Baguio Bits: The 50-Year Old Hayden Fan...

50 year old lady caused a commotion at the store entrance three days ago before opening hours. In bits and pieces, she kept ranting about buying herself a brand new portable DVD player, “generously” volunteering her newly acquired copy of the “freshest” sex scandal around (the Hayden-Katrina-etc Video Scandal… ho-hummm…) to be used as the “test disc” for the aforementioned DVD player, then allowed our staff to duplicate the disc out of the supposed kindness of her horny old haggy heart.

"...I do not blame our store staff if they were trying to subvert her plans of multiplying..."

Then lo and behold… she apparently got home, excitedly popped the new disc into her equally new player, and… nothing. So it seems, that her sticky (*yuck*) plans for that evening were thwarted with the lack of her much-anticipated Hayden Kho-produced visual paraphernalia.

I am inclined to assume that the old hag did not get any that night.

And she is loudly accusing the establishment (through our “disrespectful” staff) of swapping her prized disc with a blank one. And she is unhappy. Very unhappy.

She also mentioned in passing that the player’s left speaker seemed to be defective. But she didn’t want to dwell on that, or the possibility that her new DVD player was still covered by a 24-hour quick-change warranty. She was pissed that she didn’t get some monkey time with her new lusty, blurry video, and (we all assume) her probably not-so-new, but probably no less blurry man.

She wanted to see the video.

I later found out that she announced earlier (to our whole appliance department in the Harrison branch, no less, when she still wasn’t a happily frustrated sexless old bag of crusty prunes and arthritis…) that she was sort of hoping against the hope that this video will do the trick and will help her and her blurry hubby finally reproduce.

Of course, having met her, I do not blame our store staff if they were trying to subvert her plans of multiplying and bringing more lunatics like her into the goddamn planet.

But I digress… we didn’t swap the discs. It is as yet unexplained. Nonetheless, being our chain’s self-proclaimed “customer service expert,” I volunteered to be party to her pornographic crime and offered her fresh copies of the concerned videos from my personal stash. She happily announced her pending return to our premises within an hour after opening time.

* * * * *

The hour was upon us, and the video has been entrusted to our appliance department’s “disrespectful” staff to be immediately handed to our 50-year old sex-starved customer so she may run on home and restart her fantasies of terrorizing mankind with her imaginary children.

I was told she didn’t take the copies.

Odd. Curiouser and curiouser…

* * * * *
One day, while overseeing the orientation of a new batch of hirees, our resident appliance officer-in-charge tapped on the glass partition and informed me that dumb can indeed get dumber…

The old lady returned after over a week WITH A COP.

That’s right. She was back with a police officer, because she intended to “press charges.” She was still pissed about the supposedly swapped disc. At almost every turn, I saw the police officer sending his eyeballs to the back of his skull, while he smirked like someone who just had some the prior night. Again, we are guessing that the lady still had not gotten any at that point.

She also said she never asked us nor did she ever intend to claim the “new” copies of what is then the Pinoy’s favorite sex scandal, and potential box office blockbuster.

* * * * *
We’re still waiting for the cop to come back. Or the old lady.

* * * * *
And to top off this entry… please indulge me as I share a snippet of our perilously foggy journey down Marcos Highway… and show people how cold it is up there…

‘catch you later…

Fluke, Lucky & a bunch of really evil people...

While talking a casual walk to the corner with the wifey, we were sort of greeted by a kind, kempt Pomeranian who looked at us as though we the Anti-Christ with our grinning mugs. She proceeded to bark at us, then ran out to the other direction. Only to be promptly faced by a big street mutt who either wanted to pick on her or pick her into pieces.

Spunky Pomeranian stops dead on her tracks, then turns and runs back to us. Probably assuming we were the lesser evil.

That’s how we found and met Lucky.

As toy dogs go, Lucky’s arrival was relatively uneventful. She wasn’t much for grabbing attention with tricks and/or excessive noise. She was just cute and cuddly enough that people wanted to grab her. She was obviously well-maintained, clean, smelled great for a dog one finds lost in the streets, and she was disciplined enough that she didn’t sleep in the bed with us.

But she always barked and made a ruckus whenever we had a masseuse over. She ate like no tomorrow, and as of yesterday was joyfully overweight to the point of difficulty in walking.

* * * * * *

"...the undeniable in-your-face reminder that there are truly bad people who are running around out in this is sad, tired world..."

He was a gift to my then thinly disguised “friend,” who eventually became what was the sum and byproduct of Hitler, Idi Amin and the Ayatollah… a.k.a. my wife.

Fluke relished running, and had often led us to tiring chases up to eight blocks at a time. Playful and powerful, Fluke was a proud creature. A handsome son of the great champion Labrador Retriever known as “Cooper.” Of course, all that was sort of for naught since almost everyone proceeded to neuter every male dog. So from our perspective the supposed greatness was ending right there.

But it was a greatness that gave us 10 years of a great dog who was smart, funny, friendly, and died -defending our home.

* * * * * *

Yep, you read that right. Died. And yes, those things about Lucky are all also in the past tense.
Early morning today, June 6, 2009, at around 4 a.m., our home in Dominican Hills in Baguio City was broken into, where a band of reportedly nine would-be robbers threw poisoned food to cruelly quiet two of our four-legged children.

Of course, anyone who knows us knows that we've lost many dogs before. But none under these rather violent circumstances. None in such an evil and relentless way.

Truly a sad day. Another of those days when shit one sees on the evening news comes to life in full grainy detail. And it is you who cannot look into the imaginary cameras inadvertently held up by helpful family members, as you grieve not only for the loss of your four-legged wards, and feeling violated, but inwardly cry in frustration at your helplessness, and the undeniable in-your-face reminder that there are truly bad people who are running around out in this is sad, tired world.

The wifey and I are left sitting and staring out our window in QC, jumping between thoughts of how we’re fortunate that we weren’t there when it happened, and feeling guilty with the possibility that it wouldn’t have happened if we were there in the first place.

And for someone who has boasted, as well as lived, without showing what most people classify as fear, to have something like this happen in your own personal space that one shares with one’s wife and child (along with non-human children), makes one rethink what fear really is.

See, we do not fear the insanity of other people caused by desperation, we pity that. We do not fear something we can stare into with one’s eyes while they stare back. We do not fear physical pain.

We will fear losing the ones we care for. We fear what our lives will become should they no longer be in it. When we love what our lives have become, we fear any possibility that it will change for the worse, and that such an incidence will be beyond our control.

So I guess I have not truly been without fear for quite some time.
And days like this one rudely reawaken me to that reality.

* * * * * *

To Fluke and Lucky… wish we had one more walk together. Sorry we weren’t there. No more excuses.

‘Catch you guys (much) later.

UFC Sarsarap... "...put your hands in the air..." ...and nutrition out the window!

The whole concept behind the economies of scale has always been a fact of life here in the Philippines. But some "product developers" (or mad scientists) at pseudo-ketchup mega-brand UFC have just insulted the Filipino middle class even further. (And the citizens don’t even know it yet.)

Introducing UFC Sarsarap Rice Buddy! The latest “product” from another semi-monopolistic conglomerate aimed at making a buck off hapless people, while helping push the rapid downward spiral of Filipino malnutrition even faster than ever.

"...But man… to peddle a product of such questionable value..."

