In search of a MESSiah

It takes hours (sometimes days) to clean the place but only seconds to mess it up. Mess always seems to catch up on me. Mess is always two steps ahead of me. I am losing the fight to MESS. BECAUSE THE MESS IS SMARTER THAN ME.

***
My C+ woes seems to creep up in unlikely places. Anyhow, spring cleaning continues. I am done with the bedroom, and not much else. The living room especially looks in dire straights. I can't believe the state of sameness our home is in even after hauling away some 32kgs of garbage. It took me four trips to throw all the garbage away. Despite this, the place still looks like a sty.

I have to outwit, outplay and outlast The Mess, somehow.

Spring Cleaning

I have been weeding the house of unwanted and superfluous things as part of the initial stages of deep house cleaning. Recycled some old clothes, stacks of magazine, and WestLaw/Lexis Nexis printouts. After a couple of weeks of weeding, I am ready to wrap it up. The goal is to have the house spic and span at the end of the day.

But first things first--Seinfeld reruns!

To the Rescue

It's February 17, 2011. I have been at school for nearly 14-hours. I was tired, hungry and angry. Husband was lost, again. But not wanting to be redundant, he added a special twist to his predicament--he also ran out of gas. I was seething!

And so he was sitting in the car waiting for AAA to come and refill the tank. Minor problem: they couldn't find him. He was parked on the side of the road of an exit ramp. And it could be any exit ramp as far as he's concerned because he couldn't narrow it down further. And why should he? If he could then he wouldn't be lost now would he?

Tired and sleepy, I decided to take the cab home. When the driver asked me where to, I resolutely gave our home address and immediately after I felt a pang of guilt and remorse. It's not his fault, really. Anyway, he's been sitting in the car for hours as well and he likewise had a long day. Plus, it was a particularly chilly night. I relented and asked the driver to make a U-turn with instructions of checking out every exit ramp within the vicinity in search of my husband.

Thank goodness the driver was up to it. God bless my harmless, juvenile look.

We sped into the night, experiencing a rush of thrill that only delivering a movie classic line "follow that car" can stir up. Only I modified it to a more adventurous "let's check every exit ramp!"

By the fourth ramp, we found him. He didn't see me initially but when he did, he knew everything will be alright.

I'm glad I didn't succumb to my anger. There are really more important things in life than feeding one's frustrations. Starring and successfully orchestrating a search and rescue, for instance.

In Memoriam

I stumbled across a blog whose owner tragically died. It is being kept alive as a virtual shrine to her once vibrant life. It is haunting--a digital burial ground. Unlike cemeteries, the hollow ring of "the end" is not as deafening. Because it is difficult to acknowledge someone's death while looking at that person's photos: grinning happily at the camera, caught in a fleeting moment of living.

It made me want to take photos of everything and everyone. To have a concrete guidepost to how things were. People disdainfully dismissed those who are fond of posting pictures on facebook detailing their every activity.

They are poseurs, it's just for show....

....attention-seeking behaviour...

But they might be onto something.

An Immigrant's Hymn

A resident of one country, a citizen of none;

Trudging along a path carved in a land not of his birth;

A second class citizen of a first world country--

the birthplace of liberty, freedom and democracy and the deathbed of idealism;

The American Dream for the un-American.

Restructuring of a caste system long condemned;

Upheld by a system that condones exploitation;

Blacks, whites, and browns; in a melting pot of supremacy and servitude;

One race will rule, the rest will succumb;

The equality of unequals;

The perpetuation of an ordered society no longer structured;

The land of the free and the lost.

Walls are thin

Our neighbor painfully reminded us that the apartment walls are thin by blasting foreign music/noise through their speakers at a time when peace and quiet were prefered. Reduced to juvenile logic, I tried to remind them as well of this apartment feature that we share. It didn't work, of course. If anything, it made matters worse. Decibel per decibel, our sound system is far superior. But I was fearing backlash from innocent neighbors, who I was hoping would have enough balls to confront the offending neighbor and tell them to pipe down the noise. Because if innocent neighbors would not have the balls, who would?

To the offending and offensive neighbor's credit, they don't sustain the ruckus past 10pm. But since I am a student trying to maintain a scholarship, this neigborly consideration means zilch. I need peace and quiet at all times that I am in the premises for God knows the scholarly inclination to read might strike me at any given moment. My innocent neighbors better gather their chutzpah and confront the offending neighbor sooner rather than later.

Freedom & Liberty

H: I didn't remove the plastic wrappings from the TV's side panels because I have always been told not to do so.
M: Yeah, I have been told the same thing.
--Pause--
M: So, let's remove them.
H: Yeah, it's...
--in unison--
...our house and we can do whatever we want.

Boston, Calling

I loved Boston. Truly, madly, deeply fell in love with this charming city. Because of Boston, I now have a list of cities I want to live in. It mostly consists of Boston, but still. For months we kept writing Boston off as a vacation destination. "What do you do there?" asketh ignorant, blasphemous us.

