Fiesta season

The American election season officially ended two weeks ago, but only in theory. Here are a few more election-inspired gems that continue to pour out from everywhere. I hope they keep coming, as this promises to be the most amusing Presidential term yet. Is this fun phenomenon in any way connected to former Saturday Night Live comedian Al Franken's run for Senate?

From Private Eye:

And from the dark, putrid, depths of the World Wide Web (I don't even want to imagine where, exactly):

La Pequena Sarah Palin

(No) thanks to soulsis for sending me that truly disturbing video clip. More, more!

Live Show

This, hands down, is the best thing in the history of live online video streaming. 

Puppies!!!

Since my sister introduced it to me a few days ago, this site has eaten through more hours of my life than Plurk and Facebook combined. It is completely addictive.  Next: a live video stream channel for Bruno! 

Watch more live streaming at UStream.tv

Bush whacked

Thanks to soulsis for commiserating with me about Oliver Stone's sucky movie, and for pointing out an alternative Bush biopic. I love it:

That's My Bush! Oliver Stone, take note.

Stone cold

W. -- Oliver Stone's latest film on the incumbent American president George "Dubya" Bush -- in a nutshell:

1. Oliver Stone hates Dubya

2. George Bush Sr. and Barbara Bush favored Jeb, writing Dubya off as a failure of a son 

3. Dubya spent his life trying to step out of his powerful father's imposing shadow

4. Oliver Stone hates Dubya

5. Hubris fueled much of Dubya's major decisions in office, including the most fateful of all: the decision to declare war on Iraq

6. Condolezza Rice is a passive bootlicker with a weird accent

7. Young Dubya was a rich, privileged, hootin' tootin', hard drinking, cowboy hat and checkered shirt wearing, skirt chasing, impulsive, baseball-loving, Ivy League educated troublemaker. Yeeehaw!

8. Dubya found God and stopped rolling in all that crap.

9. Dubya is a charismatic figure with the 'people's touch'

10. Oliver Stone hates Dubya

11. The senior Bush is a respectable and ambitious statesman, but a cold and indifferent father.

12. Dubya lives off a steady stream of Dr. Pepper, sandwiches on white bread, pretzels, and (once upon a time) beer.

13. Good thing Dubya runs three miles a day.

14. Dubya is extremely dumb yet well meaning, and spends his life with a confused yet eager expression on his face

15. Dubya was manipulated by the powerful neocons who dominated his cabinet

16. Laura Bush has no personality, but wears the most perfect shade of red lipstick

17. Dubya is a hopeless public speaker

18. Karl Rove bears a striking resemblance to Gollum. Are they related? 

19. Dubya is a born again Christian

And finally...

20. Oliver Stone hates Duyba's guts.

I'm disappointed with Stone's portrayal of Dubya, whom I think will eventually be judged as one of the most interesting, if not one of the most enigmatic, figures in history. I can say this of course in hindsight -- in the aftermath of the election -- as Obama prepares to take his place in the White House. Believe me, I'm no Dubya fan myself. But Stone has done nothing to peel away the many layers of myth and media to expose the elusive human soul of this most vilified, most hated of men. 

That his being President of the United States is a product of strong political machinery, family money and connections, and possible electoral fraud is not new. Nor is anything else in the movie, including the implication that Cheney's desire for empire and oil wealth motivated the invasion of Iraq.  We didn't need to sit though a two hour Michael Moore-ish rant be reminded of these things.

I expected more from Stone. I would have liked to see him form an intimate picture of George, in the same way that director Stephen Frears's 2006 hit The Queen managed to chip past Queen Elizabeth's icy public image, and touch on her isolation, her loneliness, her quivering vulnerability. Bush might be 'dumb,' but it must take something particular to keep afloat politically, run both and country and a war, and remain the most powerful man on the planet for eight straight years. America's in rotten shape, but it's still there, and so is he. How did he do it? Could he actually be a shrewd, sneaky son of a bitch? Or could he have an instinctual, unique understanding of the political game in general, and the White House in particular? Surely there is something to learn, even from a villain. Stone makes it seem that, with the right political and financial backing, a monkey could run the White House. Not to be naive, but I'm hoping that it's a lot more complicated than that.