As an ad guy for over a decade and a half, I can imagine the ultimate joke is that the cost of the tri-media ad campaign, the fees of a has-been celebrity endorser, the product development fees of the creative house, the “research and development” costs, and the production cost of the sachet packaging makes the cost of the actual product mere crumbs.

At P5.00 per sachet (suggested retail price), I’m guessing that a few milliliters of starch, sugar, MSG, breadings, flavoring powder, and of course water will chalk up less than a single Peso at the most. And I’m being generous there.

So the product exists mainly so we can see a poor cup of rice haplessly made to look like said has-been celebrity endorser singing a sad, sad tagline: “No more lonely rice.”

--------------------------------------------------

"...so rich and delicious that people sometimes came by to buy only the sarsa..."

In the advertising universe not too long ago in an ethical galaxy now far, far away… there was a beloved product called “Mang Tomas Sarsa ng Litson.”

People may not know this, but legend has it (according to my yaya, when I was a child) that there really WAS a Mang Tomas lechon store in Metro Manila. And the legend further states that their “sarsa” (or liver gravy, for non-Filipinos who may be reading this) was so rich and delicious that people sometimes came by to buy only the sarsa.

Fast forward to the present. The lechon store is no more (was it ever?), but the bottled sauce lives on. People have made “Mang Tomas” a staple in the cupboard. Used with or without lechon. Now the concept of using anything one can find in the cupboard to top off some rice, whether it be with some soy sauce, or a pinch of salt, a bit of bagoong, a spot of banana “ketchup,” or (horrors) Mang Tomas, is a common practice in every Filipino home. In my “growing years” (which didn’t do me much height-wise), I have wolfed down up to five cups of rice matched up against a single tablespoon of bagoong (again, shrimp paste, for non-Pinoy readers).

At one point, Mang Tomas “Sarsa ng Litson” was relaunched into “All-Around Sarsa” with an amusing ad campaign that featured local band, Parokya ni Edgar. One of the most memorable moments of that ad was when Mang Tomas was used (horrors, in public view!) to top off rice as a viand substitute, and even as a bread spread (again, horrors!).

But see, while some people found it demeaning, it was being done. And at the very least, it was presented merely as an “alternative use.” It’s pretty common to find a bottle of Mang Tomas in very other Filipino home. What the residents do with their sauce is none of anybody’s else business.

But man… to peddle a product of such questionable value to capitalize on a people trying to scrimp and save in every possible aspect, and render them even more malnourished than ever… a whole new level, man… if they used the money to produce the Sarsarap monstrosity and diverted it into a rural feeding program, they can probably cover a few hundred barangays.

I have been told that Sarsarap isn’t doing too well in the stores. I hope it falls sooner than expected. Because while I believe that Pinoys really are hanging on to every Peso like crazy, they still have enough self-respect to not want to be caught dead with a “product” that is pretty much little more than an added insult to a nation’s already deep injury.

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‘catch you later…

Movie Review: Star Trek (Old dog, new "Trek")

An old dog with new “Treks”

I am embarrassed to say that I came in late in the game. Despite being a solid Trekkie for the better half of my thinking life, I only saw “Star Trek” last night. A full week and a half after it opened.

I bow my head in Trekkie shame…

Now on to this review!

The initial differences and inconsistencies I noticed:

1. Chris Pine is too pretty to be Kirk. Please don’t get me wrong. The boy did a fine, fine job in “Trek,” but I can’t latch on to the idea that he’ll grow up into the rugged-looking toughie that William Shatner depicts. And I keep seeing his mug on the poster of the teen rom-com “Blind Date.”

2. Ok, so John Cho is now officially cooler than his stoner Harold persona. But guys, Sulu is JAPANESE, NOT KOREAN. Love the collapsible katana and all. But man, white guys think they’ve seen one Asian they’ve seen it all. One look at John Cho’s kimchi-eating mug already tells you he only gets his hentai off pirated DVD shops. It is absa-tively racist for Hollywood to just lump up Asian guys and think they can interchange one with another. Racist, man…
Besides, the character’s name is HIKARU Sulu… not KIM or PARK or JONG… but all that aside, Cho finally makes it cool to be Korean.

"...Do I feel that many things were out of canon? Maybe. But I went there to see a movie, not to see the panting revival of an old religion..."

3. Karl Urban’s Dr. McCoy is probably the only movie doctor I’ve seen in recent memory that did not do anything remotely medical apart from drugging Pine’s Kirk and looking constipated for most of the movie. And as in Trek of yore, why the devil is the doctor on the bridge and not in sickbay? Ah yes, “Trek” canon… fine.
Having said all that, I love how he was introduced in the movie.

4. Pavel Chekov has been transformed from a kid who looks like a rejected member of the Monkees, into a pasty-white holocaust victim who looks like he was conceived in a vodka-fueled Russian sex orgy. And I’d like to think that in the 23rd century, a Russian accent doesn’t have to be THAT thick. I mean, he went through Starfleet Academy, right? And most people in there, with the exception of Jean-Luc Picard and a few Vulcans, talk like rednecks. The exaggerated Russian accent was RACIST, man… just plain RACIST.

5. The bridge is too… white. I know we now live in an age when computer-related things don’t all have to be colored gray or metallic, but the whole bridge looks like it hired Macintosh’s industrial designers to conceptualize a department store’s make-up section and called it a bridge.

"...I suspect that ...J.J.Abrams fears the powers of William Shatner..."

6. Zachary Quinto’s (a.k.a. Sylar's) voice is too high-pitched. I’m used to Leonard Nimoy’s baritone. But hey, better the high-pitched voice than a forced guttural growl that’s trying too hard to not sound like a yelp (calling Christian Bale…).

7. I like how Montgomery Scott was reimagined. Although I would have preferred somebody who looks just a wee bit like Jimmy Doohan.
Okay, the last two gripes were lame. I can’t complain about Zoe Saldaña’s Uhura because I honestly think she played it flawlessly. Although I wouldn’t have minded another babe or two thrown into the cast, canon or no canon.

I’ll save my biggest gripe for later…

But for the record: I LOVED THE MOVIE. It not only successfully revives and revitalizes the “Trek” franchise, but it recreates it just enough to still be “Trek,” while being a refreshing new movie altogether that will effectively bring in new fans. Please note that I said “fans,” not “Trekkies.” There will never be “Trekkies” the way there used to be. Firstly, if my hunch serves right, this new “Trek” will be a box office smash. Ergo, it will be such a universally accepted movie, that liking it will no longer require the fervent (and sometimes blind) loyalty attributed to Trekkies of old. Why seek out a fellow Trekkie to chat with, when “Trek” is destined to become water cooler fodder for the next few weeks?

Do I feel that many things were out of canon? Maybe.

But I went there to see a movie, not to see the panting revival of an old religion that follows an antiquated dog-eared bible for sci-fi culture that was written in the 60’s when a 3-speed hair-dryer was a state-of-the-art piece of technology, computers gave data on miles of worth of paper tape with undecipherable holes in them, and a mobile phone was the size of a couple of suitcases.

This is a movie written for 2009, guys. This is Star Trek for the new millenium. And from the looks of it, these voyages of the starship enterprise will find a lot of people watching. All Trekkies, old and new, or simply just people who want to sit down and catch a damn good movie.

LAST GRIPE:

I almost believed it when they said that throwing Bill Shatner in the flick would be like shoe-horning a twisted old foot into a brand new shoe. But they managed to put Spock in there and it wasn’t bad at all.

