uh. yeah.

Still here. Just having a problem with web space. I can't believe I used up 500MB of space! Well, yeah, actually I can. Time to get rid of those super high-res pics off of Dylan's Pillow. Excuse me while I re-shuffle files. Will be back shortly.

Meanwhile, if Garden State is still playing in a theater near you, go watch, see, enjoy. I watched this little film about coming back to New Jersey and opening a new chapter in life while I was in Las Vegas. Now I'm back, I'm looking for that big hole in the ground that's supposed to be turned into a mall.

I'm a Scrubs fan, so seeing Zach Braff in a different light made it all the more engaging. It's a little movie with a big heart for sadness and laughter. Natalie Portman is an explosive ray of light. I felt like I was watching Leon the Professional all over again and loving Natalie Portman for the first time. Zach Braff's lips are really...big. Especially on the big screen. But great dialogue, great soundtrack and a great film for a first time major director/writer/actor all at once. Now, go watch.

11:54 AM | |

fire
She was curled up like a creamy, creased, out-of-shape ball underneath the sheets. Her feet tucked under her buttocks, her hands interlocked between her thighs. The night air was cold as she waited for him.

He was in the bathroom, making those regular bathroom noises: running water, toothbrush falling in the sink, the dull thudding and scraping of jars and bottles being moved across the marble topped sink.

She lay on the soft pillow, eyes wide open, thoughts randomly jumping into her conscious mind. The first few moments were nerve racking. Always doubts. Always fears. But he seemed nice enough. Nice abs, nice ass. He was as good looking as they come, with handsomely dark hair and deep-set eyes. Clean skin, no tattoos. Tattoos bothered her, broke the pattern on nice soft skin, on nice soft tanned skin. She always liked them tanned a toasty brown, especially in the cold months when everyone else was office-pale, unable to sun themselves on rooftops or the windy beaches. Tan skin always gave off warmth that she seemed to absorb into her own pale body.

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10:33 AM | |

morning tea


Stretching into the morning air and sucking in the fog down to my lungs, I opened my eyes for the first time to the roadside attraction that proudly pronounced itself as "tea". I was very young then and it seemed to me nothing as spectacular as grass on a golf course. The even course of tea brush sprawling up and down the rolling hills and fading into a fierce green on the horizon where cloud, sky and leaves met hundreds of kilometers away was Kericho. Kericho, in East Africa, was well known for its tea plantations, its deeply imbedded green gems that every other tourist or new resident to the country would stop by to gawk and marvel at. I don't know how many times we passed the road through Kericho, but I have seen it in various stages of dress and undress as tea pickers littered the green course with baskets behind them and heads intricately wrapped in cloths to ward off oppressive sun rays. They unclothed the bushes of their leaves, throwing the young buds behind their heads and darted among the plants to get the best of those tender young leaves. Then there were times when the entire expanse of brush was laid with barely a cover of leaves. Other times, the great curtains of fog would momentarily lift to showcase to the world, a fresh young crop of tea. It was so much a roadside show that I soon began to mark the Kericho tea plantations as a vantage point from which I could gauge the distance of our final destination. For some reason, like clockwork, as I slept in our traveling car, I would always wake up right at the point where the tea plantation would suddenly spread alongside the highway. And I would of course, get up, sit up in the car, rub my eyes and roll down the window, letting in the cool, furious wind and fog up my nostrils.

On other days when we weren't in the car passing by roadside attractions, I would be in the sports club on weekends or at school during the week drinking up the green leaves now turned to brown in my white cup. Always with a dash of milk and two sugars, the steam rising out of the cup to warm my face before I drank it down along with a cucumber sandwich or a scone with butter and jam. At the sports club, the old, dusty relic of a grandfather clock would deeply strike at four o'clock and people would mill about the dining room for a cup and a sandwich or two. At school the din of the school bell would strike, like clockwork, at half-past-four. Although it wasn't as proper as the club, there still was plenty of tea in plastic mugs, jam tarts or cucumber sandwiches on good days. The tea came ready mixed with milk and sugar and there were seconds if you fancied another mug. Also, if you fancied a walk in the woods, you would perhaps run into a farmer’s small field of tea that was about as high as your waist, fog mingling with the cold air. Then you could pretend to pick the young buds and throw them behind you in your imaginary tea harvest basket.