Maybe Dubya's unbelievable and unexpected hold on power reflects not only him as person, but an aspect of contemporary America snubbed by cosmopolitan, liberal, and 'worldly' commentators and pundits. Stone's caricature of Dubya as a stereotypical Southerner -- his cowboy hat, his boots, his exaggerated Texan drawl -- makes the director come off as yet another rich, sleek, all-black wearing, Hollywood bigshot who sneers at what he considers the 'backwards,' overly religious, provincial hicks who make up the American South. 

If I'd wanted a stereotypical, monolithic depiction of the South and Southerners, I would have preferred to watch HeeHaw. At least it's funny.

Obama

I can finally say this without sounding like an imperialist or a Manifest Destiny apologist: the impending election feels more like a world election, rather than an isolated American one. It is as if everyone and anyone has a personal stake in the election, in spite of nationality or political leaning. The scary thing is that, quite honestly, they do. We all do. 

This morning, the front covers of all the top broadsheets -- The FT, The Independent on Sunday, The Observer (the Sunday counterpart of the Guardian) -- carried photos of Barack Obama, looking very presidential. I've made sure not get my hopes up since the campaign began last year, so as not to risk being left heartbroken. But, as the day approaches, could this really happen? 

I'll be up listening to BBC Radio 4's all-night coverage of the election, starting at 11.15pm on November 4th until 6am the next day. 

In the meantime, I couldn't help notice the eerie similarity between these two. Both former beauty contestants, both equally as articulate. Are we staring at our future? 

Candidate Number 1:

And Candidate Number 2:

Interconnected nature of all things

Edward W. Said   (b. 1 nov 1935 -- d. 25 September 2003)

"... He was one of those rare people who sought and recognized the connections between different and seemingly disparate disciplines. His unusual understanding of...the human being was perhaps a revelatory construct that parallels between ideas, topics, and cultures can be of a paradoxical nature, not contradicting but enriching each other.

"...Edward Said's understanding of the world made it impossible for him to see only the obvious, the literal, the readily graspable; in his writing and in his life he continually discovered and brought forth evidence of the interconnected nature of all things."

           -- Daniel Barenboim, in his foreward to Said's Music at the Limits: Three Decades of Essays and Articles on Music.   

Reader, I married him

A quiet wedding we had.

02 September, Mayfair, London

Philippine history according to YouTube

The Origin of Love

According to Love's most soulful of bards, Hedwig.

Kasal

A handful of beloved friends and family have begun to drift into the city for a very special day. Excitement is mounting. More to come.

Oil slick

Just as daffodils are the harbingers of Spring, yellow Lamborghinis prowling the high streets of London are the harbingers of high-octane shopping season in the City. Forget cheapy Paris Hilton, or even blingtastic Victoria Beckham. Come mid August, heirs and heiresses of the wealthiest Middle Eastern oil magnates descend upon London in drones, raring to burn some real cash. Posh and Paris look ratty in comparison (well, they're ratty in general, but that's not the point...).  Imeldific? Sorry, Tita Meldy, not even you come close. Harrods, Selfridges, and all the toniest boutiques in London swell with flocks of glittering, veiled ladies snapping up gems with determined ferocity. 

During the last two weeks of August, all of Europe goes away on vacation, and what feels like the entire (wealthy) population of the Middle East drifts toward London. Walking through Knightsbridge on a Saturday evening is like walking across a busy, congested shopping strip in Dubai. 

Why do oil heirs and heiresses choose to shop in rusty, old London when designer boutiques and high end malls in cities across the Middle East (and America) are probably better stocked and much more luxurious? Conversation drifted in this direction during dinner with friends at a cozy, candlelit brasserie in Chelsea. One contemplative friend pointed out that the shopping itself wasn't the end goal. It's a change of scene they're after. "I mean, so what if they can get the same things back home?" he said, between bites of grilled skate. "What's a flight to London and the extra expense? They're loaded, so the added cost is nothing to them." "Yeah," grunted another, less diplomatic companion. "They ooze money." 

