Geek's Guide

A Quiet Man

2012-01-30T17:27:00.000+08:00

I have fallen in love with a quiet man.

He never speaks, just sits in the same diner booth, motionsfor a cup of coffee and reads the newspaper. I have always brought him theprime roast beans, but I had a feeling he doesn’t care if I served him watered dredges.He only always drinks it half way through anyway. His entire concentration is onreading the newspaper. He sifts through it all from front page to last. Then,two or three hours later, he will leave ten dollars, more than enough to coverfor the coffee and a big tip. Once I have tried giving him some change, but heonly waved my offering away. That was the one time I saw him smile at me, andit changed me.

It made me look forward to something in the day. Waitressingis a dull job and only pays as well as the next tip. Some days, I get allmisers who would only leave a penny or none at all. But I could always count onthe quiet man to come in around 2 o’clock – just after the lunch hour rush and awhile before the tea time dash. He made me look forward to the afternoons -- afeat for someone who has stopped looking forward to the future.

At first, I told myself it was because he tips me so well. Icould count on the extra 8 bucks at the end of the day. Who wouldn’t be glad tosee dollar signs, right? But then, after a while, I think I started lookingforward to his visits because it was one consistent thing I could count on; mewho have had nothing consistent in my entire existence. It helps that he isattractive in a Richard Gere kind of way, if Richard Gere had red hair and wasin his late thirties instead of fifty.

I have not told anyone about my infatuation with the quietman. But somehow, the other waitress, Rita, has figured me out. She had alwaysbeen uncanny that way. She said she knew from the way the air around mevibrates the second he comes in. She said she has also tried to read thevibrations around the quiet man, but she hasn’t quite gotten a finger on ityet.

I don’t like it when she reads his vibrations. She said forit to work, she needs to be near somebody, as close as possible. She needs totouch their energy, and most people have an energy field of only about a couplemeters wide. That’s what she said. So when the quiet man is around, Rita passesby his booth as often as she can, even if her tables are on the other side ofthe diner. Most of the time, the quiet man doesn’t even look up from what he isreading. But one time, Rita’s hips hit the back of his chair, and startled, thequiet man raised his eyes to Rita’s baby blues. Rita profusely apologized, andthe quiet man just nodded his okay and went back to his newspaper. But the wayI see it, any man would only have to look at Rita once to never forget herface. To say Rita is pretty will be an understatement. To say half of the maledemographic went to our particular diner because they want to see her will benearer the truth. I thought my quiet man doesn’t even stand a chance. The goodthing is that, he never looked up again after that incident. And after a while,Rita started to tire of walking all the way around the booth just to get tofeel his vibrations. That made me happy.

But one day, ithappened. It was 2 o’clock and somebody was still sitting in my quiet man’sbooth. I did all the silent wishing and praying I could, but the couple who wasseated there were having an argument. It didn’t look like they’ll be leavingthe table anytime soon. I even tried to give them their check without theirprompting, but it just lay there ignored.

I heard the bell first, then my quiet man’s silent shuffle.I turned around to face him, an apologetic look on my face. I told him I’msorry his booth is still occupied and if I may direct him to the availableones, none of them on my side of the diner. He hesitated, but walked towardsthe farthest booth on Rita’s side of the universe. I had never felt crushedbefore that day. I never had anything to hope for before this man. I watchedhim sit on the booth and motioned for a cup. But Rita, unaware of our silentcovenant, wanted to know which kind. Would that be decaf or roast? Black orwith milk? Whole or skimmed?

It grated my ears when she asked. But then I heard himanswer, “Just like always. Please ask Karen.”

I couldn’t stop myself. I turned around, eyes wide, toostunned to speak. The quiet man knew my name—and more than that he was staringat me hopefully, as if pleading to help him lose the chatty woman. Rita had asubtle pout, obviously a little put off. If I could vibrate any louder, I wasdoing it right then. “Roast, black, brown sugar.” I heard myself say.

Rita huffed away to get the offending coffee. I was still ata loss, but managed to offer a shy smile back to the man. He was still smilingback.

Maybe it was the vibrations, maybe it made me high, butwhatever it was, it gave me the courage to walk up to him and speak.

“You never really said which kind you liked.” I told him. “Ihad to guess.”

His smile deepened. “Well,” his voice was a little gruff asif unused for some time, “I never really knew what I wanted until you gave itto me. Dan.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I mean, my name is Dan. Seems unfair I know yours and youdon’t know mine.”

I chuckled good naturedly. “You’re not good withintroductions, I get it. I don’t like chitchat either.”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s why I like you. See Karen, I don’tknow how to chitchat, more so ask a girl out. But I’m going to try todaybecause I really like you. Have so for some time now. But I don’t know why Icouldn’t speak.”

“Maybe because speaking is overrated?” I offered. He nodded,obviously relieved.

“So maybe we could grab something that is not coffee, andspend some time together not talking?”he asked

It was the first time I ever said it aloud. I haven’t hadreason to before. But now… there is this. I would savor every syllable of it.

“Yes. I look forwardto that.”

Elemental

2011-11-24T11:35:00.001+08:00

Like fire

Inside

Slow burning

And bright.

Like water

That falls

Fast and fierce,

From a height.

Like wind

Sweeping

Both small and mighty

Into flight.

Like earth

Solid, and firm,

And extends

Beyond sight.

This is Love

Measureless against the elements

That makes us human

and yet

More powerful than

Raze and rage,

Or gale and blight.

Red Balloon

2011-11-04T16:26:00.001+08:00

A year ago

An aging man stood under a flickering light

In a bus stop void of people and suitcases.

In his hand he held the promise of truelove, both

Buoyant and free

Not knowing he is observed

By two strangers who held the same hope andwho

Both turned around to find in the others’eyes

the image of a red heart-shaped balloon likea beacon

guiding the lost through the night.

-olivia

Life Skills for the Almost 30 - Developing Gravitas

2011-09-20T15:51:00.000+08:00

Gravitas - feeling internallyaligned / personally coherent, sometimes described as 'being comfortable inone's own skin', particularly in challenging circumstances

Yes, it is not mere myth. There are people out there whoseem to have legal authority to occupy the space they take up on earth. Ifgravitas needed certifying, it’ll be by an organization more selective andelite than Mensa.

I’ve been trying to review my life, just in case I couldpinpoint the exact time and place where I have decided to be weird and quirkyinstead of graceful and sensible. Searched and searched in vain, I have. Butthe thing about Almost-30 is that you are now of an age where you can finallyshed the “innocent and naïve” wild card and move on to something that wouldallow you to become someone of more substance.

Gravitas is hard to come by, precisely because it cannotexist in a vacuum. We cannot gain the skill by attending university or readingtedious tomes of Plutarchian wisdom. Strange enough, a word that brings imagesof sobriety and stability in my head, is best developed in a dynamic (read:chaotic) environment. I guess if you have been through enough eccentricepisodes in life, you pick up enough strategies to keep yourself sane andintact.

I’m just fascinated by the process of developing personalgravitas. When you observe people who do have it, they look so contained andstill, where you on the other hand are ready to detonate and spill over anyminute now. The first instinct would be to somber up, to turn off the 24/7comedy channel in your head, to affect seriousness, to avoid situations that couldruin your poise and composure. Yet this way, gravitas would be a mereaffectation. What I’m starting to figure out is that, one has to throw oneselfinto the fray and find a way to get to the other side. Scathed, bleeding, yeah,maybe, but more sure of self and sanity.

If we are only allowed to have one goal for the next tenyears – I’d choose mine to be gravitas. I don’t mean to excise the fluffy,eccentric, one-loose-screw-away-from-unstable part of my self to achievegravity. Instead, maybe gravitas can be progeny to these awkwardcharacteristics rendering it substantial and relevant and real.