I suspect that the real reason is that J.J.Abrams fears the powers of William Shatner.

As a bona-fide Shatnerite (yes, there is such a word. At least, there is NOW), he deserved to be there in some measure. Even in a creative flashback at the very least.

But they fear Shat. That is an undeniable truth.

Fellow Trekkies, what do we want to see in the revitalized Trek franchise? Repeat after me: “LIVE LONG AND SHATNER!”

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'catch you later...

Non-Concert Review: Chicago's "Finest"

Chicago’s Finest (Impostors)

I was almost duped again. Obviously riding on the current of the musical nostalgia circuit, I caught myself trying to acquire tickets (whether bought, cajoled from or even begged for) for a “Chicago” concert.

You know… Chicago… rock band with a horn section and all.... Jimmy Pankow, Jason Scheff, Bobby Lamm, Bill Champlin and the guys… They made those radio staples “If You Leave Me Now,” “You’re the Inspiration,” and other things I’m sure you’ve heard but may not have known it was them…

"...Now I’m pretty sure that they’re excellent musicians... with Marty Grebb along with one of the former members of Tower of Power, Tim Scott... But no Pankow, no Champlin, no Lamm, no Scheff…"

And then one day, I heard the words “former members” in a radio ad… then I said, WAITAMINIT… not again…

A quick online check reveals that only three guys on the five-man lineup ever played with Chicago. With guitarist Chris Pinnick being the only officially listed member (for all of five years), while multi-instrumentalist Marty Grebb and Kenny Cetera (yes, Pete’s brother) only performed tour duties without ever being on any album.

Now I’m pretty sure that they’re excellent musicians, and with Marty Grebb along with former member of Tower of Power, Tim Scott, they may have a horn section with a technical level that can give Jimmy, Lee Loughnane and Walt Parazaider a run for their money.

And yeah, they have a Cetera on vocals. Fine.

But no Pankow, no Champlin, no Lamm, no Scheff… none of THOSE guys.

Al McKay and his Earth Wind & Fire “Experience” already got me once, and while they did put up a good show, there’s something profoundly missing from not catching the “real” band. Considering that they’re all being sold as a retro act.

I mean, in the case of “Chicago’s Finest,” how on earth can you position it as a retro act when they’re not even a solid band to begin with? At least Al McKay’s band is a “together” kind of band, not a hodge podge obviously put together to capitalize on a semi-correct marquee billing that was assured of putting a bunch of white guys on stage.

And if all I was after was a tribute band of any sort, I don’t think I’d need to wait for an assemblage of Americans who’ve played together only for all of their rehearsal schedules. I mean, we are in the Philippines, man… c’mon! We got tribute bands galore who can sometimes sound even better than the real thing. Does some guy named Arnel Pineda sound familiar?

The whole thing reeks of opportunism. But an ingenious opportunism, I must admit. And I’m betting there are a few hundred more Arnel Pinedas out there just waiting to be heard by the right people…

I almost considered catching Bobby Kimball who came in recently in a concert dubbed “TOTO Hits.” At least he wasn’t pretending to be a retro act. Just some former frontman who promises to sing the hits he helped make famous. But I’m more of a Lukather, Paich and Porcaro fan… Kimball’s cool, but without the other guys… I dunno…

Too bad I didn’t catch Cook and Archuleta… but I got my share of open-air concerts… not very pleased… lousy audio, even worse crowd control, and the crowd is sure to be predominantly young… most likely rowdy teens and twenty-somethings… I’m getting old…

‘catch you later…

The Passing of a Gentleman and the Time-Warping Properties of Watermelon Seeds

There is a story about my late father-in-law, Servillano S. Aguarin that I never tire of telling people. But first, an introduction and farewell…


* * * * *

A Eulogy:

Mr. Servillano S. Aguarin, or “Biling,” as he was commonly referred to in his hometown of Dau (which, like most rural Filipino towns seems to think that 90% of nicknames should end with an “ng”) was a dashing figure in his younger days. He was one of many Capampangans who had the good fortune of finding work in what was then Clark Air Base in Angeles City.

"...his tired eyes belie a man who has truly lived, loved, was loved..."

In stereotypical Capampangan fashion, the man was a god of his kitchen, which he translated into a respectable career as a mess hall cook in the base serving American soldiers. It was probably there he developed the persona that although not an officer, was most certainly a gentleman.

When Pinatubo decided that happy days were over in Angeles City, Biling had to get creative in making ends meet. He was not a man of means in the years of his twilight, but he certainly made no shame of it. He held his head high at all times, and the level of his personal dignity made him an equal to anyone he faced, rich or poor. Though humble in his acknowledgement of his life’s realities, his tired eyes belie a man who has truly lived, loved, was loved, and rolled with life’s punches. And with that, he stood tall.

Servillano S. Aguarin passed away last April 17, 2009 in San Francisco, California from a string of medical complications. His remains were brought back to his hometown of Dau, Pampanga, Philippines last April 25, where every one of his ten children came back from different towns and countries to be together in his presence one last time.

He was 70.

* * * * *

Ah, I promised a story…

One odd weekend, we went to see Biling. Seeing us, he didn’t even give me a chance to ask him to eat out. Instead, he happily scrounged his cupboard, sent someone out for veggies, and assembled a simple meal of fried fish, watery mongo soup obviously stretched to fit the unexpected crowd, and just enough rice to round it all up.

He made no apologies, lent his company, and just kept literally dishing it out on the table with the quiet dignity of someone serving t-bone steaks.

It was the best bowl of watery soup I’d ever had.

* * * * *

The Wake and the Aformentioned Watermelon Seeds…

It was a typical provincial wake that usually takes place in the departed’s residence. Relatives were streaming in to add variety to a scenery chock-full of unemployed family members and by-standers who finally found a good reason to hang out for the meantime.

It was there where I was reminded that a new issue of Maxim’s U.S. edition handed to me by my brother-in-law who flew in was a commodity worth stealing.

My wife was obviously soaking up the family reunion scene and all. Her dad’s death, though sad, had been week-old news. People had done their share of crying. At least until the burial, where everything always has a way of coming back to hit home.

And there was little me desperately glassy-eyed from boredom and still wondering who stole that copy of Maxim with Jennifer Love Hewitt on the cover.
I can’t remember who handed me a mound of watermelon seeds, but with very little better to do, I made like the third chipmunk and started chipping away… and guess what? Over an hour had mindlessly passed by…

I will never see watermelon seeds the same way again…

* * * * *

I’ve also figured out the logic behind the all-night vigil on the eve of the burial, and why there’s always a gambling table at wakes.

The all-night vigil ensures that everyone’s eyes will be all red and puffy come burial day, and they will be so tired to walk and march that they will eventually break down in tears whether they are grieving or not. Makes for great and believable pictures.

The manipulated gambling on the other hand, makes losers of unsuspecting extended family members who are spaced out, crying and wailing over the money they lost the previous night.

It’s all rurally ingenious, I tell you…

Catch you later…

"Chip" off my shoulder...

Is it still a good time to write my opinion about Chip Tsao?

No? Oh. Too late you say… uhm… better late than never…

So here it is…

Chip Tsao is not a victim of his supposedly sharp wit. Chip Tsao is a victim of his heritage. Mr. Tsao suffers from the superiority complex that Chinese in general cannot seem to shake off. Call it compensation, call it overall insecurity, call it what you will. Chip Tsao is just like any other Chinese guy. He just happened to be privileged enough to be writing for a magazine.

