The One-Third Life Crisis and Other Things Smart-Ass Therapists Skip…

Okay, so I’ve got think up something new for my blog profile…

At a slightly ripening age of thirty five, I definitely no longer qualify for the term “Quarter Life Crisis.” Not that I’m having a crisis at all… or am I? Which leads me to wonder if psycho-therapists, a.k.a. “shrinks” only have the Mid-Life Crisis labeled after the recently labeled “Quarter Life Crisis,” which they sooo creatively coined into the acronym ‘QLC” (it’s in WIKIPEDIA!), does that mean I can’t have a crisis in between?

Let’s assume first that at this age, I am having a crisis of some sort… should I call it the “One-Third Life Crisis?” But that doesn’t sound anywhere near as cool or hip as the prefix “Quarter-Life,” does it? Should I assume to consider myself having a “minor” crisis between the “major” milestone crises? But who has a right to call my crisis “minor”? Assuming I am having a crisis in the first place…

So what is a “Something-Life Crisis” anyways…?

I’ve done my share of looking around, asking around, reading around, and yes, reflecting… sounds deep, huh? But seriously, I have the answer… okay, I have AN answer, not THE answer. The Iglesia ni Cristo guys claim to have that… no, wait… every devout Catholic claims that, too… and so do the nice Muslims who sold me compressed dibidee porno that was so pixelized that pubic hairs look like funky Lego blocks… no wait, that was JAPANESE porno… anyways… yeah, they all have THE answers… oh, and so do the BAD Muslims, who hop on board airplanes while probably thinking that Kamikaze should be considered an Iraqi word…

So therefore, I do NOT have THE answer, just AN answer… yep, I have my own version to what these crazy-ass crises are… here’s my skinny…


The QUARTER-LIFE CRISIS:

WHEN…
The alleged Quarter-Life Crisis age coverage is pretty brief… usually somewhere in the mid-twenties… Usually, after a couple of years of supposedly hard work at some company, a young person thinks he/she has become sooo the man (or woman), and proceeds to have delusions of future grandeur… or in some cases, or most cases here in the Philippines, one finds one’s self having spent a couple of very professionally formative years toiling away at a call center for the easy money, then coming back out into reality with the only personality development being an ersatz Southern American drawl often marred by still-poor grammar… developed skills? Uhm… does becoming ergonomically adapted to wearing a headset count? Does creative insomnia count? Does the superpower to stare at a computer monitor pretending to do something world-changing count? No, no and no.

HOW…
The amusing thing about all this is that nowadays, more than ever, one’s chosen college degree does not necessarily predicate what one’s future profession will be. There are degree holders in computer science, who have pretty much any industry to choose from, there are licensed medical technicians who have become very successful real estate salesmen, or in my case, architecture graduates who have become advertising executives. Even lawyers, who have eventually dedicated their time and lives to professional writing. And many other odd transitions…

"...nowadays, more than ever, one’s chosen college degree does not necessarily predicate what one’s future profession will be..."

Thus, after a couple to a handful of years in any field, the hapless young professional still has the delusion of having the supposed world for his/her taking… Which way to go? What other things to do? What other opportunities to try and grab? Not very different from a buffet at a five-star hotel, where cuisines of every sort are literally right under your nose. They look and smell damn good, heck, they probably ARE good. And you want to try everything. But a couple of platefuls later, while looking longingly at the different buffet lines, one starts feeling his belly is getting stuffed. Then at some point, one concedes that one cannot try everything today. Hopefully on another visit one will sample the Hong Kong section of the buffet, or get a spoonful of that Thai curry, and maybe try a different flavor of those home-made ice creams…

So many goddamn choices…


WHAT…
But life is not exactly like that buffet. One can’t come back another day to try something different for lunch. Your gut can only take in so much, then before you run to the john to shit and make more room, they’re getting ready to clear out the displays.

So you’ve had one plate, you have maybe a couple more plate refills left in life, so you mull real hard whether or not you want more roast beef. But damn, that curry smells good, huh? Which line to hit… which line to hit…?

To sum up the most common estimated questions at this juncture in one’s life:
- What to do next in one’s life?
- Which direction to head?
- What should I grow old doing?
- Should I jump the gun and buy that nice second hand car?
- Should I keep at this low-end job, or finally join the family business?
- Should I finally ditch my long time girlfriend and come out of the goddamn closet?
- Or should I marry propose to her to shut everyone up, but buy my time and marry her after a few years so I can suck a few more dicks before I start crying myself to sleep every night (I can still head out and play in Bangkok!)?

So, the so-called Quarter-Lifer then starts wondering what direction he/she must take in his/her life. This is usually coupled with wondering what one thinks one really wants to do with one’s life…


NOW WHAT…?
At this point in my life, I have concluded that the world isn’t an altogether mean place and that there are really no genuinely bad choices except for a life of crime or prostitution (okay, even that last one isn’t so bad. Heh heh…).

But the choice of direction is an external thing. And the only way to shut one’s self up in connection to what choices one has made is to settle on what identity one takes for the rest of his or her young life. The critical decisions are internal matters.

At the supposed quarter juncture of one’s life, the biggest skill one must learn is resilience. Resilience to live with the consequences of one’s actions, then subsequently make the most of the supposed chosen actions. The resilience to realize that, like the hotel buffet table, everything was carefully prepared in the kitchen and that everything is good.

So you didn’t leave room for dessert so you can taste that mouth-watering mango-kiwi crepe? That’s okay, dude. You still walk out of there full and un-hungry. That peppery beef burp and after-taste? Consequence for too much roast beef. Get a mint and stop looking back longingly at the crepe chef…


The MID-LIFE CRISIS:

WHEN…
One’s supposed Mid-Life Crisis usually starts creeping in sometime in one’s late forties, all the way to one’s late fifties. Personally, I find this just a wee bit odd, since most of us won’t live to see the age of ninety, one’s supposed “mid-life” should ideally pop up somewhere in the late thirties or early forties… but never mind that..

HOW…
With the pace of life raging on ever faster, one’s Mid-Life Crisis kicks in almost always by trigger shock. Usually by the departure of the last child from the family home, that tragic first night when they find they can’t get their weenie up whenever they want it to, or even the sudden realization that he or she will never be able to afford anything more than a second hand Japanese compact sedan or less…

WHAT…
Essentially, I find that people who experience what could be considered a Mid-Life Crisis find themselves bitching about a ton of things that ultimately boil down to the whatever mix of the following questions and/or phrases:
- “I haven’t done enough in my life, but I’m halfway through it…”
- “I’m really tired, but I’m nowhere near what I want my life to be…”
- “I’m going downhill from here on, am I leaving anything of worth behind…?”
- (for men) “can I take Viagra and not get a heart attack?”
- (for women) “can my husband take Viagra and not get a heart attack?”

So based on my own most humble and modest analysis, people who go through Mid-Life Crises basically find themselves questioning their level of achievement, and their own grim assessment of some sort of failed personal legacy…

NOW WHAT…
I don’t really know people do to get over this, and being only thirty five I can’t even pretend to have a good enough guess. But I somehow believe that many people do not get over this stage. Leading to the next level of classification called the GRUMPY OLD MAN or NASTY OLD HAG phases…

* * * * *

I do not hold a psychology degree, nor any degree that qualifies whatever I wrote above. But more than anything, these are what have kept me relatively sane and happy. Worked for me, hopefully, they will work for you, too…

Oh, except for that mid-life crisis part… personally haven’t gone through that yet…

skip this post...

Absolutely pointless post here... just getting something off my flabby chest...

One of the pillars of what is Maverick is on his way to Dubai to follow his girlfriend...
I suppose Mike Lorenzo was going sooner or later... but hey, it'll still smart a bit... good men like that don't come around too often. Neither do they stick around for 6.5 years... But all good things, as they say...

So that leaves room for new recruits... we decided we needed a junior visual guy to help Noddy ( Fernandez ) and the boys, and a junior writer to help out old Chinks (Chinky Pagdanganan nee Caisido)...

"Oh, we have room for a writer... someone try and get Liz back...!" this is a thought that I'm sure went through everyone's mind... See, Liz Villegas is/was (with all due respect to Chinks) probably the single purest writer I’ve ever worked with. A pure writer who made everything she did look so damn easy. Someone whose work I’ve never been good at critiquing since it’s usually better than whatever I can come up with. But she also came with a writer’s temperament… and onion skin… sooo… for the nth time, i was told the translated reply was “not in a million light years…” oh well…

Marge in the City…

So it’s Sunday, and we’re back in the City… the Medical City, that is.

After a few days of her stereophonic coughing and a few drops of antibiotics, Marge’s increasingly labored breathing rate dictated that we bring her to the emergency room right away… so we did.