Life Skills for the Almost 30 - Praising Babies

2011-09-20T14:41:00.000+08:00

At this age, there is a greater probability that a singleAlmost-30 would be surrounded by other Almost-30 friends who are pregnant orwho have given birth to wonderful bundles of joy. Last year, in my own 6degrees of separation network, there must’ve been at least a dozen friends andacquaintances who were visited by the stork. Happy for them -- and a littleenvious of them -- I am. I honestly could understand their delight, anticipationand excitement. Then they start posting videos and pictures of sonograms, 2-dayold pics, 3-day old pics, 4-day-old pics, (….), first haircut, first solid foodtasting, first Lady Gaga song… you get the picture, right? Much as I lovebabies, I could only empathize for so long with someone I last saw 12 years agoduring high school graduation. Then comes the ubiquitous question, “My bebe isso CUTE/GUWAPO/GANDA, noh?”

Well, but of course! All babies are beautiful. I am thefirst to testify to that. But beauty has different sub-sets, we all know thatas well, don’t we? So you, who were raised before the Anti-Corporal Punishmentlaw and were “disciplined” by kneeling on monggo seeds in a bilao for lying tosomeone, now face a moral dilemma: To lie or not to lie?

What I learned: LIE.

Lie through gritted teeth if you have to. Bite the bulletand say something—anything--- nice. If the baby has a Cabbage Patch Kid nose,comment on the full-fringed eyelashes. If the baby boy is strapped to his cribbecause his ears are so big he might flap ‘em in his sleep and fly away likeDumbo, tell the parents you have never seen such beautiful, adorable feet inyour entire life. If the baby girl has alien E.T. eyes, say she’s so sweet itreminds you of M&M’s. And if you made a double take cos you thought it wasthe family pet pug lying inside the cot, you declare that you have never seen amore serene baby, and oh, see that, a smile!

But before you crucify me for telling, in what my opinionis, the truth, let us focus on what it would take to lie to a parent point blank. You have to take the question and improvise. You have to look at something unpretty and find a redeeming grace. Don't invent new characteristics and praise a non-existent strong jaw. Just find the strengths and work with that. To ace the skill of praisingbabies, you have to re-learn how to look at things and see the way we used to:with wonder, with gratitude, with joy.

When we learn to praise babies for the miracle they simplyare, what could stop us from recognizing beauty in the ordinary in our everydaylives? Praising babies is merely the intermediate level exercise for the biggerthing: finding magic in the mundane. This skill will save your life in the longrun.

And someday, when I have my own babies, and my gene skipped(aherm, aherm) and they are absolutely horrendous looking? If you’re really myfriend, you will lie to me too.

An interesting Post Script:

Writing this made me conscious about the probability of having pretty babies. So I did one of those online morph thingies which predicts how your baby will look like. I tried to see how my David will look if I end up with one of these hot guys:
Matt Bomer
Ian Somerhalder

Ian Meimban

Life Skills for the Almost 30 - Getting Re-acquainted with Books

2011-09-20T14:37:00.002+08:00

I was a voracious reader. Then I became a hungry reader.Then a reader. Now I’m a light-snacker when it comes to the literaturedepartment. I don’t know what happened. I hate that books cannot bring me thecomfort it used to give me --- but nowadays, there just isn’t enough time and,sad to say, not enough memory space in my noggin to focus on a lengthy story.Some of my friends would say, “See? Even the bookworm that you are can’t readanymore.” But dear frigates, I will not go gentle into the good night.

Reading only looks like it’s a luxury, but it might just bemore than necessary. Your brain cells are degenerating. Old neural connectionsyou haven’t used since your last Soc Sci exam in college are fading fast. Theother day, I found myself just grasping for the word we use to describefrivolous behaviour. It took me a full minute of rummaging through my noodlebag to access the right word --- Levity. Then yesterday, my cousin Gabrielasked me to help him with his Filipino homework about Pamatlig. What the effare Pamatligs?

As engrossing as the Vampire Diaries and 100 Days are, everyAlmost-30 must find time to switch off the boob tube and read. It doesn’tmatter if it’s on your Ipad or Ipod or your Tab or an actual, tangible book. Findtime to read something that stimulates your brain, so that automaticallydisqualifies the Twilight series. Read books that can revive old neurons andthen books to occupy the yet-empty dendrites and axons inside your pretty head.Read and give yourself a fighting chance against Alzheimer’s (it’s a scientificfact). Read and avoid becoming a righteous, one-track mind curmudgeon whoinsists that’s not the way things are done back in the good old days.

Then, there is the other kind of books I never learned tolove. The Balanced Book.

I have to say, that even if I know the basics of accounting,and could apply it fairly well at work, I struggle applying it in my personallife. Old habits, coping mechanisms, childhood traumas, projected and displacedemotions --- these are excuses a lot of us hold on to when we know we are aboutto blow our budget once again. But sooner or later, it becomes exhausting toalways struggle with money. Especially when you know if you were only wiser andless impulsive, you’d be sipping caipirinhas in Brazil by now if you wanted to.That’s why I choose my 29^th year as the last year I would ever makemyself feel like I’m 14 again and couldn’t afford to buy myself a clue.

Wiser friends have given me the following bits of financial literacywisdom and are worth sharing:

- Choose your minimum and maximum standard of living bykeeping tabs on what you actually need and what you just want. Maybe you had totighten your belt one time or lived hand to mouth at one point in your life.Make the best thing you were hoping for during those desperate times yourminimum standard. Then tally your current resources and responsibilities (i.e.combined household income, bills, etc.) and allow only up to 10-50% above thatlevel and make that your maximum standard. Excesses go to your Travel PiggyBank for more meaningful results.

- Pay yourself first – and it doesn’t mean the new JimButcher book or another pair of Toms. A separate savings account inaccessibleby debit cards will do nicely.

- Keep a notebook where you track all your expenses soyou’ll know where your money went and could serve as monitoring tool to aid youin prioritization and allocation of resources.

Hopefully, when you’ve hurdled the Almost-30 bump, you’dhave the ability to stand on your own two feet and grow gracefully from thereon.

Life Skills for the Almost 30 - Accepting Physical Changes All Over Again

2011-09-20T14:34:00.002+08:00

Remember when you turned 20 and you thought your life wasabout to change drastically? Well, how did that go for you? J

Yeah, I know. Nothing magical or life-altering happened tome when I turned the awesome 2-0 too. I think I aced an exam in Psychology, andlearned to walk in elevator shoes, but that’s about it. Then 9 years later, Ilooked back and realized I am NOT the same person I was at 20 years old. Thechanges are imperceptible at first, but I can feel it in my bones – somethinghas been calibrated.

Now that the big 3-0 is loomingover me like a highly combustible Terra Nova dinosaur breathing down my neck, Itry to tell myself this would be just like the last “transition” stage. Prettymuch anti-climactic. It’s clear that society nowadays no longer want tobelieve in the traditional stages of life and you can do whatever you want,whatever age you are and wherever the eff you are. But the dormant OC gene inmy body has woken up (for a while, at least) to remind me it is best to beprepared than sorry. It’s the same gene that told me to back up all my files onmy desktop in case the Millenium bug bites. And most recently, the oneresponsible for my atonement of sins just in case that loony old Caucasian manactually has a clue about the end of the world this year. I’m sure next year thegene will be on hyperdrive as 12.12.12 draws nearer. But for now, she is quiteoccupied about January when my body clock finally clocks in 30 years ofexistence.

To pacify this deviant gene, Ihave compiled my observations about what survival skills are necessary for theAlmost-30 to thrive and prosper. I may hit some things head on. But of course,I am only 29 and could only guarantee so much. If ever I make it to 39, wholeof mind and body, I’ll make sure to check in on you for updates. But for now,hypothesize with me.

The New New SkillSet

1. Accepting thechanges in your body --- all over again

15 years ago, unwanted body hair and acne were the bane ofour existence. The unruly hormones that brought out all that angst, and thedifferent maniacal coping mechanisms from within us almost spelled disaster.Then suddenly it stopped (visualize a cloud parting for the sun metaphor here)and we were finally free! 5, 6, 7, 8 years go by and your body is a wonderland.You can down 5 Krispy Kremes in 5 minutes. You sleep past 3 am and wake up at 6and could still make it on time for your gang’s Saturday Morning Coffeeround-up ala-Friends. Most importantly, stairs weren’t the enemy.

