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.

Charlie Brown Christmas II

Thank you so much Mr. Charles Schulz. 

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?

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.

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.

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.

dawn can decide

Well, I'm going through the 80's revival still with my dignity intact and have not given into squeezing my lard ass into this. Oh you poor kiddies in full on 80's headbands, leg warmers and iridescent-colored leggings. You'd have to figure out for yourself how to justify those to the grandbabies.

Now here comes the 90's. I'm emotionally not over 1995 so this won't be much of a stretch. I have my Chucks and my Docs patiently stored away waiting for their moment in the sun instead of being conversation pieces in one of my outfits. I honestly miss the baby dolls, granny clothes, and the the flannel, oh the flannel. Ratty wide-leg denims have advance order wait-lists with (in the state of the global economy,) rather obscene price tags. Ah, irony. So '94. 

As for accessorizing, my angst is so well and intact, it's practically vintage. So bring on the pain, purveyors of IN. While you're at it, how's about a Soundgarden reunion? "Won't you come, won't you come..."  

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.

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.

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.

this made me cry first thing in the morning while watching the today show and damn you david gregory you prematurely grey giant

This picture is from the UK Daily Mail article. Click on title or link for the YouTube clip (please feel welcome to mute out Whitney) that got featured in Today, made Meridith cry & Gregory ruin the moment. Nevertheless, my diggings about Christian drew out memories as a little girl watching this movie in our Paglaum living room about lion cubs which might have been Born Free. Fuckin' traumatized me. Like that Dumbo movie when they were all mean to Dumbo and locked away his mom who was just being protective and in Aristocats with the kittens & that conniving butler. Bastards. I didn't get to watch Bambi until I was probably over 18 for a reason. Those Wonderful World of Disney specials with the movie clips gave me a spoiler heads up, thank God.