As I write this, Marge has received a drip of meds, an oxygen mask (which she hates), an oxygen gauge attached to her big toe (which glows a funky red…), and we’re camped in a room without a fridge.

Supposedly out of danger, but this is still a hospital, and we’re checked in…

* * * * *

For what it’s worth, I must commend the Medical City for having a separate pediatric section in their ER, and for having a very clean, calming and not too oppressive ER in general. Of course, the wifey just credits this to the hospital’s newness. But it was a total contrast to the smelly marketplace that was the Makati Med ER, the slightly better but obviously old and very eventful St. Luke’s ER, and the quite efficient, but obviously old and under-budgeted Capitol ER, where I screamed like a bitch while a resident jammed a needle into different places of my ripped palm…

Another bonus was me finding that the wifey and Marge were already being attended to when I got back up in the ER after parking the van.

The only thing that bothered me about the pediatric section was how fucking upbeat, sometimes cheerful and plain pleasant the staff was.

It was quite disconcerting. I was sweating like a pig on a treadmill, and asked the physician who attended to us and who received the instructions of Marge’s doctor, Dr. Delfin Santos, whether she seemed upbeat because Marge wasn’t in any real danger. She candidly and quite oddly replied that they are trained to act as though they are instinctively countering any potential panic situation. An answer of course, that somehow implies that I have something to panic about…

* * * * *

It’s funny how one has to be really good reading between the lines and forced pleasantries of medical professionals to patiently dig through to the truth sometimes. But I simply credit this to the fact that medical staff are still people. And as people, they don’t like delivering bad news. You have to pry their mouths open with some psychic crowbar.

Hopefully, no false pleasantries here, and no need for crowbars…

Movie Review: Hancock

Identity Crisis...

Last 2005, fresh prince Will Smith starred in what would have been called “The Last First Kiss” (or was it “The First Last Kiss”?)… either way, the title sucked.

So I think I remember reading somewhere that Mr. Smith “cool-ified” the movie’s title by naming it after the title character’s nickname. Resulting in the much cooler-sounding “Hitch,” and the even cooler $368 million in worldwide box office receipts.

This year, Mr. Smith would have starred in a movie called “Tonight, He Comes,” a title that vaguely sounds like an epic gay porno movie… again, thankfully, the gods of rewriting swooped down and saved Mr. Smith’s resume from having another potentially sucky title. “Tonight, He Comes” eventually ended up being called the less cringe-worthy “Hancock.” (which, come to think of it, also sounds like a gay porno movie… ah well…)

And yes, it has also grossed over $100 million and counting…

Now, about da movie…

My first bump of awareness in connection to “Hancock” was half a year ago on a blurb on one of those superhero geek sites I sometimes stumble into. I found my way to a YouTube trailer, and was absolutely hooked.

See, the trailer was damn funny, featuring very likely scenarios if ever there was an alcoholic superhero running around town. Reactions to Smith’s Hancock’s existence were well-written, and sounded like real people. And the occasional nod to William Katt’s crash-test dummy of a superhero in his 80’s TV serial is appreciated by a fan like me. I was expecting to see the movie and come out with my growing gut filled with gas from all the belly laughs. Oh, and I eventually found out that the picture-perfect Miss Charlize Theron was on board, too. Never mind Jason Bateman… not against him, but not a screaming fan… but Charlize… man… that’s a woman…

Anyways… while I didn’t come out of the movie having laughed my ass off, I honestly didn’t feel like the wifey and I wasted our time… so it wasn’t totally a comedy, it was sometimes overtly dramatic, hardly romantic, far from being labeled “action-packed,” and too lame to be a sci-fi fantasy. So what was it, and what made it a decent hour and a half?

Simple. It was a Will Smith movie.

Somehow, while I didn’t really buy into Will Smith looking and acting like a bum… (I whispered to the wifey that I think they should’ve given Jamie Foxx a shot at this role)… But Will Smith manages to make almost anything look cool. Even Bagger Vance…

SPOILER ALERT…

The first half was pure fun. Pretty much everything on the YouTube trailer… it was a cool concept… bum of a superhero, drunk and accident-prone, lost, immortal, bored, been there, done that… and lonely.

Now the second half has been a lot of flack from all the reviews. But it isn’t necessarily bad, it just seemed like something from a totally different movie. It’s like between the first half and the second, the movie went through puberty… ah, waitaminit… it DID. Some bloke named Vincent Ngo threw that script titled “Tonight, He Comes” at Hollywood last 1996… been twelve years, and five directors later…

The second half, where Charlize Theron starts acting like a horny ex-wife who suddenly sees her probably equally horny (and very lonely) ex-husband present and totally available, is sometimes cheesy almost to the point of me wanting to go out and buy more popcorn… even though I still had some popcorn…

And yes, in the second half, Charlize Theron is revealed to be a horny ex-wife who suddenly finds her equally horny and very amnesiac ex-husband being friendly with her current hubby. And she tries to drive him out, because being near him will cause them to lose their powers and grow old and stuff… geez…

And then there’s the feeble attempt at producing some villains to go up against Mr. Hancock… pathetic characters, to say the least…

The ending was half-baked. But Will Smith is plain watchable, Jason Bateman (of Arrested Development fame) seemed to be trying too hard but not to the point of being annoying, and Charlize Theron remains a sight for sore eyes… so what the heck…

All things considered, I think Hancock had a solid enough premise to have been a very solid TV series. Slightly bumbling, easy-to-annoy, smart-ass superhero who doesn’t care much what the public thinks, but is really a good guy at heart… lots of stories there…

Judging from the box office reports, they might find “Hancock” worth doing a sequel for. Let’s hope they do it better than this.

Back in the Big City...

First Saturday back in the big city… wait… first Saturday AGAIN. Looks like it’s going to be a long series of first Saturdays. Hopefully. If it does become that, then I’ll be doing something right.

So Marge has effectively made us miss a handful of “cultural must-see’s,” like “Sex and the City,” Sharon Cuneta’s “Caregiver” (call me cheap, call me corny, but don’t forget to call me a fan…), and then there’s Angelina Jolie’s “Wanted,” and a few others I’ve forgotten about at this point… Partly due to Marge, and of course partly due to my now-regular up-and-down treks between Manila and Baguio city.

But we came back with errands to run, people to visit, movies to see, for me a company to run, and more meetings than I can shake a stick at.

And being back, the wifey and I made sure we caught a movie… Will Smith’s “Hancock” is showing… cool…

* * * * *

So the challenge now is how to be able to hit the ground running at any time with the least amount of rev time needed, if at all.

I now have a department in the store I’ve taken upon myself (unless Philip steps back in and turns things around), and I have to make sure that that orphaned department starts making some serious money. And I have to make sure that thing keeps running even when I’m not there.

In the same token, I have an ad agency with good people, and while some people seem to be stepping up, I’m still waiting for someone to step up and take crazy risks that pay off.

* * * * *

I still get raised eyebrows whenever I talk about my rather suicidal time management… wonder if I should start writing my epitaph…

FOUND! (...but better lost.)

Crazy Business Ideas

I make no claim to be a business genius, but there are things even i wouldn't do...

Every now and then, we find people engaging in business and using their wit in full force (see Figure A). Sometimes, we have no idea why they allow certain things (see Figure B). And every now and then, we dread to imagine what kind of weed was smoked to lead to the creation of certain products (Figure C).

Personally, this one sounds like something I'd think up, especially when my mother in law becomes a topic of discussion. But again, not something I'd name a business, much less put up on a signage.
"Pussies & Bitches" was something I stumbled upon months ago when I met a friend for lunch at MetroWalk along Meralco Avenue. Don't know if it's still there, though...

This rather interesting business name was taken with a camera phone and emailed to me without any details.
Am tempted to think that someone manipulated the photo and slapped on the funny name. But judging from the paint strokes on the entire signage, it looks like the real thing.
Who knows...?

Now these... these are totally ingenius... from the borderline pornographically suggestive names, to the equally suggestive images that looked like they were scanned from a magazine...

I found "Peni Fresh" and "Fem Tight" on a regular Saturday at the supermarket (in my case, UniMart in Greenhills). So I am to assume that whoever came up with these products had an unpleasant evening that made him and/or her wish for this kind of soap.

Can you imagine how product testing is done?

First, they have to look for subjects who royally stink in their nether regions, sniff them to confirm that they do stink, then attempt to wash their privates, then sniff them again.

What's funny is the look the wifey and I got from the supermarket cashier when she scanned the items... or maybe, these things are actually triggers for a gag show, and pretty soon I will find my mug on TV as I made my unfortunate purchase... Of course, I bought them for the sole purpose of having and owning a permanent record of such an absurb product.

