Pre-Valentine Blues

That is correct, February, the commercially-designated love month could be disconcerting to many a single ladies. Not me, of course, I mean the young ones. Overheard two lady doctors chatting…

Doc Ces: Titanic will be showing on IMax, let’s reserve tickets…

Doc Pat: Okay, but that would mean we’d be in the company of lovers…

Doc Ces: Why?

Doc Pat: It’s Valentine’s!

Doc Ces: I haven’t seen Titanic yet but I don’t like watching with lovey-dovies!

Doc Pat: I have a copy.

Doc Ces: Send me. Will watch it on my laptop.

Doc Pat: Hokay!

Poof!

Dear St. Valentine, if only you know how your kindness in loving others had been marketed for romantic purposes… and how many could feel so left out.

To all the single ladies, and gentlemen, don’t feel so depressed, just have a bowl of steamy hot ‘laksa.’ a Singaporean equivalent to hot pot or seafood soup. Filling for the heart and the soul. Ha ha.

To Lionel Messi from an Old Fan Girl.

My daughter subscribed to a new feed for my viewing, Still, the internet traffic jammed my humble connection. In a country not gaga over soccer, the World Cup isn’t a thing. Except for me, all because of Messi.

The brilliance of this wonder boy from a barriotic hometown in Rosario, Argentina oozed like crazy that when I chanced upon the display of his amazing skills in a news tidbit way back over a decade ago, I couldn’t help but search and follow. In fact, I even made an album on facebook to make my friends aware that there is a genius amongst the millennial generation who is creating a sensational script for a life story. Only one fb friend noticed. Which means my friends on fb are preoccupied with trivial matters.

My googling gave me a good background of Lionel Messi. It’s a bio coupled with challenges in the beginning. The little boy was inflicted with growth deficiency condition the treatment of which was beyond the family means. The tiny frame could have impeded the psychomotor genius from playing football but like in all good scripts, some form of divine intervention happen.

In little Lionel’s case, he had a grandmother who believed in him. And she aptly described the intelligence of her grandson in a simile: dribbling the ball with his feet is like singing to him.

Thus the tiny tot was pitched in – in a field where strength, stamina and speed define the name of the game – soccer.

Oh well, as I’ve known soccer only because the name of Pele always popped in crossword puzzles, I had to learn more. And learn did I when Pope Francis of the Vatican City sat Pope Benedict for a match between Argentina and Germany. The latter won but the crazy Argentina fans were wild with frenzy – totally frustrated the defeat failed to glorify a Maradona World Cup triumph back in 1986.

Sigh!. That was the year my own country was in turmoil – the EDSA Revolution and the succeeding coups that crippled our tiny nation. But yes, I heard Maradona in the news.

Yet Lionel Messi wasn’t even born then. His birthing came a year later, on the 24th of June, 1987, the feast day of my favorite Saint John the Baptist.

Perhaps little Leo, as he then came to called, is a precursor of good things to come. too. Like John the Baptist though, he had to suffer a tat more than the others.

Well, his journey has been well accounted for, his life an open book. But his script is unique in the sense that none compares to the the perfect beginning, rising, the climax, and the beautiful ending of a career. It’s like our God provided us of a truly wonderful story in the person of Lionel Messi.

Thank you, Lionel Messi, for the superb entertainment you provided us this World Cup 2022 month. I woke up midnight just to see you play. You are the athlete. The only athlete.

(credit pictures from the internet)

Day of the Dead.

Did you hear about the tragedy in Seoul, South Korea where a hundred fifty-five juvenile revelers perished in tragic surge of crowd crashing, leaving nary a space for breathing, consequently causing asphyxiation and cardiac arrest? In deepest sympathy we mourn with the bereaved, and a nation in shock.

In the same way we condole with India as some hundred and forty people also lost their lives after a bridge collapsed sending the festival attendees plunging into the deep waters.

What is it during this time of year that hapless people end in ill-fated circumstances?

In 2013, my daughter’s college mate Rachelle died in a motor cycle accident in the wee hours of the night right after a school Halloween event.

Perhaps my good college mate Lily Ang is correct, on the demise of artist Danny Javier, it is just inevitable that someone bites the dust….

Yet, we can’t help but think that there is some form of magnet that leads to death’s door, untimely. That is why it is important to caution the youth, and the merry makers, to think and discern before engaging in mindless revelry, most often called ‘good time.’