I’m not defending him. In fact, reading through the above paragraph, one can see how I perceive Mr. Tsao as a mere speck that has been carried along tides of awful tradition he has no power over. Which is not to say I am defending the faults of my racial heritage either. But the simple fact for me is that someone like Chip Tsao should rightfully be ignored.

Having given him the attention he just got somehow vindicates to his compatriots that he is the media entity that he is in his own mind. He is meant to be ignored and brushed off one’s shoulder like the “intsek” that he is.

I just KNOW I’m going to get flack for that last line up there…

Truth be told, as an individual of pure Chinese heritage, I have done quite a bit of homework and have learned that the term “Intsik” is a proper term in the Filipino language to refer to Chinese people. It was never meant to be derogatory in any way. I don’t understand why a lot of my fellow Chinoys find it offensive.

There. My itty-bitty piece of Chip Tsao. More on my “anti-Chinese” rants soon…

Movie Review: Knowing (“…and ‘knowing’ is half the battle…”)

You know a movie won’t be perfect if it’s named after one of Estee Lauder’s perfumes. But it’s a "event" movie, it had Nic Cage, and we wanted ANY movie…

In “Knowing,” Nic Cage stars as a widower astronomer dad to a kid who got an envelope from school containing an odd series of numbers. Lo and behold, a well-placed ring of coffee suddenly makes ole’ Nic a numerology genius. And in one night, he figures out that the crazy-ass numbers refer to a truckload of disasters and their respective casualty counts.

SPOILER WARNING!

Turns out, Nic’s kid (and another kid) are schizzos who hear voices from a bunch of guys whose silhouettes eerily resemble a younger version of U2. It is at this point that we conclude that in Hollywood, ALL angels wear black trenchcoats and look like rock stars on a cigarette break. It has apparently been decided by the guys in U2, Jr. that the world will *gasp!* go down in flames and end. Now I know why we no longer see hippies running around town with placards that say “THE END IS NIGH.” They’re now making movies in Hollywood. A lot of them.

After being bombarded with comic book movies and happy-ever-after rom-coms, it was refreshing to see a movie where one does not have any preconception of what the ending could/would be.

And while the “two kids (who happen to be both American and white) have been abducted by aliens and brought back to help repopulate the earth with more white Americans” ending seemed too Spielberg-ish, I suppose it was necessary considering how bloody depressing the rest of the movie was.

What’s funny is how the movie can’t seem to make up its mind as to whether it was a psychological thriller, a supernatural horror movie, or a sci-fi disaster flick. At least you know that when there’s Nic Cage, there’s almost always an earnest performance, if not a totally earnest story.

Must be those St. Bernard eyes of his.

I mean, a huge, muscled, balding Caucasian guy who can break scrawny Asian guy into steak slices, who has a look on his face that says “don’t hurt me” has GOT to be likable, right?

"...we no longer see hippies running around town with placards that say “THE END IS NIGH.” They’re now making movies in Hollywood..."

Bottom line: the movie wasn’t a waste of time. This blog is.

‘catch you later…

pointless saturday post...

Shit. My eyes fucking hurt.

While the wifey was channel-surfing, we stumbled upon “The-Artist-Formerly-Known-As-Rustom-Padilla” dancing on GMA’s pointless slot-filler “Cool Center” doing his best/worst Morticia Addams impersonation.

This isn’t even about him being gay anymore. Either that, or one day he’ll just bust out the corset and claim to have created a fifth gender. Or maybe even a whole new species.

At least he/she doesn’t talk in a forced falsetto…

* * * * *

It’s amazing how a nation with such supposedly publicized levels of poverty always has malls chock-full of cars and not enough parking. Thus, resulting in something almost as bad as road rage, “parking rage.” Parking rage is when one is queued up near a parking slot where someone else is in the process of exiting, then someone else comes swooping in to try and fill the slot in before you do. This results in extreme indignation that causes one’s temper to flare.

Subsequent actions include blowing one’s horn for extended spells as an automotive equivalent to cursing and/or flipping someone the finger through dark tinted windows, then rolling down one’s windows and cursing directly and very eloquently.

If the above still do not prove effective, parking rage dictates that one alights from his vehicle and proceeds to confront the other guy through the other guy’s car window.

Usually, the cooler head (usually the offender who is probably feeling foolish at this point) will just back off. In some cases, the offender feels so foolish he tries to save what’s left of his dignity by snapping back at the parking-rager. This leads to the war of who has the bigger testicles, and who is most likely to be carrying a spare container of strip-sol to pour on the other guy’s vehicle.

Or in some cases, a baseball bat.

So one thing led to another and Mega Mall parking area guard comes in and stops me from going Dragonball on the other guy, who it turns out looks like he’s on the high side of the 40’s, but has the verbal maturity of a twelve-year-old. But yes, he leaves the scene anyway, with me heckling him for taking too long to weasel his way out of how I locked his car in from behind.

Wifey wants to kill me, Marge was crying in the car for having her sleep interrupted, and moments later the wifey points out the offending idiot walking around the mall.

Turns out he was over six feet tall.

I really ought to keep a container of strip-sol in the car… and medical insurance… I need medical insurance…

Our Dogs Finally Succeeded in Making Me Sick…

The Baguio Country Club is using a new cheese grater. Slightly finer than usual. Making my favorite mamon, which I’m chomping on as I drive to the store this morning look like it’s been topped with creamy yellow maggots… Welcome to another Sunday in Baguio City, Mr. Golangco, where weekends are only felt when you look at the fucking calendar…

I still have a clogged nose from that flu I caught on my first morning in our new/old house. I underestimated how cold it could be in the mornings there. Amazing thing in Baguio is how temperatures can vary greatly in different parts of the city. At least I’m not blowing out blood-spotted semi-solid globs of snot like I did yesterday morning…

I blame the dogs.

Two nights ago, they took my pillow, along with most of my space on the bed, which resulted in me not getting my share of the fucking blanket. I thought, “what the hey, they need it more than I do…” NOT!

Worst of all, the virus that caused my outgoing fever apparently chose Marge as its next base of operations. Poor girl was running up to 38.9 degrees last night… and the dogs still took my pillow…

Marge needs a few drops of Tempra, and I need another pillow…
…and I can’t wait to get back to Manila for another spell, and another round of Maverick craziness…

Movie Review: Watchmen (Must-Watch-men)

In my quest to clear my mouth of the bad taste of over-expectation from “You Changed My Life,” I make myself a one-man date to catch the opening day of the ultimate geekfest “Watchmen” last Friday.

So I’m guessing this is going to be among the gazillions of reviews on this project that had herds of nerds, and piles over piles of geeks drooling over the trailers over the past several months. Hell, threw parties over just mere Hollywood buzz for the past twenty-something years… Yes, I admit it… I’m one of THEM…

So I’ll keep this one short. I promise.

I liked it. ‘Would’ve loved it considering its relative faithfulness to the ‘sacred” source material. Honestly preferred the more action-packed climax in the movie, where Nite-Owl didn’t look like the wimp he was made to be in the graphic novel. Characterizations were pretty dead-on, while costumes were redesigned to be more “realistic” but still capture the essence of the original four-color costumes.