Of course, feminine wash products aren't really new. But the name... man... that's just crass... but the dick-washer soap... that thing even comes in "tutti-frutti flavor."

all for P26.75 a pop... literally...

initially wondered how long those things will stay on the shelves, only to google them and find that they have been out in the market for at least half a year...

But don't let me have all the fun... check out their own words in their very own, eloquently written website... http://www.orolaboratories.com/prod0007.htm http://www.orolaboratories.com/prod0008.htm

Movie Review: The Incredible HULK

Honestly not "INCREDIBLE," but not bad either...

At this point, nobody fucking cares about what I think about the latest big-screen installment /version of the “Incredible HULK.”

I don’t care. I enjoyed it and I want to talk about it. Especially that last part.

Let’s see now… screw Ang Lee… I didn’t see “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Faggot,” nor did I catch the fag-fest “Broke-Ass Mountain, ” so despite the extremely positive reviews of those movies, which supposedly gave Mr. Ang (or is it Mr. Lee?) the gravitas and street cred to try and give Marvel’s Jolly Green Giant the ultimate new age make-over by making him/it “sensitive.” I join the multitudes who wish to relegate that pathetic episode as a sad and ignored dream in the annals (or anals) of superhero movie-making. (see image of Gumby-on-Steroids, below)
So yes, it sucked. The only thing it had going for it was Jennifer Connelly, who was little more than eye candy there, and Nick Nolte who was just fresh off his police mug shot back then.

Eric Bana was in “Troy” even after riding Ang Lee’s brokeback, so Mr. Bana should thank his Trojan gods…

Oookay... where was I? not that anybody cares, but hey… my blog…

The film kicks off as some sort of sequel to the disaster that was the 2003 “Hulk,” and dutifully skips the whole origin part, thereby allowing the talented Mr. Norton give Mr. Bana the finger and go with the whole Bill Bixby bit of being on the run, while taking anger management classes in South America.

Now get this, Norton works at a bottled drink factory which accidentally had one bottle infected with his radioactive blood, and the U.S. army finds him! I mean, I can imagine the intel report:

“Sir, Mr. Stan Lee, who is credited with creating a ton of superheroes just got poisoned by a bottled drink, which appears to be radioactive after we’ve ruled out rat piss, rat shit, cat shit, poisonous insects, or Ang Lee’s spit as he may possible feel spite towards Mr. Stan Lee, because of the big flop that was the previous version of this movie, sir!”

“Could’ve been radioactive spider shit, officer…”

“No, sir! It’s definitely the Hulk, sir! Don’t’ screw with the script, Mr. William Hurt, sir! The drink has been traced to a factory in South America, sir! Where nothing is radioactive except for Mr. Norton’s blood, sir!”

* * * * *

Aaaaaaanyways…

Liv Tyler has always been a darling to me especially after those tear-jerking “goodbye-daddy” looks she did so much in “Armageddon.” But she seems to have gained quite a few pounds since then. But if only for still being pretty, and most especially for being the daughter of rock god Steve Tyler, Miss Tyler will always be sexy to me. And she looks smarter than Jennifer Connelly…

But while this movie didn’t have me howling and laughing in my seat like the flight scenes in “Iron Man,” Edward Norton did enough to carry the movie along despite whatever implausibilities the plot might have (please see the imagined exchange between officers above…). He brooded around just enough, he had that love-struck puppy stretch, a sense of humor about not being about to get laid, and is more convincing as a brainy professor than beefcake Bana.

I also liked the Hulk’s green color this time around. It wasn’t candy green, but more of “sick skin” green, which is somewhat more in the “real world pallete.” The jab at the purple pants was cool, too…

At this point, Marvel guessed right if they thought that the previous “Hulk” was such a forgettable flop that no one would care about making direct comparisons, and might no longer be able to, unless they want to go through the ridiculously pretentious “sensitive” Hulk movie again via DVD. Of course, someone who actually bought a DVD of Ang Lee’s “Hulk” deserves the pain of seeing it again.

The DVD’s of Ang Lee’s “Hulk” deserve their share of room in the Mexican landfill that contains Atari’s stupid E.T. game cartridges.

The best part about this new “Hulk” affair is that near the end, Norton almost appears to be enjoying his Hulk persona (even before the final scene). And to top it all off, this version of the movie brought the Hulk back to the category it belonged to: superhero. Screw the whole “tortured monster” bit, that died along with Chris Claremont’s X-Men. This is the age when one lives with the shit one is dealt and stops moping about it. Here, Norton’s Hulk was deliberately doing the work of the good guys. Not just doing things where people just gasp and think: “He’s friendly! He didn’t hurt the other guys!” and so on… Here, he’s there to help get rid of the bad guy (the Abomination), creatively slap his hands together to create a wind pocket to kill a fire, and go back to beating up the back guy. Just like us in the idiotic superhero-craving audience expect to see.

So I missed the Samuel L. Jackson cameo in “Iron Man,” which rolled in after all the credits. Apparently, I am not alone, and the guys at Marvel made up for it by letting Robert Downey, Jr.’s Tony Stark swagger in a bar in the end parts, and telling William Hurt about him “forming a team.” Cool.

Now I have always made it a point to tell whoever cares to listen, that I am a DC Comics fan, and that I enjoy reading about the Justice League more than the Avengers. But having said that, I will state here for whatever it’s worth that though I still believe DC dishes out more comics to my liking, they are definitely sucking at the movies. And while I’ve never cared about the Avengers as a comic book, Marvel’s got me drooling over the upcoming movie.

On The Road Again...

As I write this, I am back sitting in what I call the “bus-desperately-trying-to-act-like-an-airplane (complete with ersatz stewardess to boot).” I left my cap in the car when the wifey drove me over, and I’m now wondering whether or not it was foolish to turn down her offer to bring me back the cap or risk getting my skull frozen by the airconditioning.

It’s a Friday night and business is brisk in the Cubao terminal of Victory Liner. Throngs of people buzzing about the station. Either waiting for their ride, or hoping to catch a few vacant seats. Fat chance of that with the regular buses. Although the deluxe bus that I’m in (a.k.a. the “bus-desperately-trying-to-act-like-an-airplane”) isn’t filled to the aisles. Probably because they upped the ticket price to P700 from P600. Can’t say I blame them. Fuel prices are through the roof.

But it still isn’t too bad a deal. For P295 more than the usual aircon bus fare, you get airline-style seats (couch, of course), a charming female bus conductor (who refers to herself as “stewardess,” complete with the body-hugging uniform and official-sounding PA system ‘we hope you enjoyed your travel with us’ announcements), a bottle of drinking water, your choice of crackers, and a built-in restroom (but imagine taking a leak in a moving bus running over bumpy roads and desperately, and sometimes vainly, trying to properly aim for the toilet seat, and you get an idea about what it’s like to walk in there…). All that in a neat, non-stop 5-hour ride to Baguio City.

Even better, you can drop by the Victory Liner terminal and buy your tickets (with specific seat numbers) way in advance. Thus, eliminating the hassle and horror of waiting at the bus terminal while inhaling all that sweet-smelling carbon monoxide from the buses that come in and out. Just arrive at the station at least 20 minutes from your scheduled departure time, hop into your comfy airline-style seats, and stare at the losers choking themselves to death through the humongous windows, while you wait for the bus to hit the road.

Segueway:
It’s also that last night of the wake of the former Julius Chua, who I will now refer to fondly as the “Pillar of What Was Montage.” He’s scheduled to be buried tomorrow morning (June 7, 2008), and somehow I can’t shake the feeling that I should have dropped by the Paz for one last time. But being the popular guy that Julius was, I’m expecting a record crowd tonight at the Paz. And I hate crowds. Ironically, the deluge I expect to happen tonight will bring me even more mixed feelings about my late friend. There will be the joy of seeing that he will live on in the vivid memories of many, but also really bring home the magnitude of the loss his death brings to the many people he knew and knew him.

Too late to change my mind and turn back now. Besides, I am grateful to him for too many things. Thus, I have a sinking feeling I will mourn him long after tonight anyways. But now, with the bus lights dimmed and I am truly alone for the first time in a while, I finally allow myself to shed that tear for him I’ve held back for a week.
(end of segueway)

I’m on my way to Baguio yet again for a week and a day. Alone again. Last time, the wifey was preggers. This time, we deemed little Marge still not ready for such a long ride. So I take the bus. Bought my ticket four nights ago to avoid the crush. (see Figure A to see said “crush”)

I’m on my way back up to the mountain city for a wee bit over a week to keep my promise to keep learning the ropes of the family store/s. To be honest, I enjoy the rides and am actually getting the hang of being involved in the family business. Of course, this doesn’t mean in any measure that my love for Maverick has diminished. Interestingly enough, God has been relatively kind. Business at Maverick seems to be looking up despite the hard times hitting practically any industry. Not good enough, but definitely looking up. Referrals have been happening yet again, together with the odd unexpected call backs from clients from a couple years ago or so. And better still, the “Mavericks” seem to have been weaned and are growing up.