As Anlex Basilio, brother to another college mate Letlet Gloria, quipped.,

“If with young hearts I share without bounds all I know, all my skills and all my life experiences…they then take with them a part of me. I then become immortal.”

Yes, the youth needs guidance, like a snail that we must pick up from a path where it will be crushed, and set them on a place where it will live.

A Halloween’s Hunter’s Moon.

It would not have mattered otherwise, Filipinos are used to the full moon, and of course, the lunar glow had been the source of creepy tales the old folks pass on to the next generation, in the form of exciting narratives like kwentong bayan, or in comics. I grew up hearing and reading tales about the aswang, tikbalang, tiyanak at kapre, at mga multo (evil creatures of the night and ghastly ghosts). So, the full moon this 29 October was one to behold, after all, it is called the Hunter’s Moon, and Artemis (or Diana), is probably my favorite goddess. What’s so scary when Artemis is on the hunt?

But I chose this day to go catch Alex Cross, the action film being on the second viewing week, would, I said to myself, soon be replaced by Bond. Might as well not wait for company and watch the action alone, else I’d miss it.

Indeed I was sped into action because when I reached the Box Office for my ticket, I was told that the film was transferred to a smaller theater at the other side of the mall, and I have half an hour to walk, to catch the next screening. Of course, I swung and literally galloped, at the back of my mind, questioning my decision, for I had never done that, watch in the smaller theater, an old one I’d never watched in. I actually asked the ticket lady if the theater was functional, for I knew it was built two decades ago. she said the theaters were recently renovated.

I was excited, and I even had time to buy two chicken empanadas, in case I get hungry, and a bottle of water. When I reached the theater, the ticket stub lady said the movie was on, so I ran inside, and gosh it was so dark and cold, and through the darkness I assessed that it was really a small theater, and I quickly found a seat right at the middle, second row, from the back. I did not say excuse me to anyone, for the seats on the back rows were empty.

So I focused on Alex Cross and his predicament (that would be another story), and sometime during the toss and tumble of the movie, I was able to munch my empanada, both gone in a sweep, for it was cold, and even with my jacket zipped tight, I could feel the cold penetrate.

Gosh, I am for happy endings, and I love the part when the protagonist ends the antagonist’s evil escapade. And the theater lights were switched on, and I surveyed the seats, waiting for someone to stand up. No one did. And when I looked harder, there was no one around but me.

I stood up and ran out as fast as I could, remembering my daughter telling me something about a Shomba’s story. I was relieved to see the guard, and I asked him why there was no one watching, and he said that was why he was checking on me the whole time, for I was the only one watching.

My Halloween!

My only consolation is it was as if the Huntress designed the excitement for me, scary though it may be. Sigh.

From my diary 29 October 2012

Whiling the Hours Like a Child.

Talk about counting days one just like the other, I found my self in an entirely different scenario the other day.

My younger daughter and I needed to while away four hours pending the result of a mandatory lab test. How best to do that than just sitting idle in the hospital lounge but stroll at the mall. Watching a movie in the theater is not an option. We decided on shopping for essentials such as wood glue, cement, car spray, and yes, fairy lights for Christmas.

It’s that time of year, as autumn leaves have began changing colors, so facebook friends in America delighted posting photos of the breathtaking scenes.

Thus there was a feeling of wonderment when I saw the most beautifully decorated Christmas tree at the atrium of the mall. It was surrounded by glowing mushrooms and vividly colored ribbons, magical ticking clocks and a teapot and a teacup large enough for me to sit upon. So I did. And like a child, I had fun posing for one picture too many.

It was probably a relief from the seriousness of life, a necessary reprieve from the monotony of constant barrage of ugly world news.

Yup, my daughter and I indulged ourselves with something expensive. Since the United Kingdom is going gaga over a new Prime Minister of Indian descent, we sat comfy at Cafe Breton and enjoyed those English Chicken Run. There was a buttered crepe, too, that changed my opinion of disliking saccharine sweet crepes.

When The Ennui Sets In.

Been waiting the past five hours for Artemis lift off, Prodded my daughter to come watch but she asked what’s the hype all about? Touche. Millennials are of interest unto their own. Not like my time when the children gather round and listen to what the elders are discussing and take interest to the news of the hours. That memory of sitting in front of a huge black and white television watching Apollo 11 power lift, booster flaring fire, and the rocket zooms up to the heavens, what could top that exhilarating feeling but that of seeing the astronauts float walk on the moon. Oh well, hope everything at the launch goes as planned.

