburn movie is back in the closet still awaiting it's moment. Perhaps it's never going to happen or it's just waiting for me to go back to the gym and to well-being. Perhaps I also need to get Spanx.

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.

flickring: the last 12 or so

IMG_0368.JPG
Originally uploaded by cjbando
Funny how the days and the theory of relativity seem to meld into a blur of activities then at it's most mundane and inconsequential-- like convincing yourself to tackle the oft-postponed chores during nth repeat marathon of Star Wars on Spike-- then pounce out of its sheep's clothing, straight to your jugular, to remind you life is trickling past you and out of you.

There's that way overdue final writing assignment I could not seem to submit which is rather rude of me, towards my amiable mentors in Connecticut. There's the bed that needs to be covered and made, that I have been sleeping in for the past week san linens. There's the room that is something out of Hoarders, littered by Rolling Stone magazines, and stuff I ordered online, like the Balenciagas that have yet to fit me right and The Clash series Chucks that have yet to impress the male of the species, if not invoke envy. (I have not seen my floor in months.) Ah, and there's the laundry-- four months worth of laundry. One cannot wax poetic on that.

Of course there is this long-ignored blog. This used to be my solace, the ether I scream my travails unto as much as my self-indulgences. There has been social networking portals once but since my virtual social life has made the Faustian leap to emulating my real life (although thank heavens for Privacy Settings and post filters..), I guess this low-traffic snippet of the blogosphere has made it's comeback, unless sheer laziness and ennui renders me useless again.

Thank God for photographs. There is still testament that life still bear something of interest even in hindsight, that once I woke up one morning and something simply took my breath away just by being and in the background Marley assures me that every little thing's gonna be alright.

Up in the Air

I am fascinated by travel. Maybe it's the smalltown girl dreaming dreams or the gypsy in me itching to roam. I tend to judge people and places by the scenery from a window seat. There's part charm and chagrin at the sight of farmlands and heartlands. I often ponder if a city holds up to the expectations its flickering night lights tend to ignite and if there's a mathematical equation to the degree it can deliver or disappoint. Sunlight is quantifiable to happiness if not to the level of perk or one's talkative trait. How truly diverse a city is exponentially related to how authentic it's Chinese take-out is. Others tend to flaunt global citizenship by finding the right drapes to go with the new Moroccan paint of the family den. Or they may displace to more temperate climes, better pay, cheaper real estate and gentrified surroundings only to run in the exact same circles and exchanging the exact same trivialities. The world is one giant science project and travel is the agar to view through airline eyes. It is an open zoo worth the price of admission. There is a rather uneasy tax to seeing it all though-- an incertitude that life is passing you by as you flit past it and then there's seeing things for what they are and the weariness of knowing. Being away from home ever since I have been old enough to make a living, I am coming to a conclusion that no matter where I attempt to take root, it is nothing more than something to tie me down. I have only one home and it's the one that has blessed me to be free and never merely settle.

-- Post From My iPhone, my so-called mobile life.

Location:Durness Ct,Nottingham,United States

4

Four months.

I pored over my friend Shivaun's blog and on the side bars, there it was--four months of silence. Four months, so it seemed, of nothing happening when it was the contrary... to a degree. Anyway, I had chosen to parlay my life with snark and wit through the portals known as status updates--in a need to be provocative, funny, admired, discussed, even envied and most times, just plain Liked. After all the curious and sentimental searches have been found or, ended up finding you through mutual threads and by jumping on bandwagons (not to mention awkward non-virtual exchange of niceties and faux pas' down the halls and malls, as opposed to the Wall; the occasional de-friending, etc., etc.) trepidation starts to set in and privacy settings are twiddled.

Didn't I try to distance myself from this sh**t before?

Ah, humans--social animals. Centuries of technology and evolution, one thing stays the same: What the f**k is so-and-so up to?



-- Post From My iPhone, my so-called mobile life.

Location:Rosedale,United States

1

I am a Martial Law baby. Of all the memories of growing up during the Marcos dictatorship --the good (much credit to my parents), the bad and the bloody--there are three definitive ones and to this day reverberate in me when I mull on what it's like to be a Filipino and woman of the 21st century.