If you were one of the enlightened few who treated theirbodies like a temple (or a Porsche, depending on your religious beliefs), youwould have avoided all of the above and ate nothing but tofu and grass, went tothe gym or exercised like a nun would do Vespers, and slept the required amountof time for proper recuperation. But let’s get real, our generation had moreAshton Kutchers than there were Dalai Lamas. So by the age of 28, some of usare already slowing down, eyebrows rising in surprise when the last flight ofstairs almost killed us, or when the 13 shopping bags of kikay stuff resultedto an equal amount of Salonpas patches for your arms and shoulders the nextday. And the lines, girl. Your face is starting to go all Clint Eastwood onyou, especially around the eyes.

Then one inauspicious morning, you wake up and realized youhave accepted the truth. Your body is aging. You are nearer to the grave thanyou were 10 years ago. As my boyfriend’s friend aptly remarked, “Hindi na tayoearly 20’s.” The first chink in your Batman suit of armour appears. Vincible.No, we say, there is no such word as Vincible. But there you are, proof thatnobody is Invincible --- not forever.

So here’s what I suggest: Take a good long look at yourselfin the mirror, nod respectfully to your reflection and say, ‘Good times, man.Good times.’ Then brush your teeth, exfoliate, moisturize (make sure it hassunblock in it), eat your cereal ( no sugar) and down your fresh grapefruitjuice. Walk, climb, jump or hike if you have to going to work. Anything to getthose triglycerides down. Because you refuse, refuse to be 50 before you are30.

And in a couple years time, I might just try my ownsuggestions myself. J

Ten Words that Define

2011-07-23T14:47:00.000+08:00

After reading Alexandra Stoddard, was encouraged to write down 10 words which defines me and they're not necessarily adjectives. Why not, diba?
:D

Rain

Books

Hope

Words

Chocolate

Purple

Dream

Music

Art

Bed

Girl Brava

2011-06-12T13:19:00.001+08:00

During last week’s girls’ night out, one of my fearless female friends shared her adventures/misadventures in NOT pursuing a guy she likes. The stories were weird, laugh out loud funny, makes you wince at all the right moments, and sweetly achingly familiar to all of us. And if you were there, girl, you’d have thought it familiar too. I have reason to believe that as smart and quirky as my close circle of friends are, there’s an iota of us that is similar to all girls everywhere --- utter cluelessness about men.

You see, usual love stories are those involving a boy falling head over heels in love with a girl and pursuing her affections to the ends of both earth and sanity. Turn this inside out and you get the story of a girl falling head over heels in love with a boy and pursuing his affections to the ends of… you know how it goes. (Of course these are just the het versions, I’m aware the nouns could be replaced with about a hundred other pairing possibilities). But let’s be real. It takes an awful lot of guts to actually pursue a guy, and even if we have heard of outlandish stories about women following men around raining them with gifts and favors or boldly daring them to fall in love with her, there are still those of us who aren’t ready to take that giant leap. And so we take them critterly small steps, daring within the confounds of the acceptable with only our little toes stepping over the line.
Nobody died and made me an expert, so don’t quote me on this. We all know that there was a perception in conservative societies (although it’s fast dissipating) that men do the deciding. But it’s 2011 and I believe, women are a little faster on the uptake and can decide faster* . How many girls out there knew 1.5 years ahead of the boy that they will be good for each other? (okay, the numerical data in that statement may have been biased towards the author’s experience, but you get my point, right?) And yet no matter how modern the times are, you still hesitate to make this matter known. Sometimes, you don’t even want to make this matter known at all, ever. If the world could just move on 15 degrees of an angle from the issue, you’d be fine.
However, regardless of the damage it creates on our nervous system, we still somehow can’t help but analyze things and slip a couple of Inception-style ideas out there.
To a woman, a couple of hints and subtle moves are all it takes for neurons to make connections and analogies. Flower and chocolates are the obvious outdated moves. We don’t need those to get our thinking gears moving. It’s a little more complicated, er... although, I prefer the term “sophisticated”, than that: body language (is he leaning in too close? Did his hand brush mine on purpose? Etc.), verbal cues (“what’s up? Whatcha doing?” is translated as “does he want to know if we could hang out? Oh my God, does he want to hang out with me?”), and here comes the most nerve-wracking one --- sub-conscious cues (Was that a Freudian slip? why did he blink that way? Why did he choose that word to describe his dream girl? Is it because it rhymes with my name?). In. Sane. But it happens, except maybe to a handful of super enlightened women who are 100% confident all the time and one of whom I am yet to meet.

How about men, I wonder? Did they understand that we don’t usually stay up until 3 a.m. texting about basketball game scores? That our mothers couldn’t make us clean our rooms but upon learning the guy’s coming over, you mysteriously catch a virus that makes you ill enough to attack dust bunnies and curtains that needs to be washed pronto? The text message that took us 3 hours to compose to get just the right balance of curiosity and disinterest? That those cookies you gave him before his important meeting weren’t because we baked a surplus (when we can’t tell one end of a spatula from the other)? The hand we offered and took back when a guy offers a handshake as goodbye when you realized your hands would actually be touching? The Charlie Brown doll you said reminded you of him which later on mysteriously disappears from his room and his life (btw, Ian, just give this back to me, I’ve been embarrassed long enough). Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. But more often than not, they do nothing about it. Sometimes forever. But sometimes, they finally assimilate and do something about it an epic era after. Because girls --- guys are Just. That. Slow. Not always too slow to pick up on things. But snail carrier-worthy when it comes to actually doing something about it.

Sometimes, I wished things were more cut and dried than usual—he came, he saw, he conquered (or so he thinks). But for us girls who couldn’t or wouldn't have it so tidy, I guess the choice we have is to live life bravely. Er, not dangerously brave, nothing that will land you in gaol or the asylum. But be as brave as we could be. For some it’s a pinky toe over the line of the appropriate, for others it’s a leg and a limb over society’s expectations. I am not one to discriminate. Because we are brave the way only we could be and it will defeat the purpose of defying the stereotypes if you stereotype bravery.
Love someone. Let him know. Discreetly. Flamboyantly. Take that step, make that run. Fall flat on your face. Sometimes, nobody’s there to catch you. All the time though, pick yourself up. Because when you least expect it, a hand reaches out to you. Maybe his. Maybe another’s. And sometimes, they don’t let go.

-=-=--=--=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Superscript:
* BOYS: yes, girls are fast on the uptake and deciding. The stereotyping that we change our minds a lot may be due to the fact that we have already assimilated and considered more scenarios and decided thrice before you even reach your first conclusion. :D But this is just me.

Summer Movie Reviews (in 50 words or less)

2011-05-11T01:23:00.001+08:00

Thor – stunning visuals, killer abs, epic score and thrilling sound effects to distract us from a storyline that could’ve been written by a 10-year-old kid --- one heck of a prodigious 10 year old, but still.

Beastly – this retake of Beauty and the Beast is not as beastly as its title, but nothing beautiful in it either. Storyline is half-baked, hardly credible, and makes sense as much as those hats worn by royals during Will & Kate’s wedding day.

Fast Five – not as disappoiting as the last 2 installments. It’s an honest-to-goodness edge of your seat a drenaline ride. It even got me cheering and laughing at the bald-faced heist scenes. Storyline is predictable, but delivery is as precise as car drifting and just as entertaining and less lethal to booth.

Water for Elephants - I really suggest you read the book instead. There is a lyrical beauty and imminent danger better presented by the text than by watching Robert Pattinson’s brooding chin.

The King’s Speech – simple, credible, uplifting. Story-driven and flawless acting from its lead characters making it easy to follow, although I admit you’d need the focus of a law student through some scenes. However, you’d have to be a gargoyle if you are not moved by the last few minutes of the film.