Of course I was not staring at Artemis all the long hours, I was viewing Christmas movies on netflix, surprised that the merry season’s films came early. It’s not even the BER month of September yet, the beginning of our country’s Christmas preparation.

The movies were entertaining enough because I love Santa and elves stories. Otherwise, these could be classified as crap cookie movies that don’t actually define what Christmas is supposed to be. Of course I had to fast forward to the end scenes just to know the story, Not much point in knowing all the details. But I appreciate the effort of the producers boosting Christmas.

The launch is still quiet. The engineers couldn’t risk Artemis, of course. There was ice bleeding, which was not expected, if I understand correctly. The launch has been delayed for some forty minutes now.

Meanwhile, I have finished jotting down the list of gifts I will purchase for my family, friends, and people in my community and the streets. That was not a boring activity. Finished it in a jiffy.

The reels that filled the mind on a chilly night.

A storm lashed through Northern Philippines the tail of which brought forth waters that threatened the river where I reside and sent the people in low-lying areas, once again, to evacuation centers.

My daughter prepared me a hot soup. A simple seafood ramen actually with just crabsticks and pechay on noodles. A comfort food for a real chilly night that sent me to deep slumber, I suppose. But the cold woke me up midnight. And since then I couldn’t sleep any more. Grabbed my phone and watched the short reels. Fascinating. I easily got hooked swiping one flick after another. Discovered I prefer baseball/softball to basketball. Rugby and soccer appear exciting enough but golf is most boring. Pass! The brain teasers devoid of logic are despicable, as well as the gluttonous Asian noodle eaters who devour food by the bulk and wouldn’t even chew. Hay! The clips on spouses that feature putting nasty flavors on the partner’s food are disgusting. How could those people even think about that?! The Steve Harvey show elicited good laughs, till the focus centered on the male’s private part. Sigh!

The most enjoyable videos were that of animals: lions, bears, birds, cheetahs, chimpanzees, and the cutest cats and darling dogs. Could watch the tricks and the flicks over and over again.

Had to rise and charge the phone and sip some warm water. The cold still penetrates. Turned to jotting down thoughts on the current entertainment while waiting for sleep to come.

YAWN! YAWN!

Here it comes.

And it’s almost morning.

La la Land

Uncanny Saturday afternoon when Jean, Tish and I had to rush to Robinson’s Magnolia, to catch a screening of La la Land. I asked: What?

My two girls rattled about seven Golden Globe awards including Best Picture. I think.

I sort of thought, if it was Best Picture, why is no one swooning gaga over it on facebook? I would have noticed.

Anyways, I went along, wondering about the title. If it’s Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling, it’s a treat.

Excitement hushed as I took a bite on my organic chicken burrito. Nah. It was the Los Angeles highway packed with traffic scene, and young people started hopping out of their cars, swaying to a rolling twenties(?) music. I remembered Jean and Tish saying this film garnered Best Music, too.

Okay, a musical. After enduring High School Musical for my two teens a decade ago, I swore I will not watch any teeny boppy flick.

But there goes the story, a man and a woman, Sebastian, a jazz pianist, and Mia, a talented actress auditioning for her place in the theater, accidentally meeting each other here and there, and because of one incidence too many, decided to be together. For four seasons.

It would have been a good love story, except for the part that both are in search of their dreams. As destiny would have it, Mia got her role in Broadway, and Sebastian, after a touring stint with a modern jazz band, built his own jazz bar.

Fast forward five years later, Mia comes back to Los Angeles, now a deemed theater artist, with her husband and a toddler of a daughter. And by some strange pull, she is led to Seb’s, Sebastian’s jazz nook.

And the two saw each other again. No hellos. No words. Just a look and an acknowledgement that, I suppose, they have reached their respective dreams.

Do I like it?

My daughters were disappointed. I had my reservations. Will hold my comments until further feelings arise from reviewing the film in my mind.

And now, after two days, here I am, trying to find the satisfaction one expects from watching a movie.

If this was Best Picture, surely it would have a great impact on me. There was none. Sadly.

And so I had to think more. Those Golden Globe judges must have seen something that would have impacted the viewers.

And so I came up with credits for this movie, even if in my view it is a tragedy.