During certain afternoons or holidays, mothers and other types of ladies would fill living rooms and tea would be served out of electric kettles on silver platters. Of course, there were more delicious things to devour like cakes and pastries from the French patisserie or boulangerie: almond croissants, tortes, and home made ham and cheese sandwiches. The ladies trilled and giggled, gossiped and invited each other for more tea parties in gardens, living rooms, dining halls, and kitchens.

As I grew older, I left the country of tea plantations and moved away where the only tea I saw were in boxes and tins on grocery store shelves and specialty stores. By this time there were more tea species and instruments than tea pickers I ever saw among the tea plantation bushes: Princeton Darjeeling, Earl Gray, Chamomile, Moroccan Green Mint, Jasmine, Oolong, Puchong, Sencha, Raspberry, Strawberry, Mango, Passion Fruit flavored teas, and Rooibos teas; pot boiled teas, tea bags and tea pouches; tea strainers, tea balls and the like. A whole complication of tea and the art of tea drinking: the Japanese tea ceremony and the method of pouring mint tea from a great distance in the air in thin, tiny glasses in North Africa. I myself drink it several ways – with milk and sugar (only in Darjeeling), with honey and lemon, straight up hot and steaming. Now there are multi-purpose uses for tea: tea bag facial infusions, tea bag pouches for puffy eyes, and slimming tea. Tea is no longer a roadside show, it's become an entire spectacle, a culture of its own and its practitioners, no doubt, have only the slightest idea of where the humble, tiny tea leaf begins.

8:48 AM | |

sky captain and the world of tomorrow

Despite dozing off momentarily in parts (OK, I had a couple of beers before the 10:30 PM showing), Sky Captain managed to entertain. A bit of comics, a bit of pulp, Fritz Lang, Indiana Jones and Iron Giant, the film is a throw back to the classic sci-fi/adventure genre: running jokes between characters, a number of mysterious perfectly coordinated sartorial revelations and unmussed hair - throughout. There were some robots that vaguely ressembled Miyazake's creations from Castle in the Sky and basically, throughout the film, I thought, if you can imagine it, it will come - an underwater aircraft that can dive head-on into the ocean without breaking up from the impact, done! an eject capsule that turns into a jet pack, done! a nice pair of tweed baby doll heels and a monochromatic form-fitting suit, done!

It was hard to suspend disbelief for a moment, knowing the entire thing was done on blue screen. The look of the film intentionally took on the look of art deco classic with the architecture, creature creations, sepia and monochromatic tones, blurry things falling through the air, and seemingly misty lenses - that was interesting as I rather liked that. But then there was the dialogue to deal with and the way the actors looked a bit strange, as if they were...acting in front of a blue screen with minimal props. I couldn't concentrate properly as I thought about each thing individually, unable to pull them together into a single stream. Then there were the parts where I dozed off as the story plodded along. Then there was Angelina Jolie's one eye with a very thin line of eyeliner. So, many things distracted me. So, don't watch this after a few beers. I did like the ending though.

12:49 AM | |

fiesta

Those Guamanians sure can put on a feast! Marie's son Frankie Jr. and Dylan eat up the spread.

1:02 PM | |

shadows at play

12:32 PM | |

the evidence

Tintans - Exhibit A. Induction at Cavite, circa 1990 or '91? Ha, I'm not in it, so don't look! That's the top of Gelo's head on the bottom there. He was my master at the time and made me suffer throughout, after which we became good friends. Amazing what a lot of crawling on your hands and knees can do to a person...

4:32 PM | |

alma matters

Speaking of Tinta reunions and such, I found these University of the Philippines pictures taken while I was still a student there (I wish I could find some damning evidence of Tinta - I know I took rolls of pictures back then). Some of these are really in such bad shape already, but still, it makes one pine for days long gone...

UP Landscape on University Ave. (Mass Comm building)

University Avenue

At the lagoon

One of my favorite Oble shots, but alas, also the most damaged

During the dry season at the lagoon. Or was it burned when they were trying to clear it up?

1:27 PM | |

no jumping on the bed!