Geek's Guide to the Movies: Source Code

2011-05-03T15:21:00.000+08:00

Honestly, I have no friggin' idea what a Source Code is. I'm a nerdy kind of geek, not the master techie one. I know my way around an operating system, and I don't panic when the screen turns black and DOS-type words appear, but beyond that... moot.

So the title of this movie intrigued and scared me. I have to say, it's one of the most elitist titles ever chosen by movie producers. Only a few people truly understand the words "Source" and "Code" put together, and mayhaps it conjures not very interesting images of green font blinking jarringly against black screen. It is an inaccessible jargon, and it may have just ruined the chances of this movie ever being watched by non-geeks. A true loss for everyone.

The movie is a toned-down Inception --- in the sense that it makes you believe in something that usually shouldn't make sense. The premise is that Capt. Colter Stevens (Jake Gyllenhall) awakes in a different body on a speeding train which bursts to flames 8 minutes later. The last time he was conscious, he was in the middle of the fight covered in blood and mud in Iraq, so yes, the monkey suit, coach train and pretty girl in front of him was a jarring, confusing reality to wake up to. 8 minutes later though, the train is blown up by a bomb, and he is transported back to a capsule where he learns he is on a military mission to stop a massive bomb threat to downtown Chicago, an event which is connected to the exploded train that morning.

I better take a breather to explain how they made it sound possible, and it gets a bit science-y, be warned: Colter woke up in the body of Sean Fentress, a history teacher, who was on that train. They are the closest fit to body built, race, some genetic similarities enabling Colter to inhibit Sean's memory of his body and surroundings for the last 8 minutes. You remember that latest G.I. Joe movie where they tried to get the last few seconds of an enemy's memory to know who is controlling those metal eating tiny monstrosities? Well, in the movie, that they were able to retrieve Sean's brains in which his synaptic nerves still contains the memory of the last 8 minutes of his life. That's why, Colter only has 8 minutes every time he goes back to the train. The inventor and controlling officer (Goodwin) also explained that it wasn't a form of time travel, you could not change anything. Nobody could exist outside the Source Code.

But the catch is, everytime he goes back, it's another version of reality. Meaning, as Colter said it, "it's the same train, but different." So he gets sent back and back again until he finds the bomb and the bomber and the possible whereabouts of the next massive bomb. He also discovers he is dead, save for a small part of his brain.

Regardless of his grief, he does find the bomber, he does save Chicago from a meltdown. But at the end, he asked for a final release, to go back to the train and try to save the people inside, including Christina (Michelle Monaghan). Even if it wouldn't change a thing. And in a final act of solidarity, the controlling officer sent him, and then unplugged his life support.

But not before Colter disables the bomb in the other reality, not before he kissed the girl (again), not before he dared a bitter comedian on board to give an impromptu performance to amuse everyone. The final seconds of his last 8 minutes (EVER) counted down, and at 00 hours the shot froze on the kiss, panned to the frozen happy faces of the people laughing... a far cry from the despaired, confused faces he kept seeing in the countless other 8 minutes he has been in.

The director is a genius. He knows when to freeze shots to emphasize the story. It was like watching a visual harmony, where the stops and gaps tells a story in itself.

And you have to watch the movie to know what happened in the -01 second. It's still showing, so I implore everyone who has a mind to use their brains while watching a movie (unlike in, let's say, Big Momma's Like Mother, Like Son)to catch it if it still shows after Holy Week.

Not everything about the movie makes sense in the afterthought, but it was sure worth it during the whole ride.

Finally, Geek's Guide can finally recommend a 2011 movie wholeheartedly. This is a rare thing, so it must mean something. :D

Summer

2011-05-03T15:19:00.002+08:00

I wither in summer.

Geek's Guide to the Movies: Sucker Punch

2011-03-29T12:33:00.004+08:00

Presenting the return of the Geek. It's been a while. I wish I could've made a comeback sounding like a changed person; I was imagining critiquing a movie so awe-inspiring I just had to write a review about it. Ironically, it's the other way around. Somebody needs to warn the masses about this film. Do not waste 200 bucks on it. In the end, the only person who gets Sucker Punched is you.

I admit, I excite easily. Books, food... and movies. Watching trailers is like foreplay to me. When I saw the trailer for Sucker Punch, it was so mind-blowingly anime-zing that I even alloted a brain cell to remember its showdate. I wasn't expecting an intellectual film, of course. It was obvious to me even then that the movie is akin to an adolescent phantasmagoria. But I wasn't expecting a plotless, spineless film that pretends at empowering girls while encapsulating them further into the stereotype. If I take my lenses off --- all of the lenses at that --- I did feel a certain thrill of imagining myself as a gun-toting, samurai-wielding Lara Croft type of super heroine. But someone should have told the producers that the scenarios they have placed "Babydoll" in are not the inner workings of a woman. Certainly not one that, as the movie took the effort to explain, grew up as a bourgoise bred Anglo Saxon.

Sucker Punch is eye-candy. To be more precise, it's pop rocks for the extremely hormonal. The kind that sizzles and twitches in your mouth. But after all the popping and cracking is done, you're just left with a monstrous sweetness nauseauting enough to lead you into diabetic coma. I wish I could comment on the technicalities of the plot. But as I have mentioned before, it doesn't have one that makes any kind of respectable sense. In a bubble gum, it's supposed to be about a girl who was committed by his stepfather into a mental institution (which is actually a front for a "Dancing" club / whorehouse). She finds it so miserable that in one of her trances, she was told by a hammy looking old man the only way to get out is to find 5 items: a map, fire, knife, key and 1 other mystery object. The movie revolves around the trances she gets everytime they plot to retrieve an item. And the really kooky part is, we don't really get to see her dance.

Oh, and they all die, or get lobotomized in the end, save for one. Which one... is supposedly where you get sucker punched. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Un-perfect

2011-03-21T12:39:00.003+08:00

The writing prompt was: to take elements from the story of sleeping beauty and to write it under half an hour.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The first time Liz heard David snore, she laughed.

She worked late that night and he offered to drive her home after dinner. By the time they got to her place, it was already past midnight and David looked like he was about to drop. Liz felt guilty, and asked if he would like to take a nap first before heading back to the city. David was too exhausted to refuse.

In a matter of minutes, he was dead to the world on Liz’s bed. Then he snored. Loudly.

Liz found it adorable at first.

But just then, a bitter, ugly voice spoke inside her head asking, “For how long?” How long until what she finds adorable now becomes irritating later? The thought was punctuated by another deafening snore. Without meaning to, she winced. She sat on the chair beside the bed and watched him sleep.

“How un-perfect,” she thought. “Here I am, with a guy on my bed, fast asleep and snoring.” None of the romance novels she read told the story of the guy who fell asleep after rescuing the damsel-in-distress. And certainly, none of them ever mentioned the hero snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Liz knew she should be appalled. But…

There’s something familiar about the way he’s sprawled on the pillows and the way his left arm is splayed to the side. It was more of a boyish pose than a gallant one. And yet instead of being turned off, Liz felt warmth spread through her instead. Because she noticed that even on her tiny, tiny bed, he made a space for her. Beside David is a Liz-shaped space for when she’s ready.

Hesitations slowly faded away. And when she was finally sure, she stood up from the chair, made her way to the bed and fitted herself beside him.

“So that’s how it feels to cross the line between fiction and reality,” she whispered to the sleeping David. In romance novels, the guy is picture perfect, filled with electrifying energy and probably doesn’t snore. But none of them could hold a candle to this warmth, this space where she fits, the rhythm of their breaths syncing in contentment. Liz seals this realization by planting a soft kiss on his lips.

David wakes with a jolt. “Sorry! Am I hogging the bed?” He reaches out to touch her face.

Liz smiled, “Nope, don’t worry, I fit,” she said. “Sleep a few more minutes. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

He nodded and moved to his side to hug her. “Thanks, love. One full REM cycle should do it,” he quipped.

“Take two, if you want.”

David leaned forward and kissed Liz’s forehead. “I should probably tell you, Liz. I snore in my sleep.”