Apparently, what you do there is you lie on the grass as though time is on your side. You supply the dialogue to a family dynamic you are witnessing from afar. Then you take a stroll, attracted by strains of a festival taking place by a sea of stone steps. You take your place on of the steps and laugh at hippies letting their hair down to the disco beats.

Even Murphy wanted us to be there it seems, since everything that could go right, did. Our hotel was right smack in the heart of Boston's charm. We figured out their subway system quickly, without headaches. And, we were right under the spectacular fireworks by the harbor, as Boston Pops!

Two questions though: Where the fuck is Mike's Pastry Shop and who the heck is Charlie?

Nonetheless, to bastardize Key's song, Let's hear it for Bos-ton, Bos-ton...these streets will make you feel brand new...

Of purses and splurges

A friend of mine recently tried to re-introduce me to minimalism. Awesome. Here's the problem: I have a nagging purse-addiction that I can't seem to shake off. The only silver lining I could discern from this is that purses are not illegal drugs. Although husband is more than willing to write them off as contrabands.

Looking Back and Moving Forward

We waited for 2009 in the blistering cold with a throng of about a million only to welcome it barely sober, in a nondescript bar and surrounded by strangers. It is difficult to sum up the year in a single unifying theme but many things have happened that I do not want to leave to posterity.

This year was spent getting out of the house more and getting acculturated. We sat through 100-plus minutes of hilarity and innovation that was 39 Steps. We caught Lily Allen live, in the year that's supposed to be her last in a while. We cheered on the opponent of the eventual US Open Champion Juan Martin Del Potro, as we obliviously sat directly behind Del Potro's player box. We drove to Atlantic City and did not touch a single slot machine and drove back wondering why we went to Atlantic City in the first place.

But this year was also spent as much at home as outside of it. I re-discovered the simple joys of staying at home and sitting next to entertaining banter, witticisms and ridicule of people we know and don't. Of companionable silence and noisome irritations.

This year, I got older in terrible style, learning the hard way that sharing my birthday weekend with someone else is not such a hot idea: there can only be one center of the universe and it is never shared with idiots. And so, I was in the City, miserable and disappointed, still waiting for that elusive ultimate birthday that shall be my Best. Birthday. Ever. Maybe 2010 would be it. (In a lot of ways, it was.)

This year was my first year of being a wife to a boy who unabashedly claims to be the ideal husband. And so I spent the year trying to live up to an ideal husband's expectations. Fortunately, ideal husband is a big believer in education and thus, school became the scapegoat for being a lazy specimen in the domestic affairs whilst ideal husband was forced to fend off for himself. We said good bye to nice, healthy home-cooked meals and hello to instant junk.

This year, I faced my fears but never really confronted them. I defeated some demons but gained new ones. I made new friends and discovered fake ones. I learned many new things and re-learned forgotten ones.

Well, 2010. Be kind to this old soul who just wants a small place under the sun.

And the Oscar goes to

...Mary & Max! Forget Up, Mary & Max is undoubtedly the best movie (across categories) of 2009.

Up was not without its fine moment, but the 10-minute montage of the bittersweet circle of married life cannot sustain me through talking, psychotic dogs with robotic voices.

Now, take Up's much talked about 10-minute montage, and stretch it to some 80 minutes of claymation and you get the beautiful and compelling story of an odd friendship that blossomed across continents through a series of exchanged correspondences, between a misanthropic grandpa and an unassuming little girl.

Must watch.

I, according to the Man

become chatty at night and just plain pissed off in the morning.

I am not a "morning person," that's not a revelation. That I am a __ person at all is! But in keeping with the general theme upon which our relationship seems to be grounded on, he is a chirpy, sunshine-and-rainbows "morning person."

Really? We can't even have that in common?

Wannabe Chemists/Metallurgists

W1: I am made of steel.

W2: No, you're not. You're just cast-iron, some two steps removed from steel.

W1: Whatever! There's enough chromium and stuff!

***

More geeky, less science.

FedEx uses door tags as substitute to actual delivery

If only FedEx is as diligent in delivering my packages as they are in leaving door tags that accuse me of not being home, then they wouldn't need the door tags in the first place.

Many times I sat and waited, a prisoner of my own home, for a package that unfortunately was coursing through the FedEx delivery network. The wait would often be uneventful, with no knock on the door or a buzz by the doorbell to disturb the calm and quiet. And yet, by some act of God, a FedEx door tag would be hanging by the knob of the front-door, snootily informing me that I was not vigilant enough of FedEx's efforts of delivering my package to me.

Tired of this routine, I decided one day to stand watch by the street, in front of my house where my vantage point would make it impossible for me to miss any approaching hint of a FedEx delivery attempt. Their website loftily declared "Out for delivery," and so I stood watch. And waited. And walked. And tensed up each time I heard the rev of a truck engine nearby. Until it became obvious that FedEx was not coming.

I tracked my package and lo and behold a "DELIVERY EXCEPTION." Apparently, FedEx attempted delivery but no one was home to sign for the package. By attempt, it meant that they saw me 2 miles away and decided to dig an underground secret passageway into my home which is exclusively accessible only to FedEx and attempted delivery behind my back. This time they didn't even bother leaving a door tag. Must have been lost with all the digging.