One is on the day Ninoy Aquino was assassinated in 1983: Lunchtime, high noon, the sun bright white and hot through the screens of our dining room window. My father and mother talk in angry tones I have never heard before--restrained and piercing. Our transistor blares AM radio political editorials that sounded as upset as they are. It is that day that I first became aware of such a thing as unrest.

Two is during the the snap presidential election between Marcos and the widowed Cory Aquino. That is when at age 10, I first felt the pang of moral outrage when I became the center of classroom mockery and got called a communist by kids (lead on by a pro-Marcos teacher) whose parents happen to have bought into the smear epithets of the Marcos campaign against Ninoy's widow: She is not fit to be President because she is a woman. Women are weak. Women are soft. It is not a woman's place to run the highest office in the land. She is a mere housewife. Yes, there is also Imelda calling on her lack of qualifications based on her lack of make-up and a manicure.

Three, is one very late February night in '86. My parents are listening in vigil to their radio on what was happening over in Manila, while my sister, Pinky is reading and answering crosswords, stationed in front of our rundown AM/FM cassette player by the window out on the hall. I feign sleep, staring out my open bedroom door at the lighted hallway of our old BISCOM home, attuned in to it all. Then my mother, excitement in her voice, comes out to tell my sister to switch stations. "Aw-right!" my sister exclaims as she caught the breaking news of the Marcoses leaving the presidential palace. Soon both my parents mill out of their room and into mine. I pretend to be awakened as they gave me and my sister a hug and a kiss. On the radio we can hear reports filter in of a whole country rejoice in freedom while my mother offers to make me glass of milk.

Last August 1, 2009, twenty days before the death anniversary of her beloved Ninoy, a nation has lost it's icon, mother figure and treasure in Corazon C. Aquino. Today August 5, 2009 we bury her beside her husband, the only other person of our time to equal her in charisma, virtue and fortitude. What a day it is. What is left to say that hasn't been said. What greatness. What legacy--all in a sea of yellow.

The Flower Boy and the Three-Day Revolution

“The tanks are coming!” howled a teenager from his lookout on top of a lamp post

A while ago, I was in a children’s party in the streets of EDSA. I helped blow candles with the birthday boy who I just met today along with his Mama.

EDSA on normal days, was jammed with cars, buses and jeepneys. They had been replaced by nuns, priest, students, teachers and families. Dressed in an old T-shirt, shorts and rubber sandals, I rushed here with my grandparents. We came because of the Cardinal’s message on the radio to give support to the rebel soldiers in Camp Crame who protested the widespread cheating during the recent election for president.

“ Isaac, apo, President Marcos will have them arrested if we don’t help,” Lolo Mikoy , said,“Twenty years of injustice is enough.”

Lolo Mikoy’s brow furrowed like it would when he and Lola Mansay talked about the bad happenings in our country. How I wished I could take away those worried looks on their faces. It made me so sad but, what could I do? I was only a boy.

In EDSA, guitars strummed and people sang, danced and prayed. Packed lunches, sandwiches, juices and birthday cake were passed around. Even with the barricades of sandbags and barbed wire, it was like a fiesta.

The tanks came and, shook the ground like metal monsters carrying soldiers with armalite rifles. Grenades hung from their pockets and bullet belts looped around their bodies from head to foot. Lola pulled me between her and Lolo. I tried not to cry for their sake.

The nuns and priest lead us to kneel in prayer. The soldiers drew closer. The singing and chanting grew louder. Arm in arm, people stood in the tanks’ path.

“ We are unarmed. We want only peace!” voices exclaimed. ”We are all Filipinos! We are all God’s children!”

The machines halted. Soldiers jumped off and stood before us without a word. Their general blared from his megaphone, “Back off !“

No one budged.

I glanced at the sunflower in my hand that a nun had handed me earlier. It was now or never. I walked towards a soldier whose gun was taller than I was. My legs felt like stones with every step. I did not hear my grandparents call after me. My heart thumped louder and faster then suddenly, stopped. For that second, I forgot to be afraid. I raised up the yellow blossom and said,“Peace be with you, sir.”