Not sure about what will happen next given the two jobs I’ve taken on. But I’ve literally made my choice between them. Literally. my choice is to be between. I need both for very different reasons so I will take this double life as far as I can. The wife understands this and has been supportive. Let’s hope everyone else will be, too.

As for what will be left of me sooner or later, only time will tell.

Eulogy for Julius Yap Chua

The Comfort of Clichés

“When it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go…”

It’s a cliché one hears at a wake of someone young and in the prime of his life. It was a cliché one heard only too often in the wake of my late former business partner, Mr. Julius Yap Chua.

As some sort of online eulogy, nothing I can say will do Julius justice. But as business partners go, he was the best.

For almost six amazing years, he was the yin to my yang, or the yang to my yin, whichever it took to strike the nigh-perfect balance of personality and character the combination of us represented. We both operated differently, from opposite sides of the character spectrum. He came from a manufacturing background courtesy of their family business, Panama Plastics, better known in the market by the brand Panaware. His views as an employer were almost clearly Oriental, and his sense of scope anchored on practicality provided our partnership with a foundation of stability. On the other side, my years spent under the wing of Kenneth Quintal of the pioneering design firm Duane Quintal Associates, planted and nurtured in me a decidedly Western perspective, both as a future manager, and into the bold, if sometimes reckless frontman I would become. Where I would run the field and lead the troops into battle, Julius made sure the fort was in something I could proudly bring our spoils home to.

Together we worked hard, and we played hard. We began as business partners brought together and left behind by other erstwhile partners. We earned each other’s respect the hard way, and grew to become friends. Julius and I were practically joined at the hip, running a three-legged sack race, while still sharpening our respective horns just to let the other guy know where we both stood. But while the horns did lock, blood was never drawn.

There were times we hated each other’s guts, shook our heads and walked away. But it was just work. It was always just work. He was a friend to me in every sense of the word, a business partner to end all business partners. And best of all, he never hesitated to let me know how much he believed in me.
At the start of great times ahead (standing from left: Julius Yap Chua, Abraham Kho Tan; seated from left: the author, Miguel G. Belmonte, Miss Grace Glory Go. Circa 1998)

For what it’s worth, I will state here on record that I did not leave Montage Studios, Inc. (now Montage Advertising Corporation) because of Julius Chua. Heck, if there were a few reasons that made me lean towards staying, he was almost on the top of that list.

Then the war between Montage and what was to become Maverick began. I had never had a more worthy competitor.

I had always said that business partners are not too different from long time dates or engagements. You get it on and you get into some good times. If you’re lucky, you get a few years of good times. But when one decides that the partnership is over for whatever reason, there will sometimes be the full intent of maintaining a friendship, but somehow, the awkwardness will be hard to overcome.

I mean, the very center of your relationship is the business. You may grow to genuinely enjoy one another’s company, help each other through women troubles, drink yourselves silly just to round up a day, and even send the other guy extra cash to check himself out of a motel he slept the night through with some woman whose name he doesn’t even remember (it happened, I swear…). But when the mutual concern for the business is gone and you part ways knowing you will compete sooner or later, then yes, it gets awkward.

We started running into each other again in the Manila Jaycees where both of us apparently maintained rather active memberships. It was there that we gingerly renewed conversations, albeit in a casual manner. Testing the waters, so to speak. The waters seemed safe and even warm. It was there I found out that he had finally found a lady to commit himself to. It was also there he confirmed that he had let go of the race we had and ceased active participation in Montage. In between puffs of Marlboros, and the repetition of the open-ended invitation for an evening of women and wine like days of yore, it was also there that we quietly knew that the bonds were still there.

It was also through the Manila Jaycees that Julius and I were supposed to officially work on something together again. He volunteered to sponsor the print production of a round of newsletters to promote his new printing company, Rex Magnus. I was spitting out the design. I was looking forward to it. I was looking forward to working with my old partner again.

A handful of weeks after, I received the calls late at night from fellow Jaycees asking me about the rumor of his accident. The very next morning, I called up Susan of Panama Plastics, and she ruefully confirmed it.

Julius had a zest for life and adventure, enjoyed the company of his fellow men, enjoyed the company of beautiful women even more, and to people he called friends, he stood tall, true and he never left us out.

The cliché states that when it’s our time, it simply is. But with his pending marriage in January, a new business venture just laying groundwork, old friends whose company he still had to enjoy, and other old restarted friendships left to chart again, it was plain to see it was not the time of Julius Yap Chua. Damn the clichés and the empty comfort they desperately, but futilely bring. This is one cliché that was clearly a lie.

He taught me a lot, but the greatest lesson he gave was one friendly command in three short words that affect every major decision I’ve made in my life: “Be a man.”

Jules, I toast you. YOU are the man.

Julius Yap Chua died of a freak scuba diving accident on June 1, 2008. He was 33.

Found While Cyber-Stalking... (a.k.a. Don't Believe Everything on the Net...)

There are soooo many things to write and blog about. So much stuff, in fact, that I still have a couple or so things that are kept as drafts here in Blogger that I swear I will finish and post when I deem them worthy. Others stew in my head until things pile up and I only vaguely remember certain things... (one day, I will write and post something about the bus that pretended to be an airplane... there really is one, honest...) Nonetheless, from time to time, some things just grab one by the jewels that one doesn't care how one writes. One just cares to express his awe (and shock, and amusement...) right away.
In the course of my regular cyber-stalking (for literature's sake, i swear...), i stumbled across something I was so sure wouldn't happen...

The above is considered by myself as annoying, because I've told many people in passing in the midst of all this 80's nostalgia that Rick Astley will NEVER be here. I got my "facts" from this site:
http://www.weht.net/WEHT/Rick_Astley.html
This is something of a personal afrontery since I have prided myself as a music geek of a rather high order... But hey, he's coming... Phobias be damned. So run to Bruno's for your crew cut, and pull out your turtlenecks, people... Mr. Astley's coming to town... Now I will try to see whether or not I will try to procure tickets to this throwback event...
And I will remind myself that information procured from the internet must never be considered gospel...

later, dudes...

Marge in the Flesh...

i'm desperately stopping myself from turning into one of those parents who post nothing but stuff about their children online...

but i will indulge myself for a while... however, i will try to make it as interesting as possible for those of you who stumble into this site...

cheers!

Yippee-Ka-Yay, Muthah Fuckah… Hasta Mañana, Baby…

In around thirty six hours, my life is going to change like never before. The person the wifey and I have waited for far too long is going to finally see the light of day and catch her first breath…

Margaret Jasmine Aguarin Golangco is about to be born. And I am scared shitless.

There are several reasons I have become this cowboy, this maverick that people have come to know me to be. For one, I’ve been through enough in life that has helped me learn enough to wade through most types of quagmires life might throw at me. Then there’s the rather comfortable safety net my family’s business accords me, which gives me a level of confidence (some would say cockiness) to charge head on to practically anything. I do so armed with the knowledge that I will come out on the other end possibly not unscathed, but definitely alive, kicking and probably even laughing my ass off.

Then there’s the huge factor of a handful of great friends who have stuck with me through the thick, the thin and everything else in between. There’s this overwhelming sense of calm and security with the knowledge that no matter what kind of sleazebag I may reasonably turn into, there will always be people who will lend me an ear and give me a hand.

It also helps that I married a very strong lady, who thrives on her own, and can practically survive everything short of World War Three. In short, she doesn’t need me to survive. Thus, I can go on playing cowboy without having to worry about her.

I didn’t have anyone to truly worry about, I wasn’t going to be alone anytime soon, and damn I felt invincible.

With Marge, I can’t help but feel that’s all about to change.

This cowboy is getting mighty antsy. But a happy antsy. Assuming I do end up getting off my high-horse, taking off my spurs, and watching the sunset while going home a little earlier than usual for the rest of my life… there’s no better reason to do so.

She’s coming into an old world, a tired and dirty world that almost always seems to be running short of breath lately. It’s a world that seems to get slightly darker at every dawn filled with false half-promises. Like every parent, I carry hopes that this little bundle of giggles and unspeaking eloquence help try to bring a little light back into this earth.

For now, I raise my glass and toast the cowboy, the maverick…

Money for Fries… (The P20 Wage Hike...)