I suppose the greatest tragedy about this movie is that it is based on a graphic novel that is considered almost biblical by geeky, acne-infested fanboys like me. Owned in several copies, read and reread until practically known by heart. Most likely the same bunch of losers lining up to see the movie. Thus, further coloring one’s already rosy opinion, and taking away any potential surprises. And where the best movies draw one’s breath away with shocks and keep the audience at the edges of their respective seats with anticipation of what will happen next, Watchmen was doomed to fail.

With all due respect to Director Zack Snyder, he did a damn good job. So did the cast. Overall, the film is one solid package. But somehow, the whole thing felt more like a fanboy’s religious homage and simple realization of a beloved story in another medium. Not the same experience I had with “Spiderman 2” or “the Dark Knight,” but still an indispensable addition to one’s original DVD library when the disc inevitably comes out.

For fanboys like me, see it because if you don’t, you lose all geek cred. For regular movie-lovers… I am honestly not sure. But I can assure you that it is a major visual experience.

Catch you later…

Movie Review: You Changed My Life

Before anything else, kindly refer back to my review of the first movie:
http://golangco.blogspot.com/2008/08/movie-review-very-special-love.html

* * * * *

Hello there. Welcome back…

Okay, I hereby assume that you took the time to take a look (or second look) at my glittering review of “A Special Love,” the surprisingly entertaining movie that precedes the latest Sarah and John Lloyd vehicle “You Changed My Life.” As such, I hope I have laid down enough of a foundation of goodwill to say what I have to say about the currently showing flick.

It was bad. I’m sorry. I know this will come as a surprise. Believe me, even my wife was as surprised as I was at how much we didn’t like the movie.

"...the very same ingredients, but this time cooked using the nigh-perfectly clichéd Pinoy teen love team recipe... to cringe-worthy effect..."

The story starts almost immediately on the heels of the first movie, which is a rather common, yet effective device for sequels nowadays. I was thinking that this is a good way to kick off the movie since it will mean that Sarah can still play the unjaded, doe-eyed, “I-can’t-believe-I-am-where-I-am,” Laida Magtalas to the hilt. And it can mean a potentially interesting study of how a middle class girl can possibly integrate herself into an upper class family to potentially hilarious results. So many wonderful story possibilities.

But sadly, none of that happened.

From a first movie of quite realistic situations and almost realistic characters, here we are served what is essentially the very same ingredients, but this time cooked using the nigh-perfectly clichéd Pinoy teen love team recipe. All to cringe-worthy results. The only thing missing was the giant Regal song-and-dance number halfway through the flick.

The plot is so convoluted and forced that I won’t even talk about it.

The chemistry between the two leads remains. Unfortunately, their talents are drowned by a script that sounded like it was meant for people ten years younger. They over-act, and desperately try to bring some old tricks back, like the “sun dance,” Sarah mistaking John Lloyd’s move as a sexual advance, but they all fall flat. Obviously, the only story inspiration for this movie is the almost-certainly massive box office return.

The only consistently bright points of amusement are the side comments from the wise-cracking tag team of Joross Gamboa and Gio Alvarez. I’m guessing a different set of writers tackled those side characters.

It is even sadder to note that the most entertaining parts of “You Changed My Life” were the parts where “A Very Special Love” was shown in flashbacks.

It’s truly a shame that the excellent premise and potentially positive creative legacy of “A Very Special Love” had to be marred by this seemingly haphazardly done project. They should have just left the previous movie alone. If you’re a fan of a good Pinoy rom-com, then just keep watching the first movie, enjoy it, and pretend this second movie was never made. Of course the bad news here is that Sarah Geronimo and John Lloyd Cruz have such enormous fan-bases that this train-wreck will still surely make money. Thereby vindicating how Star Cinema will brush off opinions like this review, and revert to churning out shit.

I should’ve just gone home to spend time with Marge…


* * * * *

Catch you later…

Fabricated Festivals

As a half-resident of Baguio City, I suppose I am somewhat obliged to write a bit about the city’s supposedly trademark flower festival, dubbed the “Panagbenga.”

But don’t come here looking for photos of the parades and all. Images here are all from my measly phone, and they all suck. I just put photos here because… I just want to. If you want nice photos of colorful parades and similarly clichéd stuff, go look for some in pbase or something. Not here. In fact, get out now, before I bore you any further.

"...I have of course concluded that practically all festivals are connived tourism ploys of some sort..."

Not to sound all negative and stuff, but ever since its inception fourteen years ago, I’ve always found the “Panagbenga” to be utterly artificial. Growing up in this predominantly Catholic, or simply overtly religious country of ours, I always thought festivals were always some centuries long thing in certain places marking either certain momentous dates, or some odd saint. Of course, the concept of festivals marking certain things such as a change of seasons, harvest times, and what-nots has been around like, forever. And while it would make perfect sense for Baguio City to hold a “festival of flowers” given the city’s climate and resulting floral abundance, it has always struck me as some connived tourism ploy.

After much thinking however, I have of course concluded that practically all festivals are connived tourism ploys of some sort in varying scales. It’s really just a question of how hard and successfully any community prepares and runs its little events.

So what am I griping about? Nothing, really. Except maybe the traffic from the road closures, additional pollution from the volume of tourist vehicles, stench of sweaty humans crowding the streets and overpasses to look at parades that look like any other parade, the poor children marching helplessly under the sunny, cloudless sky pretending to be happy, and the bloated prices of the market vendors who are capitalizing on the tourist influx, who are mostly middle class people who have little better to do with their lives that’s why they’re here watching parades that look like any other parade... But hey, I guess that means the event’s working, right…?

Catch you later…

Candid Cop Camera...

Hey, did you hear about the cops that got caught on TV? “SMILE!!! You’re on ‘Candid Camera!’”

“Oh, what’s that you guys are doing? Oh, you’re shooting a suspect! Coolers! Waitaminit… you’re shooting a ‘suspect?!?!!’ Why the fuck are you assholes shooting a ‘suspect?’ That means, we’re not even sure they’re really crooks… But hang in there... they've got to be crooks, right? Because you smelled them, and smelly beasts can sniff out their own kind.”

Hmm… Nonetheless, I am disturbed. Very disturbed.

Very disturbed in an “I-knew-it-anyways-but-still-bugs-me-whenever-it-happens” kind of way. I’m talking about the recent news about the cops running after and subsequently gunning down three car-napping suspects in Quezon City. The operative word here being “suspects.”

http://newsinfo.inquirer.net/inquirerheadlines/metro/view/20090220-190155/QC-anti-carnap-chief-sacked

I feel bad for these guys. I feel bad that they had to be caught on camera. That means they have compromised the already sucky credibility level of the local police force even further. That means they have to be sacked so there will be lambs. Sacrificial lambs. Or in this case, goats. Sacrificial goats.

Poor cops. Really. I feel for them. Honestly. It’s probably not their fault that they get paid a measly salary for roaming the streets while instilling fear in evil-doers, or simply just instilling fear. Not their fault that they don’t even want to pay for jeepney or FX fares. Not their fault they won’t even pay for a stick of banana-Q. Not their fault that they’re tasked to eliminate people who were probably accomplices sometimes. It’s only work, dude. Nothing personal.

Not the cops’ fault that their salaries are so low, while the higher ups have siphoned off 30% of their bonuses last Christmas and are now probably finalizing the floor plans on their new homes with some seedy architects. Or probably booking their vacation tickets to another country. Like Russia. Or a European tour… oh, waitaminit… Gloria pays for stuff like that! Sorry…

Those who weren’t caught on camera probably run on back to their police-daddies, raise their hands in salute and say: “Mission accomplished, sir!” And they probably get a pat on the back and an old bottle of Fundador for their efficient efforts. “Efficient” meaning: they didn’t get caught, and the job was utterly clean.