"Thank you son,” a deep voice said under the helmet. He pointed his gun down and leaned over to ruffle my hair as he accepted the flower .

“My Lola made my favorite chicken-pork adobo on rice. Do you want some? Are you hungry?” I said. "There's cake too cause it's my friend's birthday!"

The tanks left with the soldiers wearing garlands around their necks, flowers on their guns, food in their tummies and people’s cheers in their ears. That night, I huddled with other children on mats spread on the sidewalk while grownups lit candles and kept vigil.

The next day, we went to Camp Crame. From my grandfather’s shoulders, I spied dark spots in the sky. Helicopters! Their guns were pointed our way. They blotted the morning sun as they flew close. People crouched down sobbing and praying. Giant blades brought loud winds that nearly blew us away. I wiggled from underneath my grandparents to put my arms over their shoulders, when I spied a white flag waving from one of the chopper. Look everyone!

The helicopters landed. Soldiers wearing yellow ribbons around their arms spilled out and were met with tearful hugs and cheers .

When night came, I spotted a familiar lady dressed in yellow with kind eyes singing Ave Maria from across the crowd that had swollen day by day. She smiled warmly at me as I tried not to fall asleep.

The third day, went like a blur. In the evening, I was awakened by loud rejoicing from the crowd. News swept of Marcos leaving the country. Cory Aquino, the lady in yellow, was to be the new president. Tired and sleepy in Lolo’s arms, I listened to people sing, Bayan Ko (My Country).

“Pugad ng luha at dalita, aking adhika makita kang sakdal laya (Cradle of my tears and poverty, I’ll aspire to see you truly free).”

In my dreams, I could still hear the words mingle with Lolo and Lola’s laughter.

25

MICHAEL JACKSON HAS DIED. Those were the words I heard as I stumbled from the bathroom to bedroom where Brian Williams broke the news in a voice that was both calm and stricken. I sat down for a second only to fail at absorbing what was unfolding on the TV before me then I rushed downstairs, running late for work and forgetting my wallet.

THE KING OF POP HAS PASSED AWAY. Outside, the world moved and weaved through traffic in slow motion. From every car, his songs emanated from each open windows as every radio station of every genre it seemed, scrambled to change their programming to include Michael Jackson songs. The kind girl at the I-95 toll booth who let me through even with a dollar short of the fee, had something from Off The Wall blaring from her station, while the DC rock station I'd listen to going to work, played Wanna Be Starting Something & Dirty Diana and was taking more requests of the like.

PETER PAN IS GONE. Gone is that mythical human being who conquered the world with talent and moves that both defied gravity and gravitated the emulation and adulation of a generation from California to Calumanggan. That precious little boy with the gigantic gift in those filler films from 70's TV specials; that angelic voice who signaled the coming of the Season by his urgings to give love on Christmas Day, who became the world's golden child, can now only be revisited in the grainy, jumpy annals of YouTube and our sepia-hued memories. He is the idol we vaunted in childish braggadocio in dusty neighborhood streets in the weekends and summers, in flooded school halls after a typhoon, and in the classroom when Ma'am Sultan or Ma'am Alcachupas was looking away. He is the MJ I'd scribble in slumbook questions about first crushes. He is the superstar that my sister, Pinky regaled me with factoids she'd read about and known way back when he was in Jackson 5, which jumpstarted my ardour for him. He is the pop phenomenon my sister Melissa made a reverential scrapbook for, with clippings from the TIMEs and tabloids our Auntie Letty sent us from Canada and from "songhits" she has collected, which I eventually inherited. He is the teen idol whose posters Melissa put up on my wall in the bedroom we shared when we first moved to BISCOM. Meanwhile, the rest of the world went through the same adoration that I felt solely was my own, in varying manifestations, in similar degrees of awe. He had no color, no race, no nationality. There was nobody like him, yet he belonged to all of us. He was just Michael.