With all the door tags I've collected for the many times I was forced to use FedEx's service, Mr. Smith is well disposed to fold up his delivery service and focus on printing door tags. I'm not sure if there's a market for that though, since UPS rarely has a need for them. Try DHL.

The Fall

Occasionally, we see a movie we have never heard before and be blown away. And that's us being spontaneous.

It started with a spate of uninteresting Summer shows and ended up with "The Fall," a 2006 movie by Tarsem Singh. As I was watching the vivid visual wizardry, I couldn't help but wonder whatever was I doing in 2006 that I hadn't heard about this movie. Oh right. I was moving across continents and trying to catch a foothold.

"The Fall" is a story between Alexandra, a guileful little girl with a broken arm and Roy, an injured stuntman with a death wish, whose relationship blossomed amidst the atmosphere of malaise and death. Roy's despair drove him to device an ingenuous story of 5 mythical heroes, luring Alexandria to inadvertently abet in his suicidal attempts.

Roy's fantastic tales of valor, revenge and hopelessness were paralleled with his own desperation and the depressing reality of life at the hospital. Oblivious to Roy's ultimate aim and deeply immersed in the story, Alexandria persevered with Roy's seemingly innocuous requests and at one point frantically scrambled to do his bidding in exchange for a promise from Roy to continue with the story. And from this plot emerged one of the most poignant scenes cinema has ever produced: a little girl with a broken arm taking a fall for a friend whose life she believed she was saving but in reality, she was helping to put an end.

The surreal world Roy created for himself and Alexandria were matched vividly by the movie's stunning cinematography. Bold, dramatic scenes follow one frame after another that one would be tempted to freeze-frame at random and hang the flat screen on the wall as testament to visual art.

The earnest portrayal of the lead actors, and the striking visuals elevated "The Fall" from a beautiful movie to a memorable one. Catch it if you can.

Ordered Chaos

H and I are poster-children of arranged marriages, if only because we prove that regardless of our feelings and attachment to each other, our compatibility is almost zero. Simply put, he sporadically makes me want to punch his face and he to strangle my neck.

An arranged marriage would have juxtaposed our interests, manifestly indicating that every so often, we'll find ourselves in a situation in which I'd want to be anywhere but home, or play either tennis or badminton or at least learn some new sport, or maybe walk aimlessly into the woods or perhaps watch a funny movie that doesn't expect me to laugh just because the sidekick inadvertantly punched a character in the face, and will he feel like doing the same things?

And we would have found out that the answer was aboso-fucking-lutely NO. That far from being away from home, he'd rather not venture out of its comforting perimeter barring life and death situations, that he have no interest at all in playing, so much so that he didn't bother to define if he meant playing competitive sports or what about video games and just lumped all of them under the no goddamn way category, and that a movie is funny only because it is slapstick.

That when I do manage to drag his ass out of the house for a lovely meal at an exquisite restaurant, our choices would be limited to anything vegetarian, Indian and sweet. That for some miracle of nature he decides to take a walk with me, I shan't expect to break a sweat for going around the block, once, is more than what he'd bargained for. That weekend well-spent for him would be tortorous hours on the computer installing ubuntu, linux and their iterations, only so he could uninstall them and reinstall the operating system he had to begin with, to be repeated next weekend. And he'll be damned if you don't have something as interesting to do.

Arranged marriage would have told us that we are no match.

There goes a pillow, a shoe and some other random things that make noise; frustration thrown against a wall of....dissimilitude. We cry, we make up and we do it again.

And so the laughter that rings out in our home, the unforgiving perverseness we push each other to outdo, the comfortable silence we sporadically share, the late night talks in the dark about everything, from the mundane to the life-altering, the kitchen experiments that occupy us, the little games we play on each other and others, giving in to what the other wants, the paralyzing fear of it all coming abruptly to an end--they are an anomaly.

Technically, we should have killed each other by now.

Like a frog on a lily pad

I have not won an argument in quite some time that it's starting to get to me. The problem is, halfway into the argument I enter into a zen-state and start to think "fuck it." Instead of churning out irrefutable and inarguable comebacks, my mind becomes too busy to be bothered. The funny thing is I still seize potential altercations zestfully only to find myself abandoning the effort just when it gets interesting.

Take for instance my Thai-incident the other day. As a backgrounder, this Asian restaurant plays Avril Lavigne while one tries to enjoy their pad thai. Sure, they didn't have to play some ethnic, exotic, eastern music--but Avril? I don't think my pad thai goes well with a whining, wannabe punk child. It wasn't a matter of bad pop radio station choice--I nearly listened to Avril's complete album. What about soothing, ambient, silence?

My ocassional, inexplicable, completely irrational craving had taken us to the above-mentioned Thai restaurant. Husband is not a fan so it was decided that I'll order to go. Promptly after ten minutes, my order was ready, only to be klpd'd at home just when I was about to enjoy it.