As for the guys who got filmed, Grim-spector Angelo Nicloas (who got sacked, OH POOR YOU!!!), and SPO1 Frederick Torres and PO3 Randy Barrameda who both got reduced to becoming secretaries and are probably mastering several creative ways to make use of powdered coffee right now, YOU GUYS GOT OFF EASY!

But then again, you guys are cops. You WILL get off easy. It was part of the deal, right? Of course, you guys are always innocent until proven guilty, unlike the rest of the citizenry, who are judged and executed by you guys in seconds.

But I’m guessing you guys will watch out for the cameras next time. Please smile if there are. Tsk tsk…

Movie Review: Marley & Me (Dog days...)

Friend, photographer and fellow Manila Jaycee David Bernabe texted me this amusing joke:
“Test for who is man’s true best friend… Put your wife and your dog in the trunk of your car for one hour. When you open the trunk, WHO IS REALLY HAPPY TO SEE YOU?”

* * * * *

So the wife and I finally found time to catch a movie. And we chose rom-com “Marley & Me” over tentpole movies “Valkyrie,” “Seven Pounds,” and “Underworld.” We love dogs, we love Jennifer Aniston, and we want to watch a funny. So “Marley & Me” it was.

The trailers will have you think that it’s about a guy/gal and his/her dog. But it isn’t. In fact, for the most parts, Marley the dog just kicks things off then fades into the background until the rather anti-climatic ending, which incidentally turned my wife into a sniffling pile of mushy goop…

The movie follows the lives of Owen Wilson and Jennifer Aniston as they go through the various stages of growing old and starting a family. Alan Arkin was terribly underused here, along with practically every other character save for the two leads and the dog who supposedly ages throughout the movie, but doesn’t really look it. At least not until the tail-end of the movie, where they obviously used an older mutt to play an aging Marley.

Owen Wilson really looked like he tried stupid and funny. But without Ben Stiller for him to play off against, he just came off as stupid. The attempt to give him a buddy in the form of “Grey’s Anatomy’s” Eric Dane didn’t get the build up it deserved. Kathleen Turner’s turn (no pun intended) as a dog trainer was a little too brief to be funny.

Coming off a best-selling autobiographical narrative by New York Times columnist John Grogan that supposedly spans thirteen years, it isn’t surprising that they couldn’t string together a plot with a point that can fit into two hours. There isn’t much plot to speak of in the movie, and no real crescendo-style conflicts to highlight a two-hour movie. The only thing really going for the movie was the easy chemistry between Aniston and Wilson. The eponymous canine “Marley” is really little more than a visual accessory. And it isn’t until the end do we see the emotional weight of the dog’s relationship with the Grogan family. But it had points of emotion and some funny highlights to at least not make it a total waste of time.

But it’s an inoffensive way to pass a couple of hours. So what the heck…


* * * * *

Catch you later…

The Case of the Vanishing Entrepreneurs

Margaret got her first “haircut” January 14, 2009 at “Gruppo Barbero” along Tomas Morato in Quezon City (which used to be Bruno’s Barbers). Well, it was mostly just trimming a bit of the bangs, which were always on her eyes.

The kind barber didn’t charge us for the 20-second trim, which he did after my own haircut.

It got me thinking of the haircuts I had as a child back in San Miguel, Manila. There was a small squatter community beside the compound, and one of the residents was the barber, Mang Edring, who always walked over to the compound and serviced almost all the male members of the Golangco family.

Bruno’s Barbers vs. Mang Edring

Mang Edring had a little hole in the wall place with a mirror and a single rickety old refurbished barber’s chair that didn’t recline or rise. But hey, it looked like a barber’s chair so that’s what it was.

We trusted Mang Edring, because he was just down the street and he was a good barber. Apparently, he’d been cutting for over half a century at that time. Who cares about airconditioning and the hot towel? We walked over for a haircut. Want a manicure or pedicure? Missus Edring would be called and she’d do her thing while the old man did his.

So the man can cut hair, he’s paid his dues, and wants to make a humble living catering to the block by cutting hair. Probably cost him less than ten grand to put that thing together. The chair was practically a piece of sculpture, but his scissors and razor were already top-notch German shit. No frills, no nothing. That was that, and it wasn’t bad at all.

Half a block away in the same neighborhood, there’s a bakery at the ground floor of an old dilapidated building. It was called “Wow Bakery.” The loaf bread (which is annoyingly referred to in this country as “tasty”) was alright, but the pan-de-sal totally rocked. We weren’t worried about food poisoning or any of that shit. Heck, it was the neighborhood bakery. It’s got to be safe, right? Up until I got married and moved to QC, the bread there was still good, and whenever I pass the area, I would still see people bunched up at the bakery counter presumably buying bread.

No frills, no nothing. Just the little neighborhood bakery with the small painted sign facing a busy street. Probably a trusty old oven and slicing machines that make funny sounds, but still cut alright. A nice decent business for nice decent life. They served the bread needs of the neighborhood. No more, no less. No huge dreams of opening a dozen branches in different parts of the city. That was that, and it wasn’t bad at all.

* * * * *

Fast forward back to today.

I get my haircut (and head massage, manicure, pedicure, back massage, ear-cleaning and other what-nots) done at either Gruppo Barbero along Morato or Bruno’s at Julia Vargas (next door to the Maverick offices).

More often than not, I’d drive up a Pan de Manila for a bag of pan de sal. As a relatively new resident at our QC neighborhood, I didn’t know enough about the bakery around the other corner for me to buy my bread there. But I’d trust Pan de Manila since I found the set up very welcoming, and the visibility of the oven oddly comforting.

Of course, as a resident of the neighborhood, I should’ve been covered by the bakery around the other corner for me to buy my bread there. But no, I am a victim of the bake shop and barber shop with numerous branches, standardized operations, and the attractive backlit panaflex sign.

And I don’t recall ever having seen a hole in the wall barber shop in the neighborhood with no airconditioning. And even if there was, I doubt I’d trust some guy I don’t know to hold a razor against my temple unless his name was Bruno (or even Gruppo).

* * * * *

The Good Bibingka that Didn’t Make it

As a child, I noticed that as long as you had a store front along a busy street, you had some service skills, or some basic merchandise, you already had some of the main ingredients to a viable business. Of course that still holds true for some sleepier provinces. But for the most part, particularly Metro Manila, it’s already all about branding.

The entire concept of branding has made conglomerates out of what used to be viable hole-in-the-wall businesses. Also effectively threatening the survival of such small-time entrepreneurships, sometimes causing various industries to experience the continuous vanishing of entrepreneurs in the metropolis altogether.

Back when I held office at Horseshoe Village as a partner of what was then Montage Studios, I saw a coco-cloth streamer newly poised above a small store front along Hemady Street. It read “Gerico’s Special Bibingka Now Open to Serve You.”

Now I like bibingka (hell, I like FOOD, period.), and Ferino’s was a 7-minute drive from the office, so I gave it a shot.

I assumed that “Gerico” was the small guy who manned his little place, and made the bibinkgas himself. He had one piece on display on a small glass showcase, and another in small Styrofoam chest. I bought them both and brought them to the office. The stuff was good. I went back a couple more times in the succeeding few weeks. After not having bought there for a time, I just noticed one day that his streamer (which was already dirty at that time) was no longer there, and his little shop was empty.