R.I.P., MAN IN THE MIRROR. Somebody in Facebook bade farewell, one of millions in a matter of minutes after the news broke. Admittedly, I despised the his transmogrification after Thriller. In the years leading to his death, he seemed to have devolved from Hero to the Hunchback of Notre Dame. His music, genius and even the moonwalk never waned but it was us who changed. We grew up. Worst of all, it was our image of him that changed and we turned on him. We marched to his bell tower where he dangled Baby Blanket with torches, tabloids, TMZ and even with doves released after a trial. How we pitied him and his bizarre sad life, and how dare he defaced the Michael who lit gritty city streets with every step in Billie Jean and electrified us with this.

AND NOW MICHAEL JACKSON IS DEAD. We try to wrap our head around a world without this icon of our lifetime. We are getting old. Like Elvis before him, we will share his music and stories of what made him great and precautionary tales of extraordinary individuals with feet of clay. And he will win over generations more of fans and followers even after death. He will live forever in our general psyches in the image we chose to remember him by. In every soundtrack that punctuate the moments. In every lazy summer afternoons of childhood dreaming big dreams listening to Jackson 5 on AM radio. In every fond memory of our lives. That's how icons are.  

As I'm writing the end of this post, Janet is on the BET Awards both thanking & expressing the pain of the loss of a brother, then Ne-yo & Jamie Foxx sing, I'll Be There....

THANK YOU SO MUCH, MICHAEL. 

P.S. Here are far more evocative tributes from friends & writing idols from the web: Shivaun, Jessica Zafra,   and Jay Harvey.  

And the far more eloquent, Anna and Hortense of Jezebel.

ultraelectromagneticbandlove

I am a week or so behind blogging about the Oscars or as I call it, MY Super Bowl (and I did bring out the chips and the spinach dip). Despite my excitement last year, Watchmen is here, anatomically correct cerulean blue man-thing and all, blah, blah, blah. For the time being I leave the Hollywoods snark to Jezebel & my FB friend Jay Harvey; the fanboy vs. literati discourse to the Vultures and; the clever sentiment-veiled barbs to my friend, Shivaun. I am even laying aside the ton of figurative and rather literal crap I have to get over with before I fly off for the familiar, comforting shores of home.

The greatest part of being indubitably, viscerally a Pinoy of my generation-- progeny of the Martial Law years, Marcos despotism and stabs of a fledgling republic at democracy gone invariably bananas-- is to lay claim to the Eraserheads as our soundtrack, mouthpiece and badge of honor. Within the same month of August '08 while I was taking in the third year of the US Virgin Fest, the iconic band that defined the Pinoy cool held a much attended reunion concert with as much drama as the events that lead to its realization, overtaken only by the syncopal episode of lead singer, Ely ("the One Who Got Away") Buendia that became it's culmination or rather lack of.

I have gushed about this band before and I have no plans on stopping whenever the chance arises. Now, in honor of their Last Set that's held on this date, I dedicate this to a beloved band and cultural touchstone. As I eschew assignments, nursing marathons, chores & clogged toilets, I, like many proud Flips away from home and can not be there to sing along & cheer on Messrs. Buendia, Marasigan, Zabala & Adoro, content myself with footage of the night the E-heads are together again in You Tube posterity. 

Of course there will always be memories of them at the Hard Rock Cafe in Singapore--Ely wiping his sweat with my hankie; Buddy politely refusing it cause he has a cold; surprisingly appealing eye contact with Marcus and; Raymond leaving us in stitches with enunciations of "Hah-rrd Rahk Kah-peeh!" Pakiusap lang sana hindi ito ang huling El Bimbo, please lang.

P.S. Rest in Peace Francis M. And maraming salamat po.

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.

The Curious of Case of Life & the Movie Star

Beholding Brad Pitt in various states of undress alone is a sight to behold, but to behold Mr. Pitt twinkle with ache and humanity in crescendoing stages of CGI-assisted gorgeousness and decay illuminates the sheer sway of movie magic and movie stars.  Except for his cliche star vehicles that dominated his filmography (Troy, Spy Games, Meet Joe Black) in the Aniston era, one has to give credit to Pitt's fan boy approach to choosing his most notable roles after turning A-lister. It is in his wonkiest, kookiest and scruffiest do we detect a depth or an aspiration for it, in those geneticist-confounding good looks. 