“Ha! I should probably tell you David, I talk in my sleep.” She replied.

He grinned at her and hugged her tighter. “Well, that’s just perfect.”

Huh.

“Yeah… that’s exactly what I realized. Perfect.”

Not an Average Love Letter

2011-03-11T23:27:00.002+08:00

Lately, I have been hinting heavily at my boyfriend that I would “appreciate” receiving a love letter. He’s been spot-on so far --- big boxes of chocolates, scouring shops and shelling out the bucks for my “craving of the month” munchies, flowers in vases and fluffy stuff to clutter my bed with. Everything except the Letter.

See, some girls dream of breathtakingly expensive proposals, some of big fabulous weddings, and some fantasize of babies in a twin carriage. But ever since I was young, I only had one romantic notion and that is to receive one heck of a searingly honest, non-sappy, ultra-passionate love letter. The kind of letter that bares the soul and seals in ink the reasons and unreasons of Love --- so real it makes all other literature pale in comparison.

I guess on the off-hand, it sounds like a tall order. I can imagine litgeeks balking at this request. And my guy, who like my sister believes that reading and writing are things you suffer through only for a perfectly iron-clad and inescapable logical reason, might not be comfortable trying to find the right words. And so I thought, maybe I should give it a try first before I ask it of anybody else. But I hit a problem.

I honestly haven’t written a love letter before --- and given it to the person I wrote it for. I managed to write a few which were supposed to be unsent, and they are now populating the bottom drawer of my study table along with clippings of articles about Boyzone and Backstreet Boys.

A love letter meant to be read however, must not just be heartfelt. I suppose it has to be relatable. It also cannot have any signs of delusional psychopathy (just like signing it off as Yours forever, Mrs. Liv Gately).

Unsure on how to proceed, I decided to do what geeks and nerds do whenever they are faced with a new problem --- research, of course. I have no intention to plagiarize. I was just wondering, really 100% wondering, how other geniuses like myself (oh wait, yeah, we agreed on a zero delusions policy so scratch the last part) wrote love letters.

And as it turns out, they weren’t all what they’re touted to be. I came across a lot of “Ohs” ( as in Oh, oh, love, thy light is oh, oh, so bright) and “Dears” (Dearest of my heart; I hold you dear my darling) and over postulated sentences such as “Your scent a thousand sultans crave… it perfumes the onerous, palpable night, my beautiful, breathtaking (insert name of flower here)” which in the end really only wanted to say “You smell good, babe.”

No, I was looking for the perfect balance of beauty and practicality with a dash of imagination and science. A person could say, “ The nearness of you intoxicates, blurs the line between here and there, today and tomorrow --- a heady mix of truth that is present and truth we wish will be” or settle with “You drive me crazy insane, love.” Both are acceptable, but neither suits my taste. One is too flowery and sounds too much like prescribed reading for English class and the other one fails to justify the parameters of insanity.

So maybe… Napoleon Bonaparte said it better to Josephine? Let’s see:

Paris, December 1795

I wake filled with thoughts of you. Your portrait and the intoxicating evening which we spent yesterday have left my senses in turmoil. Sweet, incomparable Josephine, what a strange effect you have on my heart! Are you angry? Do I see you looking sad? Are you worried?... My soul aches with sorrow, and there can be no rest for you lover; but is there still more in store for me when, yielding to the profound feelings which overwhelm me, I draw from your lips, from your heart a love which consumes me with fire? Ah! it was last night that I fully realized how false an image of you your portrait gives!

You are leaving at noon; I shall see you in three hours.

Until then, mio dolce amor, a thousand kisses; but give me none in return, for they set my blood on fire.

Well, yeah, I guess that’s not lame stuff. Miles better than what Mozart can cook up with a pen. Seriously, the guy should’ve just stuck with sheet music. How would you feel if you were the lucky recipient of these fond words:

"I now wish you goodnight, shit in your bed with all your might, sleep with peace on your mind and try to kiss your own behind. [...] Oh my ass burns like fire! What on earth is the meaning of this! ---- maybe muck wants to come out? yes, yes, muck..."

Mozart. Ever the romantic. Aren’t you glad his music never had any lyrics? One could wonder what words he sang under his breath while composing the Hallelujah chorus. Thankfully, he’s dead and we will never know.

At this point of my research, I decided how pathetic my endeavour is. Seriously, nobody SANE researches love letters. Only me and 54,900,000,000 people have looked it up.

Besides, love letters aren’t something you force on people. It’s most beautiful when unprompted and unscripted. I may not have the pretty yellowing paper to show for it someday, but I have heard it from his lips and I have seen it with my eyes.

I am somebody’s true north. Knowing this, I can wait a little longer for the letter. And if it never gets written, I wager it’s because it got lived instead.

Stories We Tell To Heal

2011-02-23T04:59:00.003+08:00

I had a very early flight to Bicol today, and I opted to take a cab straight to the airport. I prefer to have peace and quiet when it's too early in the morning. However, the cab driver I got had other ideas. He was the talkative type who asks where your province is and how old you are blah blah blah, which is hard enough to deal with during the day. But at 4 a.m., it kind of makes you want to go insane.

But the street lights were still on and everything had a yellowish silent glow and I decided I was up for it. Game.

So I answered his questions as truthfully as I believe is safe (in case he's a stalker or the front of a thieving gang) up to the point when he asked where my parents are. That's when I found myself answering "At home. Sleeping."

Although I love writing fiction, it rarely crosses over to my real life. I do my best to keep fabrication out of my day-to-day encounters. So much simpler and easier to remember that way. This morning though, i decided to weave a story which is not necessarily false --- somewhere inside me, I believe it's true.

So I decided to become the chatty chitty myself. I told him where they are working and how yesterday my dad saw the same accident the driver saw. That my mum gets nervous when there are people crossing the street and how she reminds me everyday to never cross commonwealth at all costs.

Mundane, everyday things that I took for granted back then.

When I got off the cab, the driver told me to give my regards to my family and told me how lucky I am that we are so close.

Well... that's still true despite the reality gap imposed by death, so I decided to just smile, say thanks and close the door softly lest it disturbs the shimmering happy leypath of the stories I just told.

The Last Station: Leo Tolstoy's Last Days

2010-10-14T10:46:00.004+08:00

I can't claim to have impeccable taste in movies. I have paid to watch films like Karate Kid 2 (oh-my-gawd) and Going the Distance, after all. But once in a while, I stumble unto something intelligent AND watchable --- a feat increasingly rare in today's films.

You will not have learned of this movie. It didn't even show here in the country. Sige, aaminin ko, the only reason I even bought this film is because James McAvoy is in it. And maybe because Helen Mirren was nominated in this year's Oscar's for Best Actress. I'm thankful for this 2 very shallow reasons though because it led me to finding a movie that, in my opinion, competently portrayed the conflicted life of the famed Leo Tolstoy.

As a litgeek, of course I know who Leo Tolstoy is. I could name his novels and essays, and maybe, perhaps, infer on a couple of reasons why he was such a big man in Russia. But the truth is, I haven't read War and Peace. It makes for such an excellent doorstopper that I haven't had the heart to rid it of it's only purpose at home. This movie though lent me a new perspective on his writings. It wasn't all about telling a story. It was also about changing the world. Tolstoy suffered through a crisis of fate, and he emerged with an ideology that most of the Church's precepts are just plain verbiage and snook. Of course, he got excommunicated by the Catholic Church for his efforts (of course). But it didn't stop him from writing. His message was simple: All religions have one truth in them, and only one. The word for that truth is LOVE. Ambitious. And yet it earned him a congregation. The movie chronicles Leo Tolstoy's last days: his quarrels with his wife Countess Sofya, his inevitable signing over of the copyright of his works to the public, and his death at a train station. Hence, the title of the movie.