And that was that for “Gerico’s Special Bibingka.” But Ferino’s was still baking away and dishing them out seven minutes away.

If I was them, I’d hire Gerico to bake in a Ferino’s branch. I wouldn’t be surprised if they already did. He made good bibingka.

* * * * *

Marketing vs. Simple Entrepreneurship: Double-Edged

As an advertising guy and marketing trouble-shooter, I have mixed feelings about these developments. On one hand, marketing and advertising of various forms have become the norm for even the smallest businesses to compete in the metropolis, whoopee. On the other hand, I feel for many business owners who have acknowledged that they need to do some marketing to compete, but advertising and marketing expenses might render their small-scale businesses no longer viable. Damned if they do, damned if they don’t.

Compared to Bruno’s Barbers, Mang Edring’s German scissors and almost six decades of experience weren’t going to cut it (pardon the pun). And I can only imagine how many corner bakeries with scratched glass showcases and ever-lessening displays of baked merchandise had to see their sales decline upon the entry of Pan de Manila in their neighborhoods.

I don’t blame anyone in these various scenarios, not Bruno’s, not Pan de Manila, not Mang Edring, not even the corner bakery with an ever-lessening display of baked merchandise. And while this may sound like shooting myself on the foot, I must admit that this trend is not an easy one to battle. I don’t have any easy answers here, but I will paraphrase what my former boss (and forever mentor) Kenny Quintal told me at the wake of my former officemate Architect Judy Lobas: “There’s enough work to get around. If your work is good, they [the clients/customers] will come, and if you stick to your principles and service them well, they’ll stay with you.”

He’s been right for the most parts, but the sharks are getting bigger, and the oceans are getting bloodier. But barbers have to keep cutting hair and bakers have to keep baking, and sometimes someone will stop by for good bibingka. They just have to stay open until enough people do.

"Da World Bank Lies!!!!"

Got you with that title, huh?

But that’s probably the first thing Mr. Arroyo blurted out upon finding out that the World Bank has officially implicated him in kickback anomalies on public works projects. (Yawn… what’s new…?) But okay, so it seems that the big (and I mean really BIG) boys have finally decided to speak up. Yup, no less than the World Bank has implicated First (Un)Gentleman Jose Miguel Arroyo.

So an organization that Little Gloria can’t control, influence, cajole, or promise new government positions to, has finally released statements pointing to one of the most despicable individuals living in these over 7,000 islands, along with a few other cronies.

http://www.gmanews.tv/story/147372/Witnesses-tag-Arroyo-hubby-in-bribery-for-road-projects

But I suppose the real question here is: What on earth can they do to Mr. FG? (“F” for “Fucking” and “G” for “Glutton,” or “Fiendish Gorilla,” or simply “Fat Guy”)

Considering how Philippine government officials have made covering up for one another an art form, I’m not expecting anything. Some might say that this whole affair is shameful for the country. But hey, considering the Philippine government’s track record? Who fucking cares?

Plus, it seems that anyone with the surname Arroyo and works in the government does not know the meaning of the word “shame.”

I wouldn’t be surprised if upon finding out about the World Bank report, Mr. Fat Guy just took another sip of margarita and proceeded to his next hole in a game of golf. “Poor Gloria,” you might say? Riiiiiiiight… Gloria’s so fucking good at hiding her dirt under her so many rugs that she’s probably Persian.

But I’ll stop right here. Because this blog entry is just going in circles. Just like any investigation on any government official in this poor beleaguered country.

Catch you later…

The P2,000 Lesson on Patience

I don’t think I’ll be heading back to Fully Booked anytime soon. See, I lost over two thousand bucks there.

Of course it isn’t really their fault. After all, Fully Booked dresses up their stores to look really nice and enticing. And that humongous wall of graphic novels in their Promenade branch has invisible letters that spell: GEEK HEAVEN. So yes, I was fucking hooked.

But unfortunately for impulsive old me, I spotted the “Absolute Sandman” series of big-ass hardbound books, and immediately got the entire set for a grand total of almost P17,000.

I had a set of “Absolute Sandman.” I was so the man!

But just last weekend, I spotted the same series at Powerbooks for only P4,175 each. I pretty much shit in my pants. Then I got pissed a wee bit more, when I remembered that Globe Platinum card holders, like yours truly were enjoying a 10% discount at Powerbooks. Which meant that the entire set would’ve cost me only below P15,000.

Lesson Number One: CANVASS FIRST! Do not impulse buy for unnecessities like graphic novels.
Lesson Number Two: Fully Booked is nice, cozy and “geek-complete,” but damn it’s fucking pricey there!
Lesson Number Three: Never underestimate Powerbooks!

‘Nuff said. Catch you later…

The No-Cost Phone Upgrade

A couple of nights ago, while preparing to leave for the bus station for my ride to Baguio City, I transferred a nice photo of Marge happily shrieking at the camera last Christmas Eve.

And just like that, whenever I look into the screen of my crusty three year old Nokia, with the model number I can’t even remember, I’m looking at a million bucks.

Movie Review: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (Why Brad Pitt Must Die)

Movie Review: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (Why Brad Pitt Must Die)

The family was back in Manila to catch the tail-end of the last Metro Manila Film Festival. I personally wanted to catch “Baler,” directed by my erstwhile Tae-Kwon-Do professor-and-now-camera-café-master-award-winning-director Mark Meily. (catch an interview I did with him not-too-long-ago… http://golangco.blogspot.com/2007/12/marked-man.html )

Obviously, the wifey wanted to catch Bosing Vic in “Iskul Bukol: 20 Years After.” So did I at first. However, after catching so many online synopses of the movie, it was concluded that the movie had very little to do with the TV sitcom classic save for the cast and the characters’ names. And I really was (pardon the pun) curious about the Benjamin Button movie.

So I successfully convince the wifey that our time would be better spent on the critically acclaimed Pitt-Blanchett movie.

Now on to this very delayed review!

* * * * * * * *

My first encounter with the concept of a man that lived backwards was when my buddy Dick (that’s really his name) loaned me a copy of “Bearing an Hourglass” by Piers Anthony last 1984 (or was it ’85?), the installment of his “Incarnations of Immortality” series that featured the incarnation of time.

So I was only mildly amused at the premise of a man who lived in reverse. I was of course curious (there’s that word again…) as to how the relationships were handled. “Button” was a love story, after all, unlike “Hourglass” which was about some guy learning to be a rather lame god-like thingie…

Mr. Pitt (can I call you Brad, Brad?) stars as the eponymous Benjamin Button who was born a tiny old man near death, then left by his horrified father at the doorstep of a nursing home. There, as a young toddler/old man, he met the young version of Cate Blanchett and kicked off one of those “childhood sweetheart” thingies. Pretty soon, Mr. Pitt grew up (?) to become a strapping young man (to quote my wife: “…mukha na siyang Brad Pitt!”), who was apparently being stalked by the very same father who left him for dead. This is where we (conveniently) learn that Mr. Pitt’s Mr. Button character was named “Button,” because the man who sired him made a killing making buttons. And he wants Mr. Pitt a.k.a. Mr. Button Jr. to inherit his business, his real estate, and everything else.