So I called the restaurant, huffing and puffing that the sticky rice was missing to which the attendant replied snippily "Well you have to tell me which one." Which one? Is there another one? In Thailand, from my experience, it was universally understood that when a non-Thai asked for sticky rice, it only meant one thing: sweet sticky rice with mango. But at this restaurant, apparently, it could also mean PLAIN white sticky rice. Imagine your garden-variety rice and replace it with glue and that's what I brought home with me.

On the phone, I was being led to believe that I wanted to have glue for lunch which was why I ordered and paid for it. But instead of arguing that that wasn't the case, my mind tuned out and started to play "fuck it" so I was left to mumble "Um, er, so next time I'll just let you know that I meant dessert." Good thing I swallowed my burgeoning, uncalled for apologies. I saved lame from pathetic, yay.

The annoying thing was, as husband belatedly pointed out, there weren't any other sticky rice written on their menu, except for that sweet thing under dessert. So there really was no reason why I should elaborate that I wanted it edible and not for an art project.

Anyway, two days later, I got two mangoes, steamed sweet rice, heated coconut milk over medium heat, added salt and sugar and voila, I had sticky rice with mangoes and I didn't even get into an argument as to which one.

Everything is peachy in my pad. I'm sure Phil Jackson will be proud.

ATTENTION PASSENGERS!

...PLEASE STAND BEHIND THE YELLOW LINE....among other things booming in my ear early in the morning. Waking up to a caffeinated guy barking inanities through a megaphone would have made me run for the hills. Except I already am. USGA at present is disrupting the peaceful life I've been having under my rock, by making sure that golf aficionados will not be trampled tragically by a speeding train. Between my precious sleep and potential profit-loss, it's quite apparent what the USGA is prioritizing.

Not cricket, not tennis, not football, not even basketball-- we (H & I) have to be at the epicenter of a sport we care nothing about. In the process, we lamely try to get sucked in and soak some fodder for small talk since people in this country is so fixated in doing that. All I can say is, USGA, I did okay in Wii Golf, although I didn't even manage to connect the club with the ball in the actual thing, nevertheless it's still cricket/tennis/football/basketball for me.

It would have been more exciting if we could capitalize on the sudden influx of tourists in our area. But we couldn't come up with anything more novel than what our neighbors already did. Parking, shuttle. Forget lodging. Two years of shared apartment living proved definitively that it's not for me.

Urgh. Three more days of this madness. Whoever said living under the rock is peaceful? Maybe in ten years, a couple of million dollars, arthritis and a few missing teeth later, I'll enjoy the game.

For now, I have ten other things to bore me.

The view is great from up here

I am ensconced quite comfortably in the cozy chair I had set-up on my little pedestal while I gaze down on mere mortals who struggle feebly in the kitchen. I can't help it if the very first time I attempted to make roti, alternatively known as the bellweather for a nubile girl's marketability i.e. marriageability, the lovely thing puffed as though a veteran Indian-housewife made it.

Since then, I never looked back. Pooris, parathas, stuffed or masala-enhanced, were similarly a walk in the park so to speak. The kitchen staple, pressure-cooker, became my best friend and together we collaborated on a variety of dal-chawals. I conquered a crucial part of the South's cuisine with my perfect dosas. And what meal would be complete without a sweet ending? So forth marched gulab jamuns, jalibes, laddoos, which culminated to my halwai-status after mastering sooji ka halwa, besan halwa and gajar ka halwa.

The kicker is I didn't grow up to these dishes. In fact, I never even liked them. My initial (and subsequent) foray into Indian cooking was akin to a blind man being led by another blind man. Mostly, I followed husband's instructions which helpfully had some measures against which I can ascertain success or failure. But don't make the mistake of thinking he's a cook.

And so the main reason why I find Indian cooking easy is because I am a stickler for following the rules. At least in my case, that's all I needed. H insists that it's partly at least due to my instincts on how the dishes should taste and how they should look in their various processing stages. After all, instructions can only get one so far. If cooking is as straightforward as following recipes to a T, then everybody who does so can be a great cook.

And yet, I am still reluctant to give my "instincts" any significant credit. Whatever it is, it's something I am born with of which I can only be smug about. That's mostly where my smirk comes from whenever I hear of others' travails in the kitchen. I just can't relate. It's like telling me that you don't know how to walk despite the fact that you were born with a healthy pair of appendages for that purpose--that's just absurd.

But I suspect women, in the age of liberalization, have started to gradually distance themselves from stereotypical identifiers which had them pegged and restricted for a long while, such as housewives, or even wives for that matter, MUST know how to cook. One result of which had me talking to women who proudly wear their ineptness in the kitchen with pride as though it was a point scored in favor of the progressive woman and to others who disdainfully utters "domesticated" as a sort of a shameful epitaph.

Speaking as someone who merely benefited from age-old fight for gender-equality, I suppose it is unfair to quibble about a cynicism which keeps everybody on guard against taking a big step backwards...But I can't help to be disappointed with women who feel they need to assert their non-homeliness as though being one is something women shouldn't strive for.

Cooking is one of the few things I am good at and I'll be damned if I were to be shamed to admit it. I'll be equally damned if it's the only thing I'll be appreciated for.