Remember when your mother used to tell you to stop jumping on the bed? She didn't say it to spoil your good fun or just to spite you. She said it for a very good reason which could be: stop jumping on the bed because you might fall off and break your neck or, stop jumping because you might just fall and hit your head on a very sharp-edged bedside table. Which is exactly what Dylan did on Sunday morning. Unfortunately, I wasn't there to scream "Stop jumping on the bed!" because he was in his grandpa's room, and grandpa lets him do mostly whatever he likes. So there he was jumping on the bed, my sister walks into the grandparents' room and as soon as he sees her, Dylan squeals with excitement causing him to slip and hit his head on a very sharpedeged wooden bedside table.

I was downstairs and heard a very loud bump and crash, then some loud crying ensue. He cried longer than usual (more than a minute) so I decided to go upstairs to investigate the scene of the accident. The scene had moved to the bathroom with my med student sister trying to adminster to the injury. There was quite a bit of blood which involved a half inch cut on the back of his head into which you could see what was inside his small head - a lot of stringy, red looking things. He had stopped crying by this time and the bleeding had subsided. But the gash looked rather abnormal, being that you could see inside his head. After some time tracking a quick care place that could take our insurance, we drove off in the car - sister, me, and frantic grandmother. It took an amazing 10 minutes from the time we arrived to check in to see the triage nurse and get ushered into the suture room. She wouldn't tell me if he did or didn't need sutures. The doctor would decide. The doctor asked Dylan some questions just to see if he was responding normallly (What's your name? Dylan. Is your shirt green? No, it's blue.) Then he explained that he needed to shave some hair so he could see better and decided if he needed stitches or some super glue. With the hair out of the way, the doctor decide the cut was superficial, although I could see a few layers of skin and some pus beginning to form and secrete out of the gash. He asked the nurse if they had that super glue, but she said that they no longer allowed it because some doctor in the past had glued some guy's eye shut. That was no great comfort, believe me. The doctor went with staples, and Dylan knew, boy did he know that something wicked this way comes. We tried to hold him down while in a sitting position, but it was not going to work despite distractions. So he had to lie down on his stomach while I held his hands down and the nurse vice gripped his head, but then he began kicking and twisting his entire body in addition to the screaming. The nurse had to call in burly guy to hold his legs down while the doctor made a second attempt. It felt like an enternity while the doctor tried to steady his hand to the moving head. During the interminable moment, I let out a chuckle, not because I'm a bad or insensitive mother. I laughed because I knew exactly what he felt. Dylan didn't really care that much about the pain - it comes it goes - but he was so angry at being held down that he spent all his strength and energy trying to escape the clutches of strangers making him do something he would rather not. His anger and frustration was so intense, he was ready to do anything to escape. He has determination and he is willing to fight. He wasn't going to take it lying down! Dylan tells me right after the ordeal that "I was stuck, Mama. They hurt me." I tried to comfort him but at the same time asked if he was still going to jump on beds. The answer was a positive, resounding "Yes!" So now, he's got two staples in the back of his head, but it won't deter him from jumping on beds.

10:06 AM | |

sin is in



Idol fans and wannabees - it has begun! Auditions for Las Vegas begins this Sunday at 6 AM, Las Vegas Convention Center. And true to form, everything in Vegas has to be large, baby. The Convention Center will probably be the site of a massive camp-out this weekend.


Speaking of large, I've truly missed Las Vegas, I think, as I drive down the LARGE and WIDE streets without freighters hurtling by and potholes to shake up the carbonated drinks in the car. How I miss Vegas as I cruise the large food court seen above, with the Wynn Hotel still under construction behind the glass. How I miss the wonderously large Public Library with it's large Young Readers section and mini, but growing larger, Graphic Novels section and local books showcase: Skin City: Uncovering the Las Vegas Sex Industry and Of Rats and Men: Oscar Goodman's Life from Mob Mouthpiece to Mayor of Las Vegas. A lot more things to miss from such a sinful little city.






If you haven't yet, check out Joey's article on blog fever, where he mentions some of his friends (me included-why else would I mention it?!) who gave him the virus.