The law has been passed and signed! Minimum wage here in the capital city of the Philippines (Metro Manila), now at P362 a day, will experience a glorious addition of… TWENTY FUCKING PESOS a day!!!

Whoopee…

WOW… five more bucks a day, and we can go all Morgan Spurlock and throw in an extra order of regular McFries on the average Pinoy’s daily diet.

Let’s do some math here… (and to think, I HATE math…)

If one works for P30 days a month, one would get an additional P520 on his month-end total. Now let’s assume that that money will be used for food, and not for a little less than a case worth of Ginebra GSM Long. That would mean that the average household can afford an extra four kilos of chicken, or an additional twenty kilos of NFA rice. Now where would that Five Hundred something pesos be in the grand spending scheme that is Malacañang? Click on the link below for some rather amusing details…

http://www.gmanews.tv/story/68543/Malaca&ntildeang-household-bills-P24-B-tab-on-taxpayers-in-2006

If you clicked on the above link, then join me in a collective “whew!” If you didn’t click on it, then here’s the skinny:
“…Keeping house for Malacañang under President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo cost taxpayers a cool P2.36 billion in 2006, according to reports of the Commission on Audit.The annual housekeeping tab for the Palace on average amounted to P196 million a month, or P6.5 million a day, or P273,148 every hour.”

Yes, Virginia! There is a Santa Claus, and he fucking loves Malacañang!

But let’s return ourselves to some semblance of perspective here… Naturally, we must keep our most important lawbreaker law-maker comfortable and healthy, while she mulls on greater plans to plunder what’s left of our country! Bwahahahahaha…! We must show visitors from other nations that we can treat them right and feed them millions of Pesos worth of food, while the citizens that Malacañang has sworn to serve and protect are starving to death or insanity.

We are RICH... RICH... RICH!!! This country is RICH...!

Segueway:
Now I might come across as inconsistent or even hypocritical since just a couple or so entries ago, I was bemoaning the pending wage increase, and now I seem to bemoan how little it is. But it's never that simple. I mean, do I like the fact that there will is pending wage hike? No. Is there anything a common citizen like me can do about it? Again, no. But do I think it will help improve things considering that the increase will be an amount that won't even buy a regular serving of McFries? Again, hell no...

Thing is, the regularly occuring wage hikes are like those candies lolled around in the mouth by someone with sewer breath. It may mask the stench for a while, but ultimately, the air from the body stinks, because the body is either dehydrated, or hungry, or both. And if one always keeps a glob of candy in one's mouth, then one's teeth will decay. This would of course, lead to even more bad breath.

In this case, the twenty bucks is a breath mint the size of a Smint, but with only a quarter (or less) of the taste. And in a second or two, the stench of the digestive acids of a hungry belly come creeping back up. And believe you me, the average Filipino is hungry, hungry, hungry... Given the amount spent by Malacañang on food every month, which clocks in at over P6 Million, that means that Malacañang can finish off in a single month, the wage increase meant for 300,000 people. That's THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND PEOPLE. And the government is complaining that it can't afford to keep on subsidizing NFA rice to keep it within supposedly arm's reach for the "common Pinoy."

But they can afford to spend P6 Million for food for a handful of people...

But let's not spoil the party...

We are RICH! RICH! And soon, with the bill approved, ALL WORKING FILIPINOS WILL BE TWENTY PESOS RICHER EVERY FUCKING DAY!!! To borrow a phrase from my business partner, Creative Director Carlo E. Rodriguez Balingit: “START PLANNING YOUR TRIPS TO EUROPE, PEOPLE!”

And no, I have not run out things to say about this matter, but I will save them for another entry. In the meantime, I have assembled the following for your entertainment and enlightenment…

Movie Review: Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay (feel the "Need for Weed")

After 2004’s “Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle,” I’ve always shared their “need for weed,” or at least for their sequel. What started off as “H&K Go To Amsterdam,” has been eagerly anticipated by guys like me who want to plop down and turn their brains off for an hour and so.

Lo and behold, the sequel has arrived!

While the trailers have already been enough cause for celebration, it was also coupled with the apprehension that the sequel will only destroy the sweet, lingering, weed-laced aftertaste of “White Castle.” It didn’t. But despite having become an official fan of the moronic character stereotypes of “Harold and Kumar,” and despite having waited for as long as I have, I must admit that while I enjoyed the flick, I still found “White Castle” the “better joint.”

The movie picks up right where the previous one left off. Supposedly mere moments after Harold (John Cho) gathers up his scrawny Asian balls and kisses hottie neighbor Maria (Paula Garces). Naturally, they decide to follow Maria all the way to Amsterdam, where Harold can profess his geeky Asian love for Garces’ Latina love-goddess.

As expected, nothing goes according to plan, and a handful of racist jokes later, they get thrown into Guantanamo Bay (I’m not telling you anything you don’t know yet, right?). They proceed to stage their accidental escape, try to cross a few states on the way to a friend who can help clear them, enjoy a joint along the way (with the President of the U.S.A. no less…), and they all live happily stoned ever after.

Think the plot’s simple? Hell, if you think you’re buying a ticket to a tightly-plot story that encourages good morals, racial equality, and staying drug-free, then maybe you’re already stoned.

Oh, and stay until after the credits. There’s a surprise. But it doesn’t have Samuel L. Jackson.

Baclaran Notes (5/6/08)

FOUR KILOS OF NFA RICE

Coming from our weekly Baclaran trek last night, the wifey and I were annoyed to find that the usual routes leading from the back of the church to the rest of civilization were blocked. So we had to sniff our way out, found the corner right behind the Heritage Hotel, where Victoria Court kept its Pasay branch, and crossed the service road to the break in the plant box/island. Then we were accosted at some “corner” of Roxas Boulevard… a sad stretch of no more than five to six cars long was branded as “one way,” and… well… best if I illustrate instead.

See Figure A.


Once apprehended, the wifey and I both explained in unison “Bakit po?” Only to be told that we totally ignored one way signs for the break in the island between the service road and Roxas Boulevard. Unfortunately, unlike Ace of Base, I did NOT see the signs…

I write about this, because the poor traffic enforcer who is not a cop, seemed like a genuinely nice guy, subtly offered to “redeem” my driver’s license on my behalf if I signed the blank ticket or something. I didn’t even let him get to the point where he spills out his “redemption fee.” My wife was already trying to bribe her way through to Mr. Non-Cop Traffic Enforcer, while I was gently elbowing her to knock it off since I told her that I wanted to be a responsible citizen and not encourage small time corruption. She was practically simmering at me for refusing to shell out the hundred bucks to get rid of Mr. NCTE (Non-Cop Traffic Enforcer).

Their justification for that turning that few yards into a one-way “strip” was meant to curb incidences of cars traversing Roxas Boulevard almost laterally just to get on board the fly-over. But despite that, I sincerely felt wronged, especially since I had no plans of endangering my pregnant wife and unborn child by going all Gran Turismo to the fly-over. Thus, I asked Mr. NCTE to indicate very clearly on my ticket that I was apprehended between Roxas Boulevard and the service road. The nice man was sweating a bit more, and I suspect that he is sweating at the prospect of writing something in detail. So I repeated my request that the ticket indicate what I asked. I slowly repeated: “paki lagay po, ‘between Roxas Boulevard and the service road,’ kasi po ihaharap ko pa sa opisina yan.”

And with beads of sweat forming on his poor brow, he came up with Figure B:

Figure B.

It was at this point that the wifey was showing the irritated temper of a hungry pregnant woman who was inhaling smoke just because her idiot husband wanted to give Mr. NCTE a hard time for nothing. And it was also at this point that I felt sorry for Mr. NCTE. He couldn’t even spell “SERVICE,” dammit… At least he has a job, right?

Here comes Mr. Real Cop Man, who swoops down to save what’s left of his lackey’s dignity by simply offering to authorize that my arrest grounds be downgraded to disregarding traffic signs. Again, sadly I am not Ace of Base…

We zoom on out to the Aristocrat for a late dinner and my dose of their Java sauce, and I asked the wifey to stop being pissed at me. I repeated to her that I merely didn’t want to encourage small time corruption. After a few seconds, she threw me this: “And if you paid for the ticket ‘properly,’ do you honestly think the government will use your hard-earned money for good and productive things?”

I suddenly remembered the genial Mr. NCTE, who could have bought an extra four kilos of NFA rice with the hundred bucks I would’ve bribed my way out with. Better that than a little more fuel allowance for the gas-guzzling SUV’s of the city officials of Pasay City, I thought… or the money would’ve also only gone to paying for a week’s worth of power for one of those ridiculously colorful street lamps along Roxas.

I should’ve just given four kilos worth of rice to the guy who couldn’t spell “service.”