So, I guess the equivalent would be ordering a P1000 adobo at, oh, any fancy Filipino restaurant in Manila, instead of having it at a street stall. Adobo is adobo, but if you're willing to drop P1000 for something you know you can get cheaper, then the difference probably doesn't mean much. In other words, they burn cash in London simply because they can. 

Scary stuff.

Christian Louboutin flip flops. Yours for only £250.

Could do anything

"My father, my rational ally, who by his own testimony had married my mother because 'she was always a good writer and I thought a good writer could do anything,' and who chafed against her romantic nature ever since, encouraged me to be a scientist and discouraged me from fancy writing."

-- Jonathan Franzen, who ended up becoming a pretty good writer himself, remembers his father (and his mother) in The Discomfort Zone: A Personal History.

Roach

According to the latest wire from Thailand, everyone in Bangkok is talking about a local commercial series called 'Golden Rules of a Salesman:' 

Nice to know that cockroaches in Thailand have started entering white collar professions. I doubt the same can be expected of Philippine cockroaches, who seem to be turning a higher profit as crawly street thugs, food-spoilers, and general disease spreaders.  They may not be as entrepreneurial as Thai roaches, but they're definitely more bad ass.

Charming introvert

Both comforting and familiar:

"He spoke like a shy schoolchild startled at being called upon to speak in class. But in top form, and in private, he was wickedly witty and funny." -- Andre Leon Talley remembers Yves Saint Laurent (Vogue, August 2008)

A timid YSL preparing to board, 1950s.

This obituary in The Times probes deeper into fashion's gentle recluse.

Ay Dios Mio!

I think the London Lite has come out with the best review so far of Mamma Mia! amid all the sequined, gold lame, and glitter-filled mania:

"A glorious sunny summer treat to make you positively want to rip off your clothes, dance off Watterloo Bridge and dive headfirst into the Thames singing Fernando. Meryl Streep is a delight, and if you can get past the fact that her wedding-bound daughter looks barely old enough to be out of nappies, you'll be swept up in the frivolous, musical fun."

Need more be said? Incidentally I also felt like diving headfirst into the Thames after watching The Dark Knight, summer's Other blockbuster, but more out of disappointment than giddiness.

Flocking to London

Is the tube (i.e. subway) still the fastest way to get around London? Probably not, but it looks like the recently-unveiled £30 billion worth of plans to upgrade London's tube system has attracted new commuters.

Running without Scissors

I felt a little like a bull in Pamplona as I took part in the British 10K London Run last Sunday. With 25,000 participants, the running was pretty much incidental to the event. It felt more like a street party than a race, with live music, DJs, balloons, a brass band, banners, and bystanders lining the entire route. While there were a handful of elite athletes present (recognizable by their sleek Nike-sponsored gear and absence of body fat),  there was surprisingly little of the usual sharky, testosterone-fueled competitiveness that saturate most sporting events. It was all good, in spite of the cold rain and icy gusts of wind pounding down on us that morning.

I saw grannies, very old men, mothers and daughters, dads with prams, couples, and groups of friends in varying states of fitness join the race, cheerily huffing and puffing their way past each other. The Chef, viewing the spectacle from Big Ben, even saw a one-legged man hobble past. There were several costumed runners, including a few guys who ran the race dressed as trannies (minus the stilettos), a rhinoceros, a fuzzy sunflower, Spiderman, and a few Hulks. And why wasn't Jollibee in the race, representing?? Lazy son of a bee!

Most ran on behalf of charities or obscure causes (i.e. Save the Rhinoceros Fund, Children's Society), which made for interesting shirt browsing during the race. In spite of 9.35am being the official start time, I only managed to get past the start line at 10.00, having waited for the first 10,000 participants to inch their way toward the start before me. 