In this mad world, we all could use a win occasionally. Mine happens to come from the kitchen most of the time.

That nagging feeling

H: *Raberr-y

M: Rub-ry

H: Berrr-y

M: I don't care about pronouncing it right.

H: Brrry

M: Rub-ry

H: You're not a woman--you're an argument.

*Rabri - thickened, sweet milk

Well, he's not a man, he's my husband.

***

No one wants to be that wife, I would think, who nags the husband beyond marital bliss. We see that character on tv or other media outlet and we think to ourselves, I'll never be like that. But what is it about resolves against turning into something we detest: we almost invariably become so.

I hate to be a nag. I know how futile it is to badger someone over a particular point; if through reasonable means the point can't seem to traverse through the divide, then dressing it up in nagging details will not work either. If anything, it will just contribute further to the divide as it has the tendency to piss the other parties involved.

Besides, nagging uses too much saliva to expect "reason" to survive that violent inundation.

And yet, I find myself bereft of other recourse when I have a very important point in my hands and the other party (mainly the husband) refuses to acknowledge it. I must nag. Must get the point across. Play in loop the same tired arguments until exhaustion, reason, whichever is more potent, tears down the walls my words encountered en route to the other's ears.

The only silver lining I see is that the husband claims I only nag when he drives. I suppose I AM a backseat-driver nazi who seats next to him most of the time. But what the ferk, dude. You drive 10 over the speed limit, swerve rather unsuave-ingly through your turns, and boast of slithering out of two speeding tickets.

I hate to be that person, but sometimes, you. just. ask. for. it.

!

Jesus Christ, could there be a more irritating movie than Mama Mia! 

Everybody! Was! Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy!

I don't know exactly what went wrong. Fans of the movie guaranteed satisfaction, if not mild entertainment, to those who enjoy Abba's music.  While I do not consider myself a fan of their music, I do find them tolerable bordering on likable, and yet I got neither satisfaction nor mild entertainment. In fact, the key takeaway of the movie for me was grating annoyance. Could it be that the pedestal I built for IKEA had me pegging other Swedish-related products on a stratosphere beyond the reach of reasonable expectations? No, that would be silly. 

Besides, I already mentioned that I am not a fan of Abba.

But while the music did nothing against my sensibilities, the over-the-top, hyper-sensationalized histrionics jarred me to my core. As I watched Meryl Streep gyrate her geriatric hips in front of the camera with what I can only assume to be a medically-induced exuberance, I kept asking myself: Why? why? why?

Why is someone of her acting calibre debasing herself, er, happily like this? Why did my auntie's friends enthusiastically recommended this movie? And why in God's name did it become the best-selling dvd in the UK for 2008? 

Of course it has to be over-the-top, you say. It's a musical. It can't merely be larger-than-life--it has to be Adam Lambert excess. 

It would be unreasonable to expect for each and every film to live up to what I deemed to be its quintessential representative in that particular genre. But I can't help but wonder how less irritating Mama Mia! could have been had it been Baz Luhrmann's pet.

God, get back to me on this. 

Goodbye, Scrubs

Scrubs is Ithaca, circa 2006. Those many afternoons I have spent at H's apartment, alone, waiting for him to come back from his classes. There was no TV and we were living as close to an ascetic lifestyle as what was permitted in an urban setting. But there was internet and we did have a portable multimedia device and so the familiar strains of Lazlo Bane's "Superman" frequently blared from it as I happily whiled away the time with JD's inner monologues and Cox's protracted rants.

Scrubs is "Our Love" by Rex Smith, "Dreaming of You" by Coral, "Good Time" by Leroy, "Winter" by Joshua Radin, "Hallelujah" by John Cale, "Question" by the Old 97s, "Light and Day" by Polyphonic Spree, "How to Save a Life" by The Fray, "Tell Her This" by Del Amitri and most recently, "The Book of Love" by Peter Gabriel.

Scrubs is goodbye, so long, don't ruin your perfect ending.

39 Steps

H and I have been on a roll lately, in terms of exploring the world beyond the four walls of our apartment. We are trying to reverse the degeneration of our socializing skills, and by we I mean, me. Under the present circumstances, I still exhibit recluse-esque behaviour which will not bode well for me when it's time to go back to school (more on that later).

So on a whim one slow Thursday, we booked tickets via telecharge.com for 39 Steps. My only foray into Broadway had me sat through what most veteran broadway patrons had presumambly sat through: The Phantom of the Opera. As I recalled, it was a approximately a couple of hours of live entertainment that I didn't dislike. And with this glowing recommendation, H was sold.

Helen Hayes Theatre is among those nondescript theatres that line up 44th Street. The inside exudes old-world glamour reminiscent of La Dolce Vita. Ornate carvings, red carpets, deep crimson curtains and grand chandeliers are some of the accouterments that imposes on your visual senses as you take in your surroundings.

As my luck would have it, I was seated next to an auntie who was an incarnation of the dratted American fixation on small talking. About 10 minutes prior to the start of the show, I was volleying "No, have you" to her "Have you seen this before? Have you been to this theatre before? Have you seen abc show?" I must say, she tried really hard to keep the conversation going but one can only do so much with pithiness. 