But aside from the politics of the Tolstoyan movement, it also tells the story of 2 love stories: One that has run its course for 48 years and suffering a breakdown, and another at the beggining, at the cusp of something beautiful just about to bloom. It re-awakened in me my long dormant fascination with the Russians --- something that started with my Romanov fever back in high school. It also helps that the film featured the best actors at the peak of their performances: Christopher Plummer, Helen Mirren, c'mon! Not to mention, Paul Giammati, James McAvoy and his wife, Anne-Marie Duff. This is what I will hold as my standard from now on when I read or hear the words "Stellar Cast".

I hope someday, when you have the time enough to be truly engaged in a complex story line, you'll also sit down and pop this into the DVD. It doesn't have things blowing up in it, or people having torrid torrid sex (well, a few love scenes), but like a song, it is lyrical and soft and pure.

Helen Mirren and Anne-Marie Duff as the women in Tolstoy's life

Paul Giammati can play the anti-hero, now it proves.

Celebrating the Yummy @ Celsius Gastrolounge

2010-10-11T12:59:00.015+08:00

The good thing about having foodie friends is that it isn't hard to invite them for gastronomical explorations. The bad thing is, well, if you're on a diet. Good thing I know my priorities. Kaya, kainan na!!!

Sem and Eman (an avid fan of Awesome Planet) have heard of Celsius Gastrolounge in Tomas Morato (walking distance from my workplace). I'm in the mood for an adventure, so I decided that I could sacrifice my scheduled cereals-and-milk dinner for a more filling one with them. Besides, who am I to say no to free food, eh? Celsius is named after the temperature gauge often used for cooking. The unique thing about this place is that they feature student chefs from the International School for Culinary Arts and Home Management (ICAHMS) in Katipunan. As it happens, they are also the group behind Aubergine which I keep hearing about but haven't had the chance to try due to budget reasons.

If there'se one thing Sem and I have in common, it's the awful habit of restraining everyone from touching the food BEFORE we've taken pictures of it. To honor our common bad habit, I am featuring her food photos in this particular entry. They are so much better than mine anyway. Thanks Sem for the pics. :D

I was late, so when I got to Celsius this interesting looking Chorizo Lettuce Wrap was already waiting for me. There was also a free appetizer with good garlic dip which was perfect because I was hungry. Nowadays, I'm always hungry.

I got to this dish quite cold already so the integrity of the flavour may have already been compromised. But my initial call --- underwhelming. Maybe I still have a holdover longing for peking duck lettuce wrap (one of my faves I could not indulge in often because it's dang expensive). But I suppose, it's a good jumpstarter for tastebuds that haven't tasted animal fat for 3 days.

It's a good thing that the Best parts were still to come. We were looking for something healthy (due to the fault of yours truly), so we decided to order the Grilled Seafod Platter which boasts of shrimps, scallops, tuna, mahimahi, and calamari served with steamed asparagus, fried spinach and shrimp essense rissotto. Oh joy!

I rarely wax poetic about vegetables, but the asparagus was beyond far-out in freshness. The risotto, which Eman jokingly referred to as champorado, was a little bland for my tastes but it somehow works to neautralize the seafood fare it came with. Sem raved about the calamari because it was by far the best she has tasted (I agree). But my personal favorite is the grilled tuna because it was grilled medium rare and you get the full flavor of fish without the icky "lansa" taste. It's like having the best of sashimi and grilled food in one. Love it.

Our other dish is the Grilled Porkchop on top of creamy slaw. The pork was a little tough to cut with a knife, but just the right consistency inside the mouth. It was also quite good.

Girls of a Certain Taste (Sem and I both loved the Tamarind Iced Tea)

Even if we only ordered 3 dishes and there were 3 of us, we still werent able to finish everything off because the servings are that BIG. We really missed having Ian around. Half of both our main courses were packed to go and lovingly given to Raffi Domingo so she could get a taste of Eman's libre. :D

It was a little on the expensive side, but I have to say... yeah, if they could maintain that kind of cooking, I could close my eyes and pay for it too (like Eman did this time around). Good food, and oh-so-temptingly close to my office. Boy, am I in some big trouble. If you plan to eat here again, you WILL need help. Don't hesitate to call me when you do. :D

On my 29th Birthday

2010-10-08T12:53:00.003+08:00

4 months from now I'll be celebrating my last birthday in the 20s range. I know, I sound ancient.

10 years back, I thought 28 is like, an established age already. Obviously, it isn't. And going back to my Life Checklist, well, let's just say I underestimated Father Time and the many things that Life surprises you with.

But if there's one thing I want to do on my 29th birthday, it's this: Fit into a really pretty dress and rock it, like, totally.

If it means eating nothing but cereals for the next 3 months of my life, I will. I just want one photo of me where I am totally drop-dead gorgeous --- Just one photo that I can hold on to as I cross over to 30. Someday, when I have little David and Sophie rummaging through my stuff, I want them to find that picture and say, "Mommy, you're so beautiful!"

And then I'll go, "Ah, yes, I was young and pretty once."

And it'll all be worth it.

Eat Pray Love and Snooze

2010-10-08T09:31:00.003+08:00

Oh dear, and to think I waited 3 whole months to watch this film.

These days, I get to watch a lot of movies. A lot of them are crap, but at least, they were enjoyable crap. I happen to like the book Eat Pray Love, even if it was bordering on becoming an annoying chronicle of an entitled woman and her soliluquys on self-induced pathos. The thing about the whole Liz Gilbert thing is that she has a few worthy words of wisdom to share. The problem with the movie is that it tried to stretch out those few nuggets and squeezed every tear and blood and life out of it. I'm sorry, I'll say it straight out: I got bored watching this flick.

Me, who adores Julia Roberts to her very last incisor teeth.

I could say it was because they tried to fit one whole year into a 2-hour film. But no. I couldn't say Julia Roberts is losing her touch because she was just luminous and believable as Liz, even if I know Liz really exists and I know how she really looks like. The book was a minefield of witty commentaries, but somehow that didn't make it into the film. The book, as always, had more heart than the film. Sayang.

I did have favorite moments though like when Liz argues with her soon to be ex-husband and she told him that it's okay to dream but to just choose one --- then Steve exclaims, "Okay, I choose one. I choose you!" It takes a lot of chutzpah to deliver a line like that. I almost felt like standing up and clapping my hands to give Billy Cruddup props because he delivered it flawlessly and believably. Bravo!

I felt the slightest pang of envy when they showed that scene where she was eating gelato in Italy, then pizza in Naples, then the scenes where she was trying to fit into her jeans (so relatable since it's an everyday debacle on my part) --- I want that someday! The movie, I have to admit is eye-candy for creatures of the wanderlust like me.

And then two words --- Javier Bardem. I don't know what's with this guy. He's not even that handsome, his hair is graying and he speaks weird --- but something about him makes me raise an eyebrow and murmur, "Yum!" Ooops, wait, sorry Ib. You're yummier, of course. Even if Javier Bardem professes his undying devotion to me right now, I will, ehrm --- to borrow the debatably cheesiest line in the whole film --- I choose you.

Anyways, back to the point --- there were 2 characters aside from Liz who took the limelight and ran away with it. Richard Jenkins was phenomenal. He is about the only real character for me in the whole film. He shares this distinction with Ketut (the Balinese healer). A man with no teeth is amusing enough. But whoever that actor is, he portrayed the child-like innocence and honesty necessary for Ketut to be believable. Sometimes, too believable--- he made me smile just looking at him. Smile with my liver, you could even say.

Hay, sayang talaga. Of course I won't dissuade you to NOT watch it. People who haven't read the book will probably not appreciate it more. Gosh, people who DID watch the book didn't appreciate it either. So, you know, watch it if you want to. Just don't say I didn't warn you. Bring tonnage of Coca-Cola (or Thums Up) and hope it's enough sugar to keep you awake during the most excruciatingly long scenes of sheer talkativeness.