Maybe this doesn’t really apply so simply, since there are clearly a lot of corrupt cops running amok in this sad, infested city. But the biggest pests are not skittering through the streets trying to leech a couple or so hundred bucks at a time. The real vermin are sitting behind desks and wearing barongs as they feed off the carcasses of the citizenry they swore to serve and protect. Citizens starving and sleeping in the streets, while government people indulge in big buffets at five-star hotels they rode their European vehicles to get to, using money earned from traffic violation tickets, taxes from overpriced gasoline, taxes from hard-working companies who receive nothing in return, or money from kickbacks from shady government deals.

Government officials that feed off wastes, remnants of the sick, the bony shells of the dying, and the carcasses they helped create. Just like insects do.

No tickets for me after this. This is the last one.

Movie Review: Iron Man

A COMIC BOOK MOVIE WORTH ITS "METAL" At this point, everybody and his mother have probably seen Iron Man. And while everyone has a few nits to pick here and there, it has generally been considered one of the best comic adaptations done thus far. But who cares what I think about this movie anyways? It’s a tentpole movie that can really hold up the tent. In this day and age, the cgi from movie to movie is basically comparable to one another. The only real dividing line being the direction, and of course, the acting. I don’t know that much about Jon Favreau as a director. It's bad enough that his name is tough to spell, his name doesn't rhyme with "day," "iceberg," "zinger," or "slimy." But that also works in his favor. With directing credits as far apart as 2005's "Zathura," and "Elf" starring Will Ferrell, people just somehow don't really know what to expect from him helming a film. Oh, and lest I forget, he played Pete Becker, Courtney Cox's dumb-ass UFC-obsessed rich guy boyfriend for six episodes worth on "Friends." But Favreau made it clear to early doubters that he may be part director, part producer, and part actor for airhead roles, but he was definitely all comic fanboy. There was a collective sigh of relief, but quiet excitement and apprehension for geeks across the cosmos. Then he threw Downey's name into the proverbial casting hat. And from then on, whether he liked or not, whether he gave a damn or not... whether he even knew me... or not... Jon Favreau and I (may I call you "Jon"?) were friends.

See here, more than being a fan of Mr. Downey since "Air America," Mr. Downey stars in one my two all-time favorite life-changing movies, 1993's "Heart and Souls,” the other one being Robin Williams' "Dead Poets Society." In "Heart and Souls," Downey practically played a grand total of 5 different roles of both genders and diverse personalities. And when Kyra Sedgewick uttered to him: "It doesn't matter if she says 'yes' or 'no,' [you can't] let her go without letting her know you really feel..." Downey ran for Elizabeth Shue and showed me another rule to live the rest of my life by.

Downey brings all his rehab-resident baggage with him into this movie and wisely channels it into a “been there, done that” persona that fits snugly into how comicdom has known the character of Tony Stark. Throw in the confidence of a maverick actor who has managed to snag an Oscar, whose probably rightful conceit at his own talents resulted in practical self-destruction, and you have the perfect foundations of a gazillionaire playboy genius without a care in the world. At least until his cinematic Middle-Eastern epiphany anyways…

Before Johnny Depp and Tim Burton became best friends, and Burton decided he would turn Depp into the ultimate Hollywood oddball, there was Jeff Bridges, a.k.a. “The Big Lebowsky,” “Starman,” “Flynn” on “Tron,” to name a few quirky characters and anti-heroes Bridges has played over the course of his rather erratic career. Not being a diehard fan of the Iron Man mythos, I am honestly not familiar with the character of Obadiah Stane, which was handed to Bridges’ considerable talents. However, it seems that after outlining Tony/Iron Man, the writers figured that all collateral characters will merely serve as Oscar-nominated wallpaper. I come into this assumption given the seemingly two-dimensional role of Stane, and even Terrence Howards’ James Rhodes. But Bridges being Bridges, you can count on him throwing in a few touches of depth lesser actors wouldn’t have been capable of given the few cheeky lines his character was accorded. Best of all, Bridges looked like he was genuinely having fun.

I respect Gwyneth Paltrow. I find her beautiful, reasonably sexy, and helps put down dumb blonde stereotypes by having that fun-but-no-nonsense demeanor mostly reserved for brunettes. Snappy dialogue aside, Paltrow did a good job as Pepper Potts, but given her regal demeanor, she's too classy for that role. I also don’t think they should have shoehorned that pseudo-romance thing between her character and Downey’s. And what’s with her hair on that otherwise lovely dress? Hope the stylist was fired.

Too early to say anything about Terrence Howard since his role seems to mostly be for a sequel preparation…

If only to give Mr. Downey his due props… I write this one, single statement: if it was anyone else, it wouldn’t have been as good. So whys am I bothering to write this apart from sticking my proverbial tongue out to those who still haven’t seen it? (LOSER!) BECAUSE ROBERT DOWNEY, JR. IS BACK, BIG AND IS DA BOMB, BABY!!!

Now let’s hope he doesn’t enjoy the return of his career with a party in rehab…

There’s no real need to clamor for a sequel, fellow nerds… with its $100Million opening, the Marvel accountants will do the clamoring for us.

Again, I hope Mr. Downey will be sober and ready when the time comes.

Delayed Book Review: Sting Biographies

Delayed Book Review: “Broken Music, a Memoir” by Sting

Almost Melodic Reading

Part of a minor shopping spree at PageOne in Hong Kong last ’05 was a copy of Sting’s biography, “Broken Music.” Released back in 2003 in Great Britain, it took a couple of years to reach Asia, and probably the rest of the globe since it was at about this time that I caught Mr. Sumner guesting in Oprah, most likely to peddle his memoir.

While I admit to being a massive Sting fan, more so as a solo artist than in the Police, I did let “Broken Music” gather a bit of dust on my shelf until I brought it with me to Macau. Intending to merely let it fill in airport waiting time, and the occasional lull in-between tourist spots, “Broken Music” gave this reader a whole new level of fascination for Mr. Gordon Sumner. So much so that my engrossment caused me to not notice that I already got left behind once by the bus for the city tour.

Segueway: The whole Macau affair was sponsored by Banbros Commercial, Incorporated, the Philippines’ exclusive distributor of Altec Lansing speakers, and the one of two distributors of ASUS products. Supposedly to reward loyal dealers like our Exponent Enterprises division in Baguio City. Thanks, Boss Mike!
Aaaaaaanyways… on to the books…!

Sting uses his excursion to a Brazilian rain forest with its inclusive swig of the exotic Ayahuasca brew as a literary trigger to kick off his flashbacks. This is where we sort of figure that given the way Sting describes his mother, Audrey, one is tempted to think that little Gordon seems to have some sort of Oedipus fetish (or complex) over his self-confessed maternal first muse.

But stupid and pointless insinuations aside, “Broken Music” provides a dreamy, atmospheric, yet stark narrative of Sting’s early life to the first few cracks of massive global fame of his “Police” days. Sting details much of his rise, including his poignant days with “Last Exit,” the band he was part of along with keyboard player Gerry Richardson, who he became good friends with. Sting even gives out the rare peek into the rather earnest personality of erstwhile band member Henry Padovani and the French guitarist’s self-described “really moments.” Glossing over such things as fan-speculated band dynamics, while pointing out highlights on the “Police’s” astronomic climb, Sting tells enough “Police” story to carry his yarn along, but not enough to cause the wide-eyed fan (like yours truly) to salivate for more “Police” details. Most likely leaving it for a possible sequel, or perhaps quietly suggesting that “Police”-starved readers pick up his band-mate, Stewart Copeland’s “Everyone Stares,” first-person rock-umentary video.

Whereas autobiographies of singer-songwriters are usually interesting reading, “Broken Music” stands out with its author’s nigh god-like command of the written word (or spoken, or sung, for that matter). His story-telling powers make otherwise mundane events sparkle like mined rocks encrusted with multi-faceted gems in a rainbow of reflected colors and tinted nuances.

And while there is frankly not enough about his music in these pages (for me anyways), it does give a loyal fan like me profound insight on this bard, who has painted his own portrait in a canvass that is almost larger-than-life.

As a fan, I enjoyed it immensely. Granted, I found the Rio de Janeiro intro device a bit cumbersome, it nonetheless sets matters firmly into this reader’s mind that what I am leafing through will not be a mere VH1 rerun.
-
For those who are not diehards, I would recommend “Broken Music” if only for its excellence as a purely literary piece. Because after the fog machines have stopped smoking, the spotlights have been shut off, and the star-struck trivia-hunting scavenger has tired of trying to find skeletons in Sting’s proverbial closet, “Broken Music” is quite simply a damn good, well-written story.