Fortunately, the show started on time and H and I were soon treated to a visual display of innovative hilarity. Between four stage actors, there were 139 roles to be portrayed which called for quite a stretch at resourcefulness and ingenuity from the cast. Coupled with a sparsely appointed set and props, imagination was definitely among the major characters of the show. Chase scenes from atop a moving train and aerial shots of airplanes buzzing near the ground were stripped down of any special effects, leaving the audience to fill in the gaps.

Hitchcock lovers would enjoy the many references to other Hitchcock movies woven into the story, most notable of which was the shower scene from Psycho replete with din-din-din sound effects.

The play tend to drag a bit in the middle, especially with the Irish part where the routine was a little overdone. But it eventually picks up to maintain its verve as it rollicked through 100 minutes of "fast-paced fun and thrilling action."

Catch it if you can. 

Brash Young Cinema

In college, my friend D and I went to this "underground" cinema which featured indie and classic films. My first film in this hastily set-up, stodgy living room cum renegade cinema was "Twelve Angry Men." This someone's living room soon became a part of my personal revolution against Hollywood formulaic films and my orientation into its anti-thesis.

My frustration with formulaic films collided with three disconnected developments: after-class discussions with a film professor, befriending an indie films dvd supplier and the discovery of a renegade cinema, which inevitably culminated into the fine-tuning of my film preferences. In that period, I was schooled in the fim noirs of Orson Welles and Dario Argento. I saw sci-fi films as how David Cronenberg interprets them, not only in "The Fly" but also in "eXisTenZ." The dark comedies of Jean-Pierre Jeunet before "Amelie" made Jeunet more accessible. The wrenching stories of Guiseppe Tornatore whom I previously reckoned to have made only porn. Same with Kubrick. And Wong Kar-Wai became more than just a wonky name.

I judiciously saved up for "Trainspotting", "Requiem for a Dream", "Pi" and "Monty Python" dvds. I searched the video rentals for "Blade Runner", "The Usual Suspects" and the "Seven Samurai". D and I hotly discussed "In Realm of the Senses" as though we would be quizzed on the subject any time.

Suddenly, movies weren't predictable and I didn't bother who the actors were on the screen. I saw new camera angles that I never thought possible much like new cortotions I never thought the body is capable of. I was not spoon-fed of the plot; key points in the narrative did not zoom pointedly to the center of the screen but instead subtly hinted at. Endings were not always clear-cut and often, the story continued to unfold in my head long after the movie has ended, redefining what "twist" meant. In short, I was treated as a discerning, intelligent movie-goer and I liked it.

Despite the exposure, my film preferences are not as refined as that of a bona fide cineast. The first few minutes of "2001: A Space Odyssey" I found utterly boring and I had a hard time validating the very graphic scenes in "A Clockwork Orange" although I suppose they were not meant to be validated. I know the book only equalled if not surpassed its lurid details. And then there was "Salo: The Last Days of Sodom", arguably one of the most challenging films to sit through to its entirety, which rendered itself to the stereotype of how art films are merely glorified pornography and made me question if a distinguishing line exists between films like Salo and a Ron Jeremy special.

I also had a hard time seeing past Benicio del Torro's paunch in "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." Of course, Johnny Depp was hardly acting; he was in his natural element surrounded by his er elements. Nonetheless, I was less than enthralled by the film.

And so, my film snobbery may not be as comprehensive as I'd hope but good enough to recognize little-known film such as "Don't Look Now" (at least I've never heard of it) as a gem, and open-minded enough to give "Slumdog Millionaire", independent of the hype, a chance.

I don't know what happened of Brash Young Cinema. Before senior year, I stopped going there. The last I heard of my professor, he was part of the production management of a television network. My dvd supplier has long closed shop.

But the "revolution", continues.

So this is how outside world looks like

Been living in a cave the past few months, venturing out only for minor annoyances such as Jollibee and grocery shopping, that it was refreshing to be reintegrated into society once again. I had almost forgotten the heart-warming abrasiveness of New Yorkers and the pee-tinged scent of the subways.

H and I caught Lily Allen's last show on this side of the world. Apart from Jars of Clay, I have never been to a concert before so it was tad disappointing that an attention-starved, teetotaler pop tart was the one to initiate me to it. I am familiar with only one song of hers and as my charmed-life would have it, was performed second to last. So the hours passed in a blur of cheating boyfriends, and other sappy but cheeky love songs until I could finally relate. Her fans, in particular the girl in our vicinity, embraced every anecdotal segeues with squeals of "What! It was about her MOM! I THOUGHT IT WAS ABOUT HER EX..." which reminded both H and I that we missed the bus for the whole concert/club/moshpit culture years ago.

Regardless, I wouldn't dismiss the show as a total waste. Especially when H, whose cussing rival the most foul-mouthed sailor on the planet, stood appalled as the crowd raised their middle fingers in the air, whilst enthusiastically singing "Fuck you, fuck you very very mucchh" along with Lily. Yeah, like mc/bc'ing all the drivers on the road is any less vulgar.