First, it is a story of the ordinary people. The dreamers, specifically.
Which brings me to the title that I googled for meaning, La la Land, meaning “Los Angeles or Hollywood, especially with regard to the lifestyle and attitudes of those living there or associated with it; a fanciful state or dreamworld.”

These ordinary people have this illusion that their lives will only have meaning if they attain their dreams. And, more often, they miss out on one important thing: LOVE. These dreamers mistake that success and happiness can only be achieved after realizing their dreams. And love can be set at bay. These dreamers, unbeknownst to themselves, have been reduced to a mechanical existence, mere robots, or even slaves of their own passion. Thus, the tragedy.

Second, this movie brought isms for revaluation. The idealist and the realist, for one, comes in conflict. Holding on to tradition, as sustaining the art form of original jazz, for another, as against reinventing the music to fit in to the new techno-aided sound.

Third, the slow, or rather seemingly unhurried presentation of events, as contrasted to the quick flashback of what could have been, allowed the audience to create misgivings, hoping, as I did, that I could have my happy ending. Nah, again. It was a ploy utilized to make the viewer own the tragedy. For who amongst us did not miss on true love, and lived with what we bargained for.

Fourth, the music was jazzy, and it brought the audience, including the juvenile, to a time melancholic, like dream time.

There are many other things worth commenting about, such as the acting, remarkable, and the costumes, appropriate and nice, ha ha, and the dancing, and the museums, and the stars. Oh, well. But I leave that for others to see.

Fill in the gaps.

Do I like Star Wars?

Well, like Harrison Ford. you can omit me from the discussion. Enough of the force and Darth Vader for me, especially so when the rise to evil of Anakin disillusioned many a fan that evil could be so fascinating.

Yet, with my daughters, I found myself in sync with the millennials watching the sequel hoping to know whatever happened to Luke Skywalker. Who would not want to know. After all, there is a Jedi in all of us.

The demise of Hans Solo was the last straw. Every one was talking about Ford wanting an end to his character, and I wondered if only I had seen it was a cinematic technique from Oedipus Rex, that the son will slay the father in a place where three roads meet. With Hans, it was on a bridge that hanged over a pit.

Suffice it to say that bringing back the Star Wars characters of my youth fascinated me, even if the new characters are totally millennial in action and disposition. Oh well.

Surprises of surprises, my daughter brought me yesterday to a movie treat called Rogue One. I asked right outside the theater at Century Mall if the movie was starring Baymax? My daughters sighed in disgust. They filled me in that this was a side story in Star Wars.

And I found myself enjoying a rebel group led by a lady, offering their lives, with only courage and resolve, to secure a document from Darth Vader’s Imperial Globe, a document that shows a loophole, or a fault, or the Death Star’s Achilles Heels, that which makes the sinister headquarters vulnerable.

The lady heroine is known as Star Dust, a romantic name given by her parents to a child whose life’s story is as contrary to her poetic alias. She was brought up by a questionable creature after her mother was killed and her father taken. Yet, her child’s longing for father remained, as a star dust does in the vast multitude in the galaxy.

So I found myself loving Star Wars again. And if may mention, to spoil you further, that the force is strong, with the Jedi perhaps descendants of ancient arts born from the cold Himalayas, I don’t know really.

No way to end this piece but to say that “I am one with the force and the force is with me.”

Civil War

Written last Wednesday. The internet went down. Posting only today.

Civil War opened today. My daughter Tish and I sat on the first screening.

Oh well, the Captain America series, if I recall right the trilogies of the Avengers, is perhaps the most incredible. The third installment that I had the most exciting and fun time watching was a real treat.

Civil War is an all super heroes cast, except for my two other favorites, Thor and Hulk. The rest of my favorites include Iron Man, his friend War Machine (does he go by another name?) Hawk-eye, Black Widow, Falcon, Ant Man. Surprise, surprise, Spider Boy did spin his web. And new characters such as the Black Panther, Scarlet Witch, and Vision, make up the other warriors.

Kudos to the script writers for getting a fantastic choreography of the super powers, all in search of Bucky, the Winter Soldier, for reasons personal and tragic.

If you can’t remember the Winter Soldier, he is Steve Rogers’ best friend.

I want to put my excitement here, but my daughter said that would be tantamount to you wanting to terminate me, So I will wait till you get to see the movie.

Hmmmm. Now I know what happened to Howard. Sorry. I can’t restrain myself.