One day, Mr. Pitt (really, can I call you Brad, Brad?) runs into Cate Blanchett, who is now a beautiful young lady working as an in-demand ballet dancer. Obviously, they hit off and we are treated to a few minutes of genuine mush, until they find Blanchett preggers. Brad then decides that he has to run off, because he doesn’t want to burden Blanchett with having to raise two children instead of one.

Blanchett eventually remarries, and Brad is found by the Police (or was it Social Welfare?) as a little toddler unable to identify anyone.

The story ends with Blanchett caring for what’s left of Brad until he has ultimately regressed into a tiny infant and dies.

The plot is actually very simple. What made the movie interesting was the wonderful chemistry between Pitt and Blanchett. Blanchett is regal, thoughtful and beautiful, while Pitt shows the world that he can take a character’s entire life in various stages and ages, and inject a full spectrum of subtle emotions and nuance. A lot of solid talent in there. So while the wifey was drooling over Mr. Pitt, I found myself astonished at the depth this pretty boy managed to show through the entire movie.

It isn’t fair for Brad to be so talented in a physical existence I used to only read about in comic books. Mousey heterosexual little Asian nerds like yours truly usually comfort ourselves in the face such talent by highlighting certain “negative” aspects (e.g. “Ricky Martin HAS to be gay, because he had to have children through a surrogate.” or “Brad Pitt is rumored to have a bad case of body odour…” and other similar quips.) Apparently, when they said God created all things equal, they forgot to count Mr. Pitt.

So after witnessing the wonderful movie that is “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,” I hereby declare for the sake of fairness in heterosexual mankind that: Brad Pitt must die.

Cheers, Bogs...

Over a couple of weeks ago, a very old friend of mine finally tied the knot. Actually, the knot seems to have been tied for quite some time now, they just made the whole thing sort of documented, since it was practically a done deal for a long time.

As our group’s resident blabbermouth, I was asked by Bogs, the groom-to-be-but-been-tied-for-too-long-anyway, to make the toast on behalf of our ragtag gang of misfits. I gave him a “maybe-maybe-not” sort of answer since my schedule was really screwed up. But in my head, I already wrote the pre-toast speech.

To make a long story drag a little less than it already has, I made it to the church ceremonies, but had to bail from the reception and hit the road to perform other responsibilities six hours away. Ergo, I missed giving the toast at the wedding of Irwin “Bogs” Cusing and his then bride-to-be Miss Lorie Cheng.

Bogs and Lorie, my apologies for missing the reception and not having had the honor of making the toast. But here it is anyways:

“Many people get married year after year, and many not for the right reasons. But when two people, like Bogs and Lorie, who have been together for as long as they have, choose to face the Almighty and declare to the world the love we already see, feel and ultimately know, then it has to be something special.

“Tonight, you two people aren’t telling us something we don’t already know, but tonight is still truly a special night… Cheers!”

It’s short and safe… and I’m saving the church jokes I made with Dick, Harry, Jep and Doms to myself.

Cheers, bro!

CD Review: Boyz II Men (Motown - A Journey Through Hitsville USA)

THIRD world, SECOND class citizens, FIRST to go...

A year’s worth of blogging later, I finally roll up my proverbial sleeves and bring myself to finishing this CD review of one of my favorite bands.

In this age of the all-access internet, where one can buy or download just about anything, particularly music, it truly means something to me to want to run off to a record bar and grab myself a physical “hot off the press” (at that time) copy of the latest effort by the “Boyz.”

When I finally get my hands on a copy, I saw the label “Special Edition, Philippine Release.” I didn’t know what to expect. Back in the day, a “special Philippine edition” usually meant an additional track to try and push a disc to sell more. So I eagerly peel off the cellophane and look forward to some great music in the form of wonderful new renditions of Motown classics by some of the best voices in the business, some insightful liner notes, and maybe an Easter egg or two.

Err… half of one out of three ain’t so bad, right?

The music sounds as smooth as the Boyz have always been. Given that we live in a packaged-popstar era, the glaring reality of the amount of musical talent in Boyz II Men makes one wish they sold more records just to reacquaint kids nowadays with what real music should sound like.

But since this is/was a new Boyz II Men record, I was expecting to pop the disc in and be blown away. Unfortunately, I wasn’t as blown away as I expected to be.

"...I’m always still left wondering who the heck’s doing the bass vocal overdubs on most of the songs..."

Okay, to be fair about it, Boyz II Men are still individually the finest collection of singing voices caught on tape (or in these days “audio file…”). After 2001’s relatively unsuccessful “Full Circle” CD, I remember mentioning to fellow Boyz worshipper and guest blogger, Carlo E. R. Balingit that the Boyz can just grab a bunch of old tunes, remake them in their distinctive Boyz II Men style and those would sell like hotcakes. (Anyone remember “II’s” “Yesterday?”)

Apparently, someone up there heard me. And they released 2003’s “Throwback.” The talent was evident in every track. But also showing was a certain level of fatigue. The song selection on that album wasn’t bad, but it lacked the single giant-sized remade hit to carry the album through the glass “has-been” ceiling.

So here comes the literally great Motown songbook, and what do Randy Jackson and the Boyz do? They go karaoke on the damn thing. Sure, nobody harmonizes like Shawn, Nate and Wanya (would’ve been better with Mike McCary). But given the fact that these great songs were already timeless as they were, the worst thing Boyz II Men could do with these things was practically copy them and just throw in a tiny of bit harmonized flourish.

Sure, there’s “Ribbon in the Sky,” (which got nominated for ‘Best R&B Performance By A Duo Or Group With Vocals’ in the 2008 Grammies), their new arrangement of their very own “End of the Road,” and the damn cool-but-not-too-different second half of the Commodores’ “Easy.” But I was hoping to catch something more refreshingly new and different renditions like the way Az-Yet rearranged “Hard to Say I’m Sorry,” or some new phrasing like Babyface’s “If” or Seal’s “popified” “Puff the Magic Dragon (both from the album “For Our Children, Too”), or even All-4-One’s “I Swear.”

As evidence of the almost miniscule rearrangements made by the Boyz on the songs, here’s a rough patch up of Hitsville’s “I’ll Be There” back to back with the Four Tops’ original version.


Okay, so the music was good but ultimately underwhelming, I’m always still left wondering who the heck’s doing the bass vocal overdubs on most of the songs. I mean, far as I know, Mike left the group due to scoliosis, not because he couldn’t sing. So does that mean Mike’s guesting on the sessions?

But one has to scour the net for info, since the “Special Philippines Edition” should actually be called the “Special Philippines Economy Edition” and has all the fan value of a pirated disc from Quiapo. There were no liner notes, no funky photos, no dedications and all those little things that made buying CD’s vs. buying cassettes more rewarding. Just a little slip of paper for the basic purpose of having a fucking cover.

Considering that I’ve already sort of begun the practice of purchasing music online either via iTunes or mp3shake.com (I bought Jason Mraz’s entire third album online), I found it utterly pointless to have gotten a copy of the Boyz’s disc only to find that the only thing I brought were audio tracks.

But ultimately, I’m a fan. So I expect I will continue supporting them even after this less than tummy-filling release. I would only heartily recommend this release to a fellow die-hard fan. But for anyone else (from some other planet) who may find themselves just being introduced to the Boyz, please grab a copy of “CooleyHighHarmony,” “II,” “Evolution,” “Nathan Michael Shawn Wanya” (in that order) to catch the Boyz at the best of their sound.

Here’s to hoping the next album takes more risks.

(First draft dated 12/22/07, 12:26PM)