H on the other hand, didn't grasp much of it although he didn't outrightly say so. But in describing the whole experience as going to a garden variety bar with live band music, I drew my own conclusions. Besides, Lily didn't sing from her nose, which is quite a departure from the kind of music he enjoys.

In the end though, it never really mattered who it was on stage, not when everybody else was intent on karaoke-ing with the artist. With all that racket going on, who gives a hoot about music?

It's all noise.

Gmail Autopilot

Nice one, google. Not going to fall for this one.

Happy April Fool's everyone.

Karma chameleon

Jesus, karma is after my ass. Mostly, it has caught up on me and giving me quite a smack down. Judging by the size of it, I would say karma has been working on my case for at least five years or maybe even more. At the end of it all, I can only bow my head in a limp acquiescence that indeed, I deserve it.

My wanton torching of bridges, brutal and unrelenting, left me ravaged in a deserted island that is connected to nowhere. But Jesus, karma--was it necessary to make your point that painfully clear?

I have been planning on doing something about it. I recognized the signs earlier, as well, unlike those so-called financial gurus who were hit by the financial meltdown like deer-on-headlights. I knew that when I was more interested with a dog's name than with the potential friend's or when I found all those networking sites so detestable that I without effort resisted from adding to what I already have and deleted what I did, that I was spiralling down into an anti-social behavior. But I thought I will snap out of it. After all, making friends, even of those who are averse to any form of a social contract, are an integral part of my skill set. Heck, that was how I got a husband. But like my lousy forehand, my follow-through sucks.

Yeah, you might point out that it's something I have reinforced through the years through my merciless weeding of people from my contacts list who, by the way, prior to my ultimate decision of deleting said contacts, I have had several pained and forced conversations with in an effort to keep up with that stupid, stupid social contract. I shouldn't be held accountable for losing all contact with those people when clearly, I did all of us a favor when I saved all of us from repeated, tired exercise in pretension.

And don't bring up about the vanishing act I performed on my friends approximately three years ago. I have been to enough bon voyage parties to know that the people come mostly for the food and to ascertain that the subject of the voyage shall in fact culminate into destination reached. I didn't want the fuss and the hoopla of good byes. Besides, how was I to explain to people that I was leaving which may or may not be for good? My bon voyage would have had one heck of a complex.

Plus, you cannot really hold it against me for having made a decision which alienated me from some people I have known because I chose to value a lifelong commitment over a social contract. Like House, but a much watered-down iteration, I do not have much regard for social contracts.

And I suppose we have come to the whole point of our confrontation--I should. I should have more regard for social contracts and that hypocrisy is an essential if not integral part of any social dynamics. Sometimes, it makes sense to feign sincerity and interest in order to keep a dying friendship on life-support for much longer. That there is no mercy in mercy killing. That not all friends are created equal, some would be a leech, while some would be completely unreliable. That one doesn't make friends so one can crib to them, that's mostly what husbands are for. Which is why it is OK if they are as self-absorbed as one is.

That for the most part, one makes friends and more importantly, one keeps friends so later when one is incessantly raped by boredom, one will have a more favorable option other than logging into a chatroom or ranting about karma in cyberspace.

Point taken. I thought I have learnt all this in my undergrad but apparently, I have not. Now will you please stop whooping my ass?

Update #2: Jollibee in Queens, NY now open to....fleece you!

If you were inside the newly opened Jollibee in Queens around 5 past in the afternoon last Friday, sitting on one of the plastic orange chairs, splitting french fries between the three of you and nothing else, then you might have been among the recipients of my evul-eye or H's death-stare. It was just our luck that on one coldest nights of the year, we were out stuck in a long queue snaking around a block, partly because the fellowship of the fries wanted to painstakingly savor every piece of the potato stick. 

We went on a Friday, less than a week after the opening day, thinking that the hype has died down. Oh we were wrong. The queue was long and the wait-time was longer. I kept telling H, half-shrieking, half-whining, than I was not getting in line--but you know how that ended up. In the queue, we were handed a generic Staples ticket, which they stop distributing at 6pm. 

I thought my pink ticket was exhibit A to the efficient service I was to expect. Wrong again. The line was definitely long but not long enough to make the more than 2-hour waiting time reasonable. What exacerbated the waiting time was the bouncer's erroneous assumption that everyone in the queue would be dining in. Hence, he was trying to regulate the crowd in a manner that would ensure everyone will grab a table inside. For an establishment that seats 70  (allegedly), and with no more than a cursory glance by the bouncer to ascertain available seating, it was no surprise it took as long as it did, although it did not make it any more excusable. While the hype is at its fever-pitch, the management will do well to have separate queues for take-outs and dine-ins and dedicated cash registers accordingly. Although I can understand why Jollibee would want to keep the lines as long as possible; It made quite an impression on everybody else not in the line and certainly piqued their interests as to what we were in the line for. 