The Geography of Bliss: One Grump’s Search for the Happiest Places in the World

2010-10-07T10:31:00.006+08:00

When I was younger, I really, really, really wanted to be a journalist. They get to go to the most God-Awesome places in the world and look fabulous on TV. But my parents, who usually are the most supportive parents ever, had their doubts. They said I was TOO HAPPY to be a journalist (and of course, they said the field is too small and extremely competitive, but the other comment surprised me more). What does happiness have to do with journalism?

Back then, I suppose I did not fully grasp that as an annotator of real life, I would have to bear witness not only to royal weddings, peaceful elections and happy African children with their white, white teeth dazzling the cameras under the midday sun, but also war, famine, violence and human strife. It would just totally ruin my good vibes!

Case in point, much like how Eric Weiner’s life had been the past few years. Aside from having a last name that rhymes with whiner, he also has the task of working as a foreign correspondent for the National Public Radio. He had been to places such as Iraq, Afghanistan and Indonesia, which he claims to be unhappy places. He roamed the world telling the stories of people who are unhappy. We all know why, of course.

“The truth is that unhappy people, living in profoundly unhappy places, make for good stories. They tug at the heart strings and inspire pathos. They can also be a real bummer.”

Out of professional curiousity, he decided to travel the world for one year and search for the happiest places in the world. No, it’s not akin to a year-long vacation. He really wanted to understand why these places can be happy; he researched facts and figures which might support happiness in those particular countries.

“Places that possess, in spades, one or more of the ingredients that we consider essential to the hearty stew of happiness: money, pleasure, spirituality, family, and chocolate, among others. Around the world, dozens of what-ifs play themselves out every day. What if you lived in a country that was fabulously wealthy and no one paid taxes? What if you lived in a country where failure is an option? What if you lived in a country so democratic that you voted seven times a year? What if you lived in a country where excessive thinking is discouraged? Would you be happy then? (introduction, page 2)”

He went to the Netherlands where drugs and prostitution are legal and where the World Database of Happiness office is located, Switzerland where chocolates rule, Iceland where the more you fail the more you succeed, Qatar the land of Gold and More Gold and totally devoid of national culture, Bhutan where people speak with their hands as much as their lips, India where people are suffering but is the center of happiness for Julia Roberts’ Eat Pray Love character and countless others, then to sour places like Moldova, Thailand and Great Britain.

What I appreciated after reading this book is how it puts into perspective how we see and understand happiness. How, as a very objective word, it can preclude and include so many things, and all you have to do is decide which things matter. Everyone in the world wants to find even a little bit of happiness. The Philippines doesn’t really fare badly in the happiness meter. We are a relatively happier country than richer neighbours in Asia. Creating a happy culture is the sum total of history, discipline and motivation. Some of these factors you can’t change. Some depends on our choices today.

So yeah, maybe it’s the country where you live in. But in one way, maybe it’s also the country we make it to be.

I recommend reading this book if you want to ponder on the H world without falling into self-induced depression. The book is funny, insightful, without sounding privileged or haughty. It just details an average man's investigation on the world's most objective concept ever. Even a grump dreams of laughter, so it seems. And I'm willing to bet that Eric Weiner is a closet happy freak after all.

Mesa: Filipino Moderne

2010-10-06T10:06:00.009+08:00

It’s a weekday -- it had been one heck of a day; almost original in its unoriginality. What do you do? Why, try something new of course!

Met up with my favourite boys from work (erm, ex-work?) and the fun thing about eating with boys is that absolutely nobody will tell you to watch your portions. And the only reason they will remind you that chicken skin is fattening is because they want it for themselves! It’s refreshing, I tell you.

Just like that, it was boy’s choice, and they decided on Mesa. I tend to doubt restaurants that claim they serve “modern” Filipino dishes, because to me that means, “something similar to what I ate the other day.” But I trust the boys’ instinct (especially if one of them is a self-disclaimed gourmand, yes that’s you Ian whether you admit to it or not). Oh, and must I say, their eating utensils rocks.

I let the boys choose what to order, which wasn’t very wise. We ended up with a slew of fried food and artery-blocking albeit incredibly delicious sisig rice. Now I know how it feels to be slain. Like a Christian losing consciousness during Sunday revival mass. Here are my fellow sinners:

And here’s the list of our sins:

For appetizers, I ordered baked tahong with cheese. It has become my favourite ever since I tasted Tita Eva’s (our former admin staff) homemade baked tahong. Nothing compares to her cooking, but this is a competent runner-up. The shells were on the smallish side, but I guess that’s fine, knowing red tide is up. I’d rather have them small and safe than humongous and fatal.

Service is quite fast for a non-fast food. We ordered sisig rice and that’s when I fell in love. With the rice. It’s good. A quiet came over me like a veil of grace. I haven’t eaten rice in 3 days and this --- this is a worthy transgression.

We also ordered Chicken in Honey Patis. And this time, Ian fell in love. With the Honey Patis. I thought they were gonna make out right there and then. He was even talking about introducing Honey Patis to his mom, a feat which none of his previous girlfriends have ever accomplished. And this Honey comes along, and he’s a goner. Begrudgingly, I sampled it and have to admit: Yummy. But the rice and the chicken didn’t really go well together, so it made me kind of bipolar during the meal. Ian and I are okay afterwards, although the word Honey Patis is thereby banned in any of our conversations in the near future. :))

J, on the other hand, did not wax poetic about any of the dishes, but J… doesn’t really wax poetic about anything except Manga. Such a quiet guy, but he looked happy communing with the boneless tilapia and the chicken as well. (Ok, that sounded too weird). The tilapia wasn’t as crunchy as we would have wanted it, but for the quantity and the 4 sauces that came with, it was good enough. Not incredible, but okay.

The stuffed squid (stuffed with pork and vegetables) was a good idea. It sounds like a good idea. My problem is, I am a purist when it comes to squid. I like them in their own ink, or I like them grilled with tomatoes. When I eat squid, I want to taste squid. Putting pork inside just kind of distracted me from what I was actually eating. It’s good, but not my kind of thing. Did you notice that all our viands look alike? Fried, all of 'em.

In under 45 minutes, the boys and I were swooning with high cholesterol. No one was complaining though and we were even pondering on desserts. We were saved from inducing ourselves into a stupor when the better part of angels told us to hold off from the sweets.

Looking back, I realized now I did have fun. Hear that, Ian? So, kelan ulit? And should we go to confession as a team? :D Because I certainly would need help explaining the indulgence.

Are there Girl Gundams? Or the Little Girl Lost Chronicles

2010-10-01T15:06:00.003+08:00

I am a Nerd. Turn me around, upside down, and I'd have distinguishing marks of my true nerdhood. (i.e. callused writing fingers, wrists with early symptoms of carpal syndrome, not to mention the huuuuge butt that professes my sedentary lifestyle). I am also a Geek who likes trivia, mythology and magic. I adore Science although am wary about his brother Math. But both as a geek and a nerd, I never understood the mysterious pull of Robots.

When I was a kid, I NEVER watched Voltes V. I just never got the hook about five (were there five?) people inside machines that connect to make one giant robot. I never got the appeal of Masked Rider Black. And as I found out, there was even a show called Macros (tama ba?) which were the predecessors of the now famous Gundam Shirizu.

It's a serious dearth in my 80s and 90s education, I am aware. I just can't ride along when people wax nostalgic about Richard and Erika. Or the yellow panties of Annie in Shaider. So now that Gundam is unobtrusively but definitely inching into my life, I feel a little lost in the game. But the true character of the Geek is to never back down from an interesting challenge, so I find myself embracing the universe of Gundam Model Building, at least starting from the theoretical.

Have you ever tried buying a gundam model from toy or hobby stores? If you are uninitiated and raw as I was, believe me, just don't do it. Last Christmas, my head was within an inch from exploding trying to find the right Mobile Suit Gundam Wing Zero MG model. Yes, try reading that again. That mouthful actually mean something to Gundam enthusiasts. I went to five.... FIVE... stores trying to locate the right model. And it turned out there were a handful of Gundam Wing models and the slightest punctuation could spell the difference between right and wrong. It was stressful at first, but then I realized that I don't have to do it alone. I can ask for help from the shop attendants. The MALE shop attendants.