I found the first 3Ks tiring, but eventually paced myself with a pair of middle aged men wearing matching purple 'Pancreatic Cancer UK' shirts all the way to the finish (1 hour, 5 mins). Thanks, guys. 

Incidentally, Turner Prize winner Martin Creed has launched (or should I say released?) a live exhibit at the Tate Britain called Work No. 850. Turns out 850 is a person who runs up and down the Tate grounds at full speed, all day, every day.  Explains the artist:

'Running is the opposite of being still. If you think about death as being completely still and movement as a sign of life, then the fastest movement possible is the biggest sign of life. So then running fast is the exact opposite of death: it's an example of aliveness.'

Work No. 850 runs for its life until November 16th.

*All photos from the official ASICS British 10k London Run website

Don't worry, it's safe to eat here...

Because the owner also eats here (apparently). In fact, that might even be the owner sitting by the window. If so, there should be a little arrow pointing in his direction.



Spotted along Gloucester Road in Kensington. I'm still not sure how this was supposed to be encouraging (?) 

Hogwash

The trouble with Neil LaBute's 'modern comedy' Fat Pig is that it seems to hold the pretensions of being a 'hip,' fun satire on the trappings of modern life -- its superficiality and materialism, its prizing conformity over individual happiness. But, ambitions aside, it's just a bad play -- period. In fact, it's probably the worst play I've seen in London.  

The characters are about as convincing as sock puppets, and the 'society' that it seems so critical of doesn't seem to exist outside of American high school cafeterias. Everything falls conveniently under one polemic or another: good or bad, thin or fat, attractive or ugly, cruel or compassionate. Its script is lazy, and even patronizing at times. And this is a comedy? Where? Stale fat jokes don't count. Never are the talented quartet of actors given a chance to probe deeper into their paper-thin characters, which makes it impossible to relate to or commiserate with any of them, including the angelic fat girl. 

The only highlight of the play was the scene where Robert Webb (with a convincing American accent) pretended to be hard at work on his MacBook. I began to zone out and imagine him slipping into his Mac vs PC skit. It was also around this time that a large man, who was sitting beside the Chef, fell asleep and began to snore.

How I wish the Greatest Bitch of All Time, A.A. Gill, would pick up this stinker and toss it to the abattoir. Or, better yet, I'd love to see the late, great In Living Color Men on Art duo (video below) also take a swipe or two.  

Hated it!!!

Postcard: Copenhagen

Here are a few snapshots from an afternoon spent walking through Copenhagen. My apologies for the blurry shots. Once again, I forgot to bring my camera charger so all these shots are from my phone. In spite of trying very hard, I failed to spot Tyler Brule. As he has singlehandedly voted this city the Number One Most Livable City (in the World, baby), you'd think he'd be here more often. Maybe he is here, but I didn't spot him because he only hangs out in exclusive, I-know-the-owner places that are unknown to little people like myself. And, in fairness to him, I can imagine that hobnobbing with handsome locals can take much time and energy that would otherwise have been spent walking around.

I haven't been here long, but in general I find it pretty in a relaxed, village-y, polite way. It doesn't jump out at you in a Grande manner like Paris, or emit a bohemian vibe like Amsterdam, or disorient you with its rich art and chaos like Rome (or Manila). And why does it seem that all there is to eat is herring?! 

So, I like it, but I doubt I'll have trouble leaving after this. I find myself finally agreeing with Tyler: Copenhagen is definitely one of the world's most leaveable cities.

Cover of 'In a Matter of Speaking' by Nouvelle Vague

Year of the Pig

What exactly is lechon kawali in English? Pan fried pork belly? Iki7's recent lechon discovery in Wales seemed to hint of a larger spectre spreading across the globe -- the spectre of lechon. After hearing her news (and growing nostalgic for pork) I came home to find the Chef busy salting a very large, square slab of pork belly, bought fresh from our favorite London butcher. I've watched pigs being butchered without flinching, but seeing this pork piece made me feel a little squeamish for some reason. Laid flat, it literally looked like a carpet of flesh, barely managing to fit onto the kitchen counter. Raw and slightly pinkish, it was something that would inspire Silence of the Lambs villain Buffalo Bill into making a floor length evening gown. No matter. After a bit of preparation -- which included setting off the fire alarm and producing a porky smell that drifted to the far corners of our conservative neighborhood -- what emerged from the oven was nothing less than fiesta-quality lechon kawali:  crispy skin and tender pork held together by a juicy chunk of fat. Naturally this was dipped in soy sauce and vinegar with chili.