There could not be better examples than his jaunts with David Fincher. In Se7en, we first get to glimpse an indulgent hotshot, runt-like (in contrast to Morgan Freeman) and uncouth ("Marquis de Sha-arday") with mock-worthy intonation ("What's in the baa-aahx!?"). There's soap-making, unhygienic and ripped Tyler Durden in Fight Club. Lofty and subversive often he aims yet, he still has been just window dressing to more sublime thespians like Freeman and Norton.

In their third collaboration, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, gone are the 90's pretty boy dark, dank nihilistic status symbols. In its stead is seamless edge and languid cool--the quintessential showcase of Pitt-- the son, father of six, idealist, other half, citizen of the world, all-American boy and yes, accomplished actor. Perhaps it's the effect of his flawless Babel co-star, Cate Blanchett or, just age itself. The package is the same but the wine is of vintage age. For now instead of image and swagger, we have restraint and a (gasp!) resignation to the fates of storytelling and character. In doing so, the world's biggest moviestar may have just become one of us.

 

There may be Oscar buzz and some mixed reviews in the ether but for movie lovers, this is a popcorn epic that brings people together into cinemas in the grand tradition of movies-- a suspension of disbelief, transportation from the mundane, and reaffirmation of box of chocolates, kings of the world, angels getting their wings and yes, life is beautiful.

This movie has all the stuffings & fixings of an  Academy contender: technology, music, dance, poignancy, a love story, glossy sex, Americana and even comedic strikes of lightning. The story is a signature Eric Roth (Forrest Gump) ouevre tempered by Fincher's Andersen's fairy tale-like strokes.

In a somber time in my life in this most trying of seasons, watching this movie conjures memories of loved ones and generations that have lived, died, crossed paths and took care of each other through it all just because. Watch this with a room full of people wether with someone you know or random strangers. As you tear-up or chortle in unison inside the darkened cinema, you find that people share a common thread so much more than you think. Even with Brad Pitt.

Click here for the Baltimore Sun review.

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!"

ANG YAYA NI ZUMA

 Click here to connect to No Doubt official website

Somehow in the last three of the alphabet generations, a girl is never just a girl until she (even remotely) admires Gwen Stefani or, emulates Gwen Stefani, or wants to be like Gwen Stefani, or mentally befriends Gwen Stefani or, dye her hair pink like Gwen Stefani or, projects conjurations of girlish dreams acquired and evolved by the years, through Gwen Stefani. It is not Gwen Stefani's world that we happen to live in. It is a world where a girl wouldn't mind being Gwen Stefani. She is the every-girl Malkovich. This is further compounded by that gorgeous hubs of hers. Like who wouldn't do THAT? Even so after all these years, one can not help but be vicariously titillated by thought of her and Tony Kanal. There are Sid-and-Nancys, Cobains-and-Loves and Fleetwood Macs but Stefani and Kanal are the Julia & Richard, the Tom & Meg of rock--adorable in fantasy, but they're probably better off and far less dysfunctional as friends. 

After years of hits, personal anthems, pop forays, fashion spreads, fragrance lines and genetically endowed offsprings No Doubt of the Orange County is to reunite for a world tour. It is not the Beatles reunion, or the end of wars, or the splitting of the atom but it comes in really fierce heels.

So in honor, here's hoping they play this song. It is my personal soundtrack for all couple-ly buffoons who like to ram couple-dom and all its saccharine glory down my throat and such a manner couple-righteously so.

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.

in an alternative universe, born in the first world

I Will Possess Your Heart by Death Cab for Cutie. Album: Narrow Stairs (2008)

A waif wandering the globe restlessly, eyes wide, haunted & taking in everything, face framed by arty bangs swept aside casually way to many times, hair tousled enough to be eccentric, and a rock band of of nerds serenading me with similes about "a book elegantly bound" from a giant meat freezer: this succinctly portrays my fantasy life.

As a matter of fact this may unwittingly be my life right now.

Add butt-loads of crap, errands for ice water & pain meds, constant assignments by married coworkers to CMV and almost every isolation case--for no other reason than I'm single & therefore (by their implication) have not much at stake--and the burning varicose veins, life unfolds like Urban Outfitter vignettes elegantly bound, love.

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.