After about a couple of hours I finally made it to the cash register--and then I was mugged. It was mystifying. As if on a trance, I reached for my credit card and handed it to the mugger. I even flashed my driver's license for identification and then signed the permission slip for her to conclude the thievery:

Palabok Family Pack - $17.79

Jolly Crispy Fries Large - 3.59

(1) Peach Mango Pie- 2.29

(2pc) Chicken Joy - 4.99

Plus tax. While the rest of America is scaling back on spending, Filipinos fall in line to do the opposite, albeit forcibly. To answer the pressing question buzzing in the heads of those rubbernecks and curious passers-by in the immediate region of 62-29 Roosevelt Avenue in Woodside, we were in the long queue to pay our respects to hyperinflation.

I wish to God Krystal's Palabok was up to par with my expectations. I have a feeling my days of relative financial security are numbered. 

Kitchenomics or the weekend we made ghobi manchurian

We are making full use of our kitchen. In our last budgetary meeting, we ruled out eating out as an unnecessary expense; it is now one of those luxuries that we can only sporadically afford. And so the weekends have been transformed into teaming up with H and whipping up restaurant-style feasts. Jalibes, gajar ka halwa, pooris, laddoos, pesto, putanesca, banana loaf bread, etc streamed out of our kitchen with increasing regularity.

Our latest effort was ghobi manchurian. Preliminary research confirmed H's suspicion that it's doable and in these kinds of exploits, youtube, in particular, and google, in general, are your friends. We found enough resources to guide us in our virgin attempt at indo-chinese cooking. Word of caution: be wary of this chap's youtube version of cooking demo as he has a habit of leaving you out of the loop when it comes to exact measurements, "Add 1 cup....but I tasted it and it wasn't right, so add a little more of this....".

The first batch of ghobi manchurian was such a success it emboldened us to go a step further and paired it with vegetable manchurian. We had faith in our guide since he was supposedly a Vaas-Chef. With an overstretched smile plastered on his face, he explained why ajinomoto (MSG) must be used sparingly albeit inconclusive scientific study that it is carcinogenic; In a bid to preempt a hail of hey rams from strictly vegetarian audiences, he assured us with a sheepish grin, that no eggs were needed.

His video demo was a reliable guide for the most part, though his version of a "little bit" had us befuddled when he saw him showering quite a bit of the said ingredient instead. Precision in measuring ingredients has eluded a lot of these cooking demo-ers although it might be because most of them were playing by ear, so to speak. Auntie Manjulaji of Manjula's Kitchen definitely stood out when during her demo she made perfect rotis by "adding half a cup of water to half a cup of flour".

In the end, after about 3.5 hours of cooking and deliberating on whether to put up our own cooking demo, we had a very late/very early sumptuous lunch/dinner for less than $20 plus tip it would have cost us at Masala Wok. And that is kitchenomics, in a nutshell.

Griping about Krystal's Pancit Palabok

Standing pathetically in the cold outside of the still unfinished Jollibee in NY, arguing who will take the photo of a growing irritation that is this restaurant, was how Saturday evening was spent. Owing to a little insipid piece of investigative blogging, I thought I would redeem myself by personally inspecting the progress of the construction and documenting it with photographic evidence. Redemption should not be resolved in winter, I must add; it gives one an air of I don't give a damn.

Along the way, we passed by a couple of Filipino stores which coquettishly suggested that whatever Jollibee will have they already do. Reminded of a comment about a recommended palabok, H and I walked inside Krystal's. The place was busy which I welcomed as a good sign. H also spied some "green with creme" pastries from the bakery counter which he wanted to try. I scanned the menu quickly for the pancit which so far eluded me and ordered.

I began to suspect that there was something about me which renders the food we crave for elusive when I couldn't for the life of me find the "green with creme" pastry H was alluding to. I had to ask him if he hallucinated the pastry into existence but he was adamant of what he saw. In the end, I settled for the "beige with creme" which didn't really do it for H.

My excursion for the "green with creme" pastry had my pancit palabok waiting for me when I got back to our table. Only, it was an impostor, a sad copy of what it should supposed to be. The universe is conspiring against me. The bitter cold can leave one bitter.

Sorry, Krystal, but I was expecting my palabok to have thin rice noodles. The fat rice noodle that you used would have been more appropriate for pancit malabon but not pancit palabok. The jarring difference might have been lost on you but it wasn't on me. I understand that it wasn't exactly pancit malabon hence, I suppose, your reluctance to call it pancit malabon. But it was definitely not pancit palabok, either--so why the unfair relegation of a name which has a nuanced meaning to it on something lacking that nuances?

The pancit, which from now on I won't refer to as palabok, was not unsalvageable. The sauce was quite decent although I would suggest to get rid of the pork fat rinds which don't add anything to the dish. If you are thinking of fat flavor, well that's not really palatable is it? And the shrimp could be a little less steamed to a pulpy death, but now I am just being nitpicky.

Most importantly, though, you need to put your noodles on a strict diet. They need to lose at least a couple of inches from their girths. I don't know any fat loss techniques for noodles, for god knows I am as clueless when it comes to my own, but it has to be done.

Otherwise, rechristen the dish as pancit malabon and I will forever shut my trap.