I guess this means the neighbors are finally aware that we're Pinoy. 

Read about the actual making of London lechon kawali here.

Fat chance

Tall, blond, sexy corporate hottie falls for smart, witty librarian. The catch? She's overweight. No, seriously. Politeness aside, she's gigantic. He's committed to her, but is put under pressure to dump her when his friends find out that the new girlfriend is, um, a bit large. Will he stay with her? Or will he buckle?

Fat Pig, a new comedy by Neil LaBute, is showing at Trafalgar Studios until September 6th.  It stars Robert Webb (the attractive half of the British Mac versus PC duo) and Ella Smith (who seems to be the last plus size actress still working. Good on her!) Will it be a reflective and moving play about the nature of love, or a boorish comedy that relies on cheap fat jokes? The plot sounds like a meaner, less uplifting version of Hairspray. But, fingers crossed, I'm watching it anyway. At the very least, I'll get to see what a living, breathing Mac looks like in person.

He's a Mac, she's a PC

Oh, tell me what you want

...what you really, really want. Chili fries? Barbecued spare ribs? Well, you'll probably find both at Spice Grill's.

Spotted near Shepherds Bush.  I think the apostrophe 's' just makes it.

Rizal

Happy birthday to Jose Rizal, Philippine national hero, whose brief, passionate, and ultimately tragic narrative still lives on 147 years after his birth.

Above are a few Rizal themed events.* And below is a glimpse of indie filmmaker Khavn de la Cruz's Rizal-steeped Ultimo.

Rizal -- whom in death still remains the life of the party.

*Thanks to erasmusa for links to the Philippine events!

Cine

Speaking of icons, my beloved Jessica Zafra -- frizzy-haired, grumpy, X-Gen icon of my frizzy-haired, grumpy generation -- came out with a review of Sharon Cuneta's new movie Caregiver, which previewed in London a few weeks ago. She wasn't moved, but added:

'Most of us work, all of us have problems. It is also possible to experience alienation and isolation in your homeland. How about a little respect for the Pinoys who stick it around and do the best they can in truly trying circumstances? No one has a monopoly on suffering, but everyone has a unique story. We need fresh insights on the Pinoy experience at home and abroad...'

I agree, but insist that movies about the Pinoy experience in the Philippines are no less subject to recycled cliches. Skin flicks, golden hearted prostitutes (male and female), the homogeneous urban poor -- one frustrated, cinema-going friend called it the 'fokfok-ization of Philippine cinema.' I don't see how Pinoy films can be any less cliched unless the film industry itself becomes less of a corporate, profit-driven cliche. 

But, having said that, thank goodness for the Philippines's thriving independent cinema scene. 

Read the rest of Jessica's review here.

And the trailer for Caregiver is below. 

That's, like, hot

Each generation gives birth to its own set of icons, whose names or faces trigger collective, sepia-stained memories of one's 'youth.' I think the current crop of sleek, Internet savvy, Facebook and myspace kids will inherit Paris Hilton as their poster child. 

Paris, whose unexpected staying power has bumped up her status from garden variety media whore (literally and figuratively) to -- I dare say -- icon. To be fair, she's merely one of many emerging icons for this generation, as I'm sure emos (among others) reject the idea of her being a cultural beacon of any sort. But an icon need not be positive or agreeable, yes? She's here, we're stuck with her, so why not accept her and subject her to cultural deconstruction while we're at it? God knows she's open to it, so to speak.