Women don't have a clue. Inside SM Fairview's Toy Kingdom, the saleslady actually said, "Mam, yan lang po ang mga robot-robot namin." Whereas the Men... Well, I suspect that there are men who have a secret trigger that activates upon hearing the "R" word and from polite, detached salespeople, they become Martin Luther Kings, Jr. One store owner in a secret (read: possibly illegal) shop along Taft Ave even took it to heart to explain to me the difference between the Wing and Wing Zero Models as well as showing me his Destiny series. I made a mental note that if the boy I'm buying it for fails to appreciate the effort, I can always thank him for pointing me towards the fact that Gundams make for an excellent pick-up line and conversation starter. Win-win!

But appreciate it he did, and I guess he somehow knew that his padawan is now ready to understand the art of hobby crafting. He couldn't have done it in a better time. I was ready. All he had to do was show me this picture : http://www.bakuc.com/modeler/Naga%20Geni/4693

and I was in awe.

I have no idea why I didn't see it before, but I now realize that much as I smirk at the thought of little boys playing with robots, I have to admit -- robot model crafting is ALSO an art. A painstaking one. I marveled at the reticulated fingers of the Perfect Grade models, the neat precise decals, and all the details which would just kill me --- it will kill me, i promise. He actually needs to use tweezers to put together some of the parts. I was surprised at how intricate and time-consuming the process was and also understood it takes a very, very, very patient person to commit to this kind of craft. Hearing him describe how he feels when he's building, made me see that it's exactly how I feel when I paint or write. I can't help but feel schooled and overclassed. Especially when I asked if there were Girl Gundams and got a patient answer with nary a smirk or haughtiness: "There are girl pilots... of gundams." Aaaah...

SO do I start making gundams? Ehrm... no. I'll give it to the person who won't go insane trying to put together parts smaller than mice teeth. What's important is I now understand why it will enthrall a person with the right kind of personality so much. And I welcome it to my life, like Resident Evil, molo soup and Gap shirts. It just makes life more interesting. But there is of course a caveat to this --- give me a heads up when you're going to hibernate with your robots, or else I'll go all evil drone on you.

Capish? Capish. :D

Taste the Dream at O'sonho

2010-09-30T04:43:00.000+08:00

I was pissed and I was hungry. I needed good food fast.

After a particularly boring seminar in Makati, I decided to pick up my sister in her office along Jupiter Street with full intention of drowning my malcontent in grub and fodder. At around 8 p.m. we walked along Jupiter towards the direction of the MRT and decided to choose a restaurant we haven’t tried before – Discovery Day for Sisters. All my sister knew was that there was interesting Portuguese place that starts with an O. It wasn’t hard to find. After passing Gerry’s Grill, we found O’Sonho.

O’Sonho turned out to be Portuguese for the Dream. In fact, that’s how they advertise their food : Dreamy. I am inclined to agree.

I admit I have difficulty distinguishing Portuguese cooking from the more common Spanish fare. But having eaten at O’sonho taught me that Portuguese love their spices, and they aren’t as tomato-based as most of Spanish dishes are. The menu offers fish, meat, salad and desserts. Price was not unreasonable. The All Meat Paella caught my eye immediately. I love a good paella and I realized I am dying for one. We placed an advanced order since it takes 15 minutes to prepare.

I wish I took better pictures that could better justify it’s excellent taste. It wasn’t as savory as Spanish Paella where the tomato adds richer taste. Portuguese Paella was all saffron and cumin, a combination I also love. The rice wasn’t as soaked in the juices of the meat as I would’ve preferred, but the selection of chicken, lamb, beef, Portuguese chorizo and bacon all grilled to perfection makes up for what’s missing.

Looking around the various newspaper clippings displayed near their front door, every each one of them praised the Chorizo sisg, so we made a decision to try that as well.

Honestly, I couldn’t distinguish it from pork sisig. But is it good? Heck yeah! It isn’t as oily as pork victuals, and it’s not as “nakakasuya”. I enjoyed it, and for the price of P 210, it’s not a bad additional viand. But I don’t know if it’s worth all that praise as newspapers make it out to be.

My sister’s favourite is the Peri Peri Chicken dish. We both had no idea what exactly Peri Peri sauce is like, so this one was a nice surprise. It turns out it’s a slightly spicy marinade, while the chicken is grilled. I don’t know how they made the skin slightly crunchy, but however they did it ---- it’s gooood.

I also liked the ambience. It’s simple, warm but no-nonsense. Wine bottles adorn the walls, and there is an impressive wine bar; if you’re into good wines that’s a definite plus.

It’s too bad the restaurant is far from the swarm of other places along Jupiter, can be hard to find for the less courageous and more directionally-impaired. But believe me you --- it’s worth finding.

Go try them now and have yourself some food from Magellan country. :D

The Wall of Fame

The Wine Bar

Our cushioned booth

It's right in front of Buendia Car Exchange.

Cafe Juanita: Kitschy and Kewl

2010-09-29T03:03:00.001+08:00

Dates could get a tad bit routinary, I realized. But then again, nothing's wrong with routine as long as you know how to color it up a bit. So I have a plan that every month, my friend and I would hold a Discovery Day and visit restaurants I researched on the net. The first on the list is Cafe Juanita. The original restaurant is in Kapitolyo and I was told it was homey as it was Oriental-esque. The Cafe Juanita we went to is the one in Burgos Circle, The Fort.

My companion and I never even knew there were hidden gems in Burgos Circle. The restos up in Bonifacio High Street have been hogging all the fame. Parking was convenient (underground) and since we were early for the lunch crowd, we immediately found space to park. One short flight up (this was important to me and my friend), and we were on the right side of the circle and gustatory delights were at hand.

Upon entering the restaurant, one would be accosted by color -- LOTS of THEM. There are chandeliers with fabric hanging artfully from the spines, drapes and drapes of cloth, flowers and leaves growing from chairs and tables and walls. For a split moment, I was worried the place was too girly or date-y for my guy friend. But it helped that there was a family dining at the first table and the men looked comfortable enough. Fancy that. This is the view of the main entrance from where we were seated.

There were plenty of tables for two people --- right, we get it, it's a date place. I could only imagine the place at night, when the chandeliers are all lit. Here's our cozy space, near the books.

I loved this simple candle holder. Reminded me of Old Filipiniana pictures.
Someday, I want a picture taken of me holding this, and only this. :))

There were only two of us so we could only order two viands for fear of not being able to finish it; more importantly, we were also on a budget. We decided on a pork and fish viand plus dessert.

This is the Bagnet on top of Pinoy Salsa. Crunchy, just the right level of salty and made interesting by the weird green veggie on top. Have no idea what that is though. Maybe Kutchai? Sorry, I don't know my vegetables. Hehehe :D

Making a right contrast, we also sampled the Fish in Kare-Kare sauce. It's like taking the 2 best traits of 2 well-loved dishes: the peanut butter soup on steamed fish. I thought the serving was small, at first. But then I realized the fish meat was so packed that a normal serving would be only half the dish. Perfect for two. And did I mention it comes with really, really good bagoong? We actually requested for more because tit went well with everything.

Dessert put us in quite a quandary. Cassava Cake or Sticky Toffee Pudding with Vanilla Ice Cream? We decided on the latter. And we weren't disappointed at all! I planned to share the dessert with my friend, but it was so good I finished it all before he could even taste a spoonful. So we ordered another one and still, I couldn't help but get one more spoon in. Hehe, May baon naman akong gamot eh.

The staff were also very courteous, offering a mini-stool for my bag and making sure our water glasses are always filled. They offered to clear the table, but refilled our drinks indicating that we aren't supposed to hurry up. It's a good place to just sit and talk and tell funny stories with tummies full and satiated.

The cost isn't that expensive, but would still need some saving up for, especially for beleaguered NGO workers like us. But it's worth it. I suggest that if you're on a date, don't make like us -- go at night. But just like us --- bring lots and lots of stories.