A Charlie Brown Christmas

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

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.

Enough Said.

November 4, 2008 11:00 PM EST. Two beautiful, poignant speeches. One historic night. One day we ALL thought we would never get to see in our lifetimes. John McCain concession speech in Arizona.

Barack Obama acceptance speech in Grant Park.

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.

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.

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.

pro bono, edge, adam, and sigh, larry...

...also my family and then some other creatures

Click on title to link to movie site.

This was worth braving through the salty, biting winds of the Inner Harbor, the labyrinthian rush hour of Pratt St. looking for the only IMAX theatre within 10 miles of my zip code not to mention $18 for parking and a lost ticket for space on the other side of the Harbor. 

Somehow Friday seemed to be the day that the well-to-do East Coast urbanites of nearby Federal Hill would come out of their Ethan Allen-ed lairs and their JC Penney ad-styled world. They seemed to be everywhere that I would have checked myself if I was still in Baltimore had it not been for the homeless guy who asked for change and the crab cake platter I ate over fries and hush puppies while waiting for the 7:30 pm show.

 At an Urban Outfitters (love their stuff btw but), with the mean girls and the catholic school-garbed gossip girls and the artsy hipsters loitering as clientele, I could not help but think of this hilarious other blog I stumbled upon. Side note: I'm into about 85% of the entries and by default, fall into entry #11 (which kinda makes me glad for my choice of a Hestia-esque existence, btw), so does that make me white or just pretentious?

As my fellow audience members started to mill into the Science Center theater, I could not help thinking I'd intruded into some neighborhood party and exclaiming, "Shit I'm the only black person in the room!" I picked a center seat third row from the front--nausea central--but could not care less for I intended to be un-bothered by the more ideally-seated mob behind me and other than the old couple five to six seats down, I was the closest to U2's virtual genitals like I had wanted to.

Anyways, on with the show. Any bitch-fest I had hatched up prior to it became null as the lights dimmed and the IMAX place became a rock arena and fittingly enough the familiar opening count of Vertigo sucked us all into U2-pia. 

Uno! 

Dos!

Tres!

KATORSE!

Anthem after another, the rock arena became a religious experience as Adam Clayton (the group's resident true rock star) handed me his bass; Edge (the token prodigy/deity) let me strum his guitars and; I fly over the stage close enough to kiss Larry Mullen's nape. The audience were clearly intended to feel more than a sense of being there but to be like spirits floating around basking it all. Bono sang One and stretched out his arm and our palms met. He angles his a certain way and I found my pedestrian hands ensconced in the virtual palmar that touched those of the late Pope and lead one of the world's greatest rock bands. The other star was rather very heard than seen. The sound engulfed and washed one into the core of the event. Screw DVDs and HD TVs. This film could only be truly experienced in an IMAX. 

Behind me, the Fed Hillites sang-along, woo-whooed and shouted Free Bird. Grams and Pop-pop five seats down were not immune and Grams did not hide her appreciation every time we panned close to Bono's designer jeans. Speaking of which I should be happy about the crotch shots but up close to one of the sexiest men alive I could not help but think that the way he wore his $5,000 denim kinda reminded me of how my Tatay would wear his pants. NOT GOOD. Good for my dad cause he's analogous to Bono but for me, nooo! Not good at all. Aargh! It shouldn't be. Aaack! You are #1 in my list of sex symbols I'd like to hear singing in my shower. Why, Bono? Baah-keht?

The song below is a favorite from their How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb album and has driven me to tears early into U23D. I once have "theme-songed" this to the wrong couple of people in the past tarnishing one great song every time it plays in my i-Pod. Stupid me when I needn't have looked farther than my own blood to dedicate this to. If there's one thing these Irish lads have taught me is that family is the greatest rock band in the universe.

Nay, Tay, and all the rest of my lovies click on play  below or click here for the lyrics. Thanks for all the unequivocally loving and supportive e-mails. Love and miss you.

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!

SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A VIRGIN (Year 2): Post-its From Two Days of Crab Cakes, Southern Comfort, and Rock Fests

Amidst the 100-degree heat, losing the Anne twins to the half-naked sunburnt throng in between acts, Wu-Tang and Velvet Revolver; the dust clouds of All-American red dirt; my trampled trusty Ikea mat that has managed to remain pristine after last year's fest; stark tanlines left by my torqouise hommage bra to Amy Winehouse; the Southern Hurricanes rendered watery by the heat and popularity; being shaded by a Walmart-bought Rolling Stones towel; snuggled, comfy, and in raptures wrapped in a recyclable garbage bag watching Pumpkins; picking empty bottles of water to earn the protection of that garbage bag from a summer storm; coming close to a public orgasm at the sight of Sting mouthing Don't Stand So Close To Me; hearing an incredulous "Mmm-hmmm," from a Pimlico gate mama jaded by years of Preaknesses, when I pointed out that the dainty tin of lavender-chamomile tea inside my backpack is INDEED lavender-chamomile tea (she let me through anyway); warding off advances from Hollister-clad jailbaits (just a couple) and; catching the eye of a rebel billionaire causing a huffed moment of panic and mental blabberings about fears of being a querida, nunhood and breaking my father's heart, I've said this before and I say this again and to infinitude (pause for breath): VIRGIN FESTIVAL 2007 WAS A MOTHERFRIGGIN' BLAST!!!!!!! The proof is in the crab cakes.

Click here for more, more, more, more, more, more, and more.

To the twins Lou-lou and Row-row thank you for sharing this year's bacchanalia with me. What a summer! Mini-me, shove your Incubus pics up your ex's arse. Lou, thank-you barely encompasses my gratitude for your selfless persuasive talents over pimp-daddy, Beckham-wannabe trash-collector guy. Here's to looking forward to next year.

I'm saving my grungy Ikea mat and the garbage bag for next year.