Joel Stein  does this surprisingly well in his Time Magazine essay Requiem for Bat Boy:

'I want to live in a place where information is so pervasive that people are too smart for tall tales and Photoshop tricks, where our fake headlines are metajokes in the Onion or skewering irony on The Daily Show. It's actually a sign of progress for a society to go from inventing gods and monsters to seeking catharsis in the real life of Paris Hilton. We no longer need to conflate fiction and nonfiction to explain our world...'

Paris Hilton as a sign of social progress? Sure, why not. Maybe she'll even inspire a musical. 

Read Joel's full article here.

Postcards: Milan

Horsey activity at the Castello Sforzesco ('the Castle')

Crowds swirl around the Duomo

Sweeping generalization based on anecdotal evidence: In spite of living in The Fashion Capital (where 'shopping is like a religion,' according to Lonely Planet), the Milanese don't appear any more dressed up than normal Big City dwellers. 

Was I out on a bad day?

South Park Mac vs PC

Postcard

Apologies to my 1.5 readers for the relatively long silence. I was in Bellagio attending a tedious and mind numbing conference, which I barely managed to escape (traumatic flashbacks still haunt me, however...). Although the conference itself was excruciating, Bellagio, Lake Como and the surrounding villages were heartbreakingly beautiful. Mist gently rolling down snow-capped mountain peaks, vividly lush greenery, fields of fragrant wildflowers in full bloom, schools of fish visible just beneath the lake's silvery surface, sailboats languorously swaying in the distance ... the area inspired all forms of purple prose imaginable.  It was a very 'torture in paradise' experience. Wish you were there.

I have run away to a safehouse in Milan, set up by the IOM for trafficked researchers.  I hope to find my way home soon. In the meantime, here are other memories of captivity, structured in a format I blatantly copied off a real writer (sorry Dan), minus the wit:

ATE lots of fish, soup, and salad, all sourced locally

DRANK an average of 8 -10 cups of sugary hot chocolate a day (sourced from a dubious-looking coffee machine)

STAYED at the Rockefeller center

SAILED across the lake via ferry boat

SPOTTED the balcony where Padme and Anakin shot that love scene for that epically horrible movie

FAILED to spot George Clooney, in spite of being tipped off by an inquisitive, reliable source on all things A-list

FORGOT to bring my digital camera cord, so the hazy picture you see is from my phone

BOUGHT limoncello for soulsis, olive oil for the chef

Apparently, John F. Kennedy whisked Marilyn Monroe off to Bellagio when he was wooing her. Looks like it worked.

Now's the time on Sprockets when we dance!

I think Dieter is an example of someone who has achieved 'successful shyness.'

Shyness is nice, and...

Shyness can stop you from doing all the things in life you'd like to, says the old man.

More shyness trivia:

- Shy children tend to have narrower faces than their peers

- Shy people are more likely to suffer from allergies and hay fever than non-shy people. They also have a more attuned sense of smell

- Shy people are more likely to be conceived during the months of August and September, when the days are shorter and the nights longer

- Humans aren't the only species that experiences shyness. Scientists have been studying shy cattle, shy fish, shy cats, and shy dogs.

 

From Shyness: A BOLD New Approach (har har...geddit?). The book discusses shyness, its causes, and ends with a treaty on how to achieve 'successful shyness.' 

Nice, but quite honestly,  if there's something you'd like to try, ask and I won't say no. How could I?*

**apologies to non-fans for the over-reliance on Smiths references

Gymboree

That last post got me thinking about another video, also (coincidentally) inspired by gym equipment. It's of the song 'Here it goes again' by the super Chicago quartet OK Go.

It was all over YouTube in 2007, which probably contributed to it eventually winning a Grammy.

No scary falsies, exercise balls, or spandex in this one. Don't worry, I'm no longer in the throes of deadline delirium (for now). I just love this band. They sound a little like The Strokes, but a much cooler, less stylized version. I've even tried to copy them using my sister's home treadmill (but don't tell her).