Delayed Book Review: “Sting, Demolition Man” by Christopher Sandford

Entertaining, and Un-Demolishing

Whereas “Broken Music” had the benefit of Sting’s name as author emblazoned on the cover over the novelty of a young photograph of the rock demi-god, Sandford’s “Demolition Man” had to resort to slapping what I can assume to be a stock image of Sting in concert on the cover, along with a rather pedestrian choice of typefaces.

I can go on about my personal criticisms of un-elegance in its book design, but I must admit that “Demolition Man” did entertain. Of course, my having read “Broken Music” almost a year prior to this volume may have been a factor in coloring and diluting my appreciation of Sandford’s literary efforts. It does not take away the realization that a handful of chapters into “Demolition Man,” one concludes that Sandford really did do his homework, although one might question the credibility of his sources.

After peeking into the mostly negative reviews of Sandford’s succinctly titled biography “Kurt Cobain,” and other rather modestly received biographies, I approached this book with caution.

“Demolition Man” actually reads more like a personal commentary from Sandford, who sounds very much like an honest fan, almost venerating Sting for all the rock demi-god’s supposedly much-deserved egomania. He, of course peppers this with quotes from various magazines, along with statements from the various aforementioned supposedly reliable sources. With a huge bulk of the texts reflecting Sandford’s work as a music critic, wherein he pores over rather subjective opinions and critiques regarding Sting’s music.

“Demolition Man” works more as a collated scrap book that entertains, slightly informs, but never reaches its aspiration to become a genuine volume of reference. Nonetheless, it was a more than decent complement to “Broken Music.” But read alone, its only greatest revelation is how big a Sting fan Sandford is.

Movie Review: Chick Flick Snooze-Fest...

“Over Her Dead Body”
Desperate housewife meets ghost meets monster in law meets just like heaven meets dr. Doolittle… and all that with a helping of old, barely edible cheese…

Eva Longoria must have figured she can try and squeeze this lousy heap of celluloid trimmings in between shoots of Desperate Housewives. Uhm… she must have learned her lesson by now… She’s better off doing bit parts or smaller roles and just putting some eye-candy on big movies like she did in Michael Douglas’ “The Sentinel.”

Paul Rudd desperately needs to stay away from rubbish like this. The guy ain’t untalented. But unless the paycheck is pretty good, Rudd just took his market value a notch down with this movie.

The best about it was that I got to snooze off for half an hour…


“Fools Gold”
Kate Hudson is sexy. Kate Hudson exists to give the proverbial finger to all those women who went under the knife for fake tits, who desperately beg to be sexy. Kate Hudson is adorable. She is funny, but still intelligent (her lack of silicon proves it). She gives dumb blondes a bad name. Kate Hudson is smart. Blondes can be smart.

Donald Sutherland is either broke or bored, or was offered a shipload (pun intended) of money to appear as a super-rich foreign tycoon who has an imbalanced brat for a daughter, who would have been attractive if she wasn’t forcing the bimbo act so much…

Matt McConaughey was sent here to earth to humble me. He exists to belittle physically imperfect hetero-sexual Asian men like me, who are not built like him. Good thing he’s always depicted as being denser than a brick wall, and almost as clueless as Paula Abdul after several shots of that laced Coke on the judges’ table at American Idol. Mabuhay to the stereotypically intelligent, but physically inferior Asian man… whoopee…

Who cares about the movie? It’s what these great actors are doing with their careers that I’m worried about.

They give their best, but the material is too thin for me… my wife enjoyed it though…

* * * * *

It’s half a year away from Thanksgiving (of course, we don’t have thanksgiving here in the Philippines), but what we have here is an early serving of a couple of turkeys…

Call Centers, Cockroaches and Broken Elevators

After a couple of meetings outside the office yesterday, my officemate and I arrived at our office building lobby to find several security personnel buzzing over elevator car no. 7 (or was it 8?).

Lo and behold, the car got stuck right upon “take off” from the ground floor. Apparently, an extra couple of over-indulgent call center ‘agents” crammed themselves into the lift and succeeded in further torturing a piece of industrial equipment to the point of surrender.
It seems that despite all the training to adapt American accents, idioms, and affections, these eager-beaver glorified phone operators cannot understand a simple note that says MAXIMUM CAPACITY: 17. Unless they are as dense as I think they are and they think that stands for 17 TONS. But no, I don’t think they are familiar with more than one unit of weight measurement.

The lifts at our poor, beleaguered office building have been going on the blink ever since these call centers started filling up the upper floors. Sometimes, the high-rise side has only two working lifts. The most common cause is extreme wear due to overweight in the cars (please see above description of perceived reading problem.) But see here, these pseudo-English-wet-market-carnival-barkers do not worry about elevator cables breaking, and them falling down the shafts into their unpremature deaths. The simple fact is that they can survive a nuclear explosion and hold off evolution. They only look human, but they are really bugs.

Giant, inconsiderate, directionless bugs.

Movie Review: 88 Minutes [108 Minutes of Al Pacino (Good or Bad, You Decide)]

It’s Al Pacino. It’s Al Pacino. It’s Al fucking Pacino. That’s about the three good things about it.

So on to this review…

88 Minutes is about a murderer convicted through Al Pacino’s “professional” psychological testimony, who threatens Al Pacino that good ole’ Al has “88 Minutes to live.”

Interesting premise, not too bad a cast, but when the pieces are put into their supposed places, the story has just about as much integrity as a cheap local soap opera that would get cancelled halfway through a season.

With almost more plot holes, and even flimsier logic than even the Philippine government can muster, 88 Minutes tries really hard to pump you up, and nearly succeeds, if only because of Al Pacino’s trademark “I’m a grizzled pro, who’s been through hell and back” routine, which he has played to perfection, which I am still more than willing to pay good money to see. Hey, sue me, I’m a fan.

Somewhere through this flaky “Insomnia” retread, I swear there’s a movie… Either that, or they didn’t really shoot Pacino, and merely digitally inserted old footage of the guy into this stink-fest. Leelee Sobeisky didn’t even bother to gratuitously show some cleavage… But they did pointlessly blow up a Porsche...

It’s too late, and I’m too tired to even bother to string out the crappy plot for anyone who stumbles across this stupid review of this stupid movie. Go surf for the plot somewhere else.

But if you’re a fan of Pacino’s trademark gruff, go see it. Again, ONLY if you’re a fan.

Weekend Northern Food Trip (Part 3)

When I started dating the lady who would become my wife over a dozen years ago, I visited Pampanga religiously. I actually found the city to be charming and bustling with promise. Bearing the promise of better days after having finally recovered from both Pinatubo and the sudden exit of the affluent constituents of Clark Air Base.

Of course, there was the indelible identification of good food with the Pampangueños, together with the beautiful Capampangan women. Top this off with an ambitious master plan of developing what was Clark Air Base into a fully functional eco-zone complete with office complexes, factories, and duty-free shops, and you’ve got a city with a perfect blueprint for prosperity.

So the PX-goods were gone, to be replaced with quaint cafes, holes in the wall that served great Capampangan food, and little boutiques that offered selected dry goods now mostly bought from Manila. But the city was alive, and dreams were overflowing along with laughter sweetened by halo-halo.

That was then. This is now.

Driving back to Manila, the wife bemoaned the state of the city she once called home. Both saddened and relieved that she now lived in the big city.


We’ll drive back again sometime soon. Hopefully, there will be working air compressors then, and Victor’s will look enticing again…



(as written March 3, 2008)



* * * * * * * * *



Epilogue:


With no pending need for compressor hose heads, we happily breeze through Angeles City around a month and a half after the above from two days of work in Baguio City. It was dinner time on a Saturday night, and the barbeque boutiques along MacArthur Highway were alive and literally smoking hot. Invitingly so.

(Only two days previous, April 17, 2008, we found out over the news that Lucia Lagman Cunanan, better known as Aling Lucing, Pampanga's "Sisig Queen" was brutally murdered. Sadly, the lively octagenarian will not live to see her name proliferate even more as her namesake sisig restos sprout around Manila. My very pregnant wife joins her fellow Capampangans in mourning the loss of one their champions in giving the country a popular face to their home province of Pampanga.)

So where was I...? So I finally convinced my wife to agree to stop by Victor's BBQ (that's what it says on the signboard, dude...) for the sisig, crispy barbecued pork ears, and other fat-laden forms of tasty suicide we've become familiar with over the past decade.

Yes, it was unhealthy, and according to the ads will do a number on my liver, but it was damn good.

Welcome to Hell...

It’s official. Hell just got itself an additional 7,100 islands… and I don’t give a shit whether that’s high or low tide…

In an age of the most selfish, most inefficient, most inconsiderate presidency in the history of the Philippines EVER, the powers that be have opened discussions on a possible minimum wage hike.