 

I Sing the Body Electronica

It's been a frenzied past few days, spent in partial solitary confinement 'preparing' for an out-of-town conference that finally took place this weekend (more on that later). I probably would have succumb to a nervous breakdown by Friday evening had I not relied on my usual upper. It not only kept me awake, but also riddled me with adrenalin whenever I started to flag. 

And I'm not referring to Red Bull, or positive self-affirmation, or to a plethora of other, more colorful uppers. No, no. I'm talking about Mason & Princess Superstar's single Perfect (Exceeder). It's loud, it's brash, it's in-your-face; what more could one want? Although it's been around for a very long time, it still works for me. Pure adrenalin, I tell you.

The video is fun too, though the song is edited a great deal and sounds more like the club/dance version (eww) than the more streamlined and richly textured electronic version available on iTunes. 

The problem with the video is that it leaves one with last image syndrome. Surely if there's last song syndrome, there's an image equivalent? So as I read my presentation to a room full of bead-wearing, feminist, middle aged women (and one man, the supportive hubby), I kept imagining myself bouncing on an exercise ball, wearing long fake lashes, a visor, and a plunging V neck spandex suit. 

Speaking of exercise ball, I would have been even more inclined to live out my video fantasy had I been sitting on one of these babies: a Gaiam 'balance ball chair,' which claims to 'combine exercise and fitness with comfort and ergonomic back support at an affordable price.' I guess those are important considerations when making a music video.

Now that I have made my love for (and dependence on) this song public, I'm expecting friends to stop returning phone calls, family to disown me, and to be uninvited from polite dinner parties that I haven't been invited to in the first place.

 That's okay. I am prepared to suffer for my Art (sniff).

Why all this music?

To be alive: not just the carcass

But the spark.

That's crudely put, but...

If we're not supposed to dance,

 

Why all this music?

-- Gregory Orr, Concerning the Book that is the Body of the Beloved

Death is the new black

If the sprightliness of Spring is leaving you feeling slightly down, take heart: there's a slew of moribund entertainment cropping up to help lift your spirits back up again.

I'm not exactly sure when Death became such a blockbuster, but like flats, fringes, and Madonna, looks this trend might just end up sticking around for a while. Or should I say for eternity? 

I spotted Mary Roach's Six Feet Over: Adventures in the Afterlife while browsing through my favorite bookstore, Daunt Books, in Notting Hill. My immediate thought: not exactly the kind of book you'll see lying around hospital waiting rooms. In spite of my cynicism (I judge books by their covers), it seems to have received universally positive reviews, with its author praised as 'one of the best kept secrets in America.'  This might be why I haven't heard of her.  Why am I always the last one in on a secret? If you end up liking Six Feet Over, you can always move on to Mary's other book, Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers.

If you're in the mood for an exhibit, you can visit the Wellcome Collection to view Life Before Death, made up of '24 sets of photographs taken before and after death.' According to its website, the artists 'asked 24 terminally ill people if they could accompany them during their last weeks and days. From these vigils came a series of insightful descriptions and photographic portraits taken before and after death. Far from being gloomy, these... reveal the preciousness and transience of life, and make us question what we often take for granted.'

Finally, you can buy a pair of cute grim reapers, one male, one female (guess which is which) from designer toy site Vinyl Pulse. Their names? Ciao Ciao and Adios, of course.

 

SATC (Spam and the City)

Speaking of Pinoys and canned meat, here's a blog entry on egg dipped and sugar glazed Spam by LifeFlix, a Pinoy designer based in New York. Her inspiration? Tony Bourdain's show No Reservations. 

I wonder if Amy and Romy will eventually come out with a Spam-themed book sequel?

Thanks to lovely soulsis for the meaty link, and to LifeFlix for the photo and the Spam nostaliga. Yum yum!

Very canny

"Indeed, wherever they are...Pinoys seem unable to wean themselves away from canned meat, no matter if all around them is freshly harvested food. Someone said it is a gastronomic hangover from the American liberation days."