As a small business owner and operator, the proposed “slight” bump from the current P362/day minimum wage to the “slightly” higher P442/day will be like having the company swallow a mothball a day. Tastes bitter, probably won’t kill you right now, but it slowly devours you from the inside until you’re frothing in the mouth like a rabid dog.

What’s funny is that with all the exemptions in place to supposedly protect smaller companies, e.g. minimum wage laws don’t cover: companies with less than ten employees, companies that are not declaring profits or something… and with the supposed increase in entrepreneurship among the Filipino citizenry, the wage hike will not be felt by the greater majority. Mostly pointless. Like every other law lately, the continuing wage hikes will only do more harm in the hopes of appeasing President GMA’s ever growingly unhappy public on the surface.

One fucking mothball every fucking day.

People say that it would be best to wait until the right time and the right circumstance to change the presidency. That would be 2010. Okay, let’s kick off our shoes and put our collective feet up, and see what’s left of the country by then. Never mind the mind-numbing sums of money the government siphons out through corrupted practices, let’s see how sick our country and our countrymen will be perceived in the eyes of the world in another 2.5 years’ time.

Considering what a well-educated economist our incumbent is, it may be safe to assume that her foreign-trained economic management skills are being put to use for her own ends.

Now THAT’s talent…

So, is it just me, or is it getting even damn hotter in here…?

Duran Duran Delivers! (Concert Review)

Once again, the Manila Bulletin gifts me with tickets to see Duran Duran at the more than modestly-filled Araneta Coliseum. Last week, I had to painfully give away the Philippine STAR’s complimentary tickets to the much-awaited (by me anyways) TOTO concert because I had to hurriedly leave town and join my family in Baguio City in the Tiong San Harrison fire (more on that in another entry). Thankfully this week, there were no tragedies, nor disasters to keep me from another 80’s fix.

I take it back. Duran Duran is more than an 80’s fix. They may have had their heyday in the 80’s, but with 90’s hits like the mostly-Warren Cuccurullo-penned “Ordinary World,” and “Come Undone,” and continuous album production throughout the 2000’s, it wouldn’t be right to dismiss these guys as a full-blown retro act.

But seeing Simon le Bon plant himself front and center at the stage, with the fog rising behind him with flashes of sharp colored lights framing his silhouette, in those shiny tight pants (said by Hugh Grant to “force all the blood to his heart”), skinny-chic necktie, and gelled up hair, somehow echoed nothing less than 80’s glam. Damn good pop star intro, but yeah… it’s a band that seems to unabashedly acknowledge that their best days are behind them… but damn, those best days were really good.

Seeing le Bon in his get-up prompted my wife to point out the spot-on similarity with Hugh Grant in his has-been role in the 2007 rom-com, “Music & Lyrics.” John Taylor now sports close-cropped hair, Nick Rhodes has turned himself into an Andy Warhol clone, and while acknowledged, nobody really cares about how Roger Taylor looks. But yeah, four out of five original members ain’t so bad… (maybe they should’ve brought back Cuccurullo to replace Andy Taylor?)

...with lead vocal chores exclusively on le Bon’s by now middle-aged shoulders, I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a stretcher out back just in case...

Given their song catalogue, it was a cinch for Duran Duran to fill the 1:45-hours with a good mix. A sampling of their more recent material, with a more than generous serving of their familiar hits made for an entertaining evening that had me cheering until my voice was hoarse, and slightly hopping in rhythm where I stood, considering I’ve professed for most of my thinking life that I do not dance. Ever. They made me hop. Rhythmically. Yes, it was good.

Breaking the ice with “the Valley” the kick off track from their new “Red Carpet Massacre,” le Bon coyly introduced the first of many glam-era hits by asking the audience in slight British sneer, “…are you ‘hungry’?” The crowd went positively wild like I did, when they slammed into “Hungry Like a Wolf.” Yeah, the party was definitely starting now…

Followed by “Planet Earth,” “Red Carpet Massacre,” which Simon introduced, otherwise I wouldn’t have known what the hell it was. Two more unfamiliar songs, then “Falling Down,” a song they introduced with adequate name-dropping in the form of Justin Timberlake to try and crank up their hip factor. Yeah, right…

They bring in the heavy artillery with “Come Undone,” where we finally figure out the real purpose of the female back-up singer in the sidelines. And they positively bring the house down with the campy, but infectious “the Reflex,” then break into their number one hit “View to a Kill,” which ends this run of classics.

Yet two more new, unfamiliar songs later, we get a shout-out party with “Notorious.”

This is the part where one notices that Simon le Bon is starting to look tired. He has taken off his glam jacket, is probably trying to remember why on Planet Earth he chose not to roll on more under-arm anti-perspirant, and most likely hoping he could change into looser pants.

But this is also the part where I conclude that Simon le Bon has an alter ego… it’s called the Energizer Bunny.

I swear the man works hard for his money and his band. Granted, while melodic, 80’s New Romantic-era music mostly doesn’t require multiple-octave singing ranges, Simon le Bon holds the distinction of mostly still sounding like his records. Screw lighting and other special effects, doesn’t matter how tired and worn out Simon looked, all his pop star flourishes throughout every song showed you that this man was having a good time, and he wanted YOU to have a good time. Granted, while John Taylor helped in working up the crowd, with lead vocal chores exclusively on le Bon’s by now middle-aged shoulders, I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a stretcher out back just in case, given his gusto-filled performance. I also suspect that on his frequent runs to the rear of the stage he was taking whiffs from an oxygen tank.

He was moving, dancing and leaping around the stage in a spirited emulation of his 20-something year-old self. Though one cannot deny that this was a portlier, more wrinkled Simon le Bon and company, they obviously intended to deliver a good show.

The closest thing to a slow-down that le Bon got was to pointlessly strap on a guitar to find a place to put his restless arms and hands, and strum along to “Save a Prayer” (one of my favorite Duran Duran songs), then crank the energy onstage back up with “Girls on Film.” Slow down a tad again with a rather pensive rendition of “Ordinary World,” followed by another unfamiliar song, then (Reach Up for the) Sunrise, and finally topped off with “Wild Boys.”

Naturally, there’s an encore. Now here’s a perfect example of a great band with such rich back catalogue of genuine radio hits, where the encore could have been anything from “Union of the Snake,” “New Moon on Monday,” the political (but dated) “Is There Something I Should Know?,” “My Own Way,” or “Rio.” They wisely chose the last, and rounded up the evening in a colorfully flowing ocean that was a mix of happy 80’s nostalgia, excellent showmanship, and simply good, good, music.

When the crowd thundered for the obligatory encore, John Taylor commented that we “sure know how to make noise,” and mentioning that with [this kind of crowd] they should “come back more often.” I say, YEAH!

I left Araneta Coliseum hoarse and looking forward to going home for a few tablespoons of Pei Pa Koa. Now let’s wait for the Kemps, Tony Hadley, John Keeble and Steve Norman to officially reunite and drop by… not that watered down trio of Mr. Hadley, Mr. Keeble and Mr. Norman who came by a few years ago. Nothing like a full band.

China Crisis rarity...

Over 20 twenty years ago, back in the mid-'80's, the Philippines wasn't as all-open market as it is now, and imported vinyl was still the music medium of the true afficionado.

It was during these times when a cousin of mine eagerly awaited his father to come home from Hong Kong on brief trips (business or holiday, i was too young to notice and don't really give a damn...). His father always seemed to manage to find the time to check out record bars and bring him home the latest music still unreleased here, mostly of the new wave sort. These he generously shared with me, and we made tapes for our walkmans and other players.

It was always a badge of absolute cool, when one knew songs not yet on the airwaves. And my cousin was one of the guys on top of the heap. At least until his friends manage to "borrow" these records and never bother to give them back...

One such record that fell on our eager laps was the single for China Crisis' "Black Man Ray," about some imaginary weapon that wipes out non-africans or something... some said it's about Ray Charles... some said it was pure gibberish... but most agreed that "Black Man Ray" wasn't a bad melodic follow up for their over-played "Wishful Thinking," which has by now become a staple in musical time capsules of 80's new wave music.

And then we flipped the record to try out the B-side, and found this gem called "It's Never Too Late (for You and Me)." The melody got me hooked, the atmospheric "Asian-ness" of the arrangement was fresh for me back then... until one day, having forgotten to copy the record on tape, I found out that the single record had already been "borrowed." Further searches for the "Black Man Ray" single online and abroad yielded further reinforcement that what my cousin had was a limited edition copy with the limited edition B-side.

Two decades, the advent of the now-ubiquitous internet, and endless peer to peer searches later, I found it.

Here it is...

http://youtube.com/watch?v=MHaWje6cKX0