-- Randy David, musing over the Filipino diaspora after being served carne norte adobo from well-meaning (and inventive) Pinoys abroad, in Reflections on Sociology & Philippine Society (2001: 76)

Carrie: The Resurrection

And by 'Carrie,' I don't mean that knife-throwing waif with mother issues from Stephen King's 1976 horror flick, but rather Carrie Bradshaw, patron saint of big hair and urban singlehood. 

I cringed when I heard that a Sex and the City (SATC) movie was in production, and debated whether I could drag myself to watch it. I loved SATC, but was relieved when it finally capped off its sixth season. By then the show had lost much its original fire. It was time to let Carrie and friends happily ride off into the celluloid sunset. A SATC movie sounded too much like a vanity project, like George Lucas's tragic Star Wars prequels, The Simpsons Movie, Rocky Balboa (I could go on and on...). It smacked of a cash-in, an unnecessary exhuming of a pop icon skeleton.

But, hey. After watching this, I realized, who am I fooling? Vanity project? Cash-in? Who cares. SATC will always be SATC. I'll be at our local VUE theater on the 30th of May, along with a stampede of other women, rooting for Carrie. 

See you there.

Inverted telescope

"I did not find a good name for this experience till almost a quarter of a century later, when I was in the Philippines and teaching myself to read Spanish by stumbling through Jose Rizal's extraordinary nationalist novel Noli Me Tangere. There is a dizzying moment early in the narrative when the young mestizo hero, recently returned to the colonial Manila of the 1880s from a long sojourn in Europe, looks out of his carriage window at the municipal botanical gardens, and finds that he too is, so to speak, at the end of an inverted telescope. These gardens are shadowed automatically -- Rizal says maquinalmente -- and inescapably by images of their sister gardens in Europe. 

"He can no longer matter-of-factly experience them, but sees them simultaneously close up and from afar. The novelist arrestingly names the agent of this incurable doubled vision el demonio de las comparaciones...the spectre of comparisons."

-- Benedict Anderson, The Spectre of Comparisons (1998: 2)

Losing it

You have got to hear this.  

BBC Radio 4 inspires a mesmerizing sense of pride and admiration among the 61 million odd inhabitants of this small island, and has managed to do so without sounding like a state mouthpiece. 

Each show feels warm and intimate, creating a sense of connection through the medium of voice. In spite of the standardized British accent, it never feels alien (unless it's The Archers.. I can't stand that show) Five years ago, new, alone, and without a TV, I sought solace in radio. It ended up being my first, and best, guide to decoding the many oddities of this very Angry Island.

 

How is it possible to have a state run, state owned, monolithic media outfit without an authoritarian government to match? I'm sure it's all explained here. Speaking of giggles, I am reminded of the truism that they tend to erupt at the worst times -- even for Kings. Though not every episode (the King's included, which I found just plain weird) is as charming.

Ex Files

As gripping as this whole Gucci Gang flame war may be, I hardly think it merits long, inspired debates on the 'freedom of speech' and 'the right to privacy.' Please. Blogger Brian isn't threatening state security, nor are the targets of his fury exactly 'private' people. 

No, Brian is but another Disgruntled Ex (DE), who has channeled his bitterness into the nearest and dearest medium available: blogging.  He has proudly joined the long, cheerless list of teary DEs throughout history who found their Muse at the bottom an empty tub of ice cream. 

A short selection from the bitter reading list (Bit-Lit): 

What Rhymes with Bastard (2008)

Rien de grave (2004) by Justine Levy, whose husband left her for Carla Bruni. I'd be bitter too.

The Breakup Diaries (2003) by the lovely Maya Calica

Let's not forget Evelyn Waugh's A Handful of Dust (1934).  

 This  isn't satire. But it's trashy, fun, ruthless, and deserving of a whole list of adjectives that have yet to be invented.  That in itself might rank it pretty damn close to Art, but not much else

Waiting for my life to begin

'This time tomorrow where will we be?

On a spaceship somewhere sailing across an empty sea

This time tomorrow what will we know

Will we still be here watching an in-flight movie show?

I'll leave the sun behind me and watch the clouds

as they sadly pass me by'

- The Kinks (1970)