5:45 AM | |

desert rat

So the blogging chain continues. Proud to say, Hubby finally sat his ass down to write something. After months and months of me griping about how he had all these good ideas about what to write but I didn't see it anywhere written/typed, and "Why don't you just write it already?", he finally succumbed as he stays home nursing a painful bloodshot eye (a foolishly acquired injury relating to sports). The Desert Rat will hopefully continue to give us interesting observations.

And by the way, I don't think Marley-dog is unintelligent, I just don't think he tries hard enough or he quickly loses interest. Besides, he's a slink-er.

7:35 PM | |

grief

I just found out this morning that a friend's father has passed away after a bout with cancer. She and her husband have cut their Labor Day vacation short to fly out to New York for the funeral. It's hard to think of what to say when someone loses a loved one or someone very close to them. You offer condolence and say you're sorry, but it always feels inadequate. On the other hand, I try not to say too much more for fear of sounding idiotic or as if I knew how they felt because even if I understand that there must be grief, truly I never do. I'm sure each person experiences grief in their own way and they deal with a tremendous loss as they only know how. Even if you've come to know a person - shared many moments together laughing, drinking, smoking, fighting - I don't think you can ever really know their emotional character. Especially in a time of great upheavel. So, the best thing I can do is to just let them know that help, if needed in any form, will be given.

Over the years, we've had many friends that have lost their fathers. I remember one particular friend who lost his father shortly before Christmas. It was particularly sad because his parents had come home to Manila to spend Christmas with the entire family who were finally together after some years. Dino and I and some other friends had sat with him at the wake, talking about his parents. Then he told us about a dream he had a day or two after his father had died. In the dream, it was Christmas day and his dad had given him his present. They were joking around, talking and his father had asked him to open his present. It was a striped shirt with particular colors (if I remember correctly). He thanked his dad, and they talked some more about this and that before the dream ended. When he had finally opened the real Christmas present from his dad, it was the same shirt in the dream. He started to laugh and said that he liked to think that it wasn't a dream at all, but that his father had come to visit him just to let him know what his present was so that he wouldn't expect much. After that, he told more funny stories about his dad who had become so accustomed to living in America that he often complained why things in Manila weren't they way they were back in America. Our friend loved his father we could tell. He had grief we could see. But he chose to laugh and remember the good, funny things about his father. And though we never knew the man, we could also see that his humorous spirit lived on in his son.

7:31 AM | |

lost and found

The Internet. Where would I be without it? I can no longer imagine, yet in the not so distant past, I used to stand over my father's shoulder trying to understand the concept of the BBS while he logged in and typed stuff, and further still, I remember dictating code to him from some monthly magazine so that we could play the latest game over our Commodore 64 system. I would have to say that most of my life has been riddled with computers of some sort, from the early dinosaurs and disks the size of notebooks, to today's sleek, Alienware (drool!) gaming monsters.

I truly would be in a corner twiddling my thumbs if I didn't have a computer today. Not only has it become something essential to our daily lives, but my work depends on it. So it becomes increasingly frustrating if, for instance, the DSL connection goes down, or I did a faulty OS install and have to take a whole day to re-install everything. The more technology simplifies process, the longer it takes to troubleshoot when something goes wrong. And I just hate wasting hours trying to single out what Error ESE97 is, or why Access is Denied, or why it was an Invalid Operation.

On the other hand, I love technology. I love gadgets. I am easily amazed and impressed by devices large and small that can DO stuff. I am similarly amazed when it can so quickly stop functioning just as well with the wrong push of a button. But I have to admit, I sometimes actually enjoy trying to troubleshoot. It just helps me to know what not to do the next time around, like move on in my life to a non Microsoft OS. But who am I kidding. I'd be lost without the Control key - I'm a shortcut junkie.

Which brings me back to the wonder that is the internet. In the last few months, I've found old friends and made new ones. There's Quay Evano who brought us back to Joey Alarilla, who incidentally also won (his first!) a Palanca with his truly insightful essay that I can totally relate to: Surviving the Zeroes. Then there's Jo Disini who is a lovely, yet fiesty girl who is currently feeling the pain of moving to New York, fresh off the (sane) boat. Funny, entertaining and whom I totally agree with about the insanity of trying to live normally in the sometimes rotten, worm-eaten Apple.

There are hundreds of stories out there, and some of it is really quite good. Just use the search function properly and you can find things like this.

8:54 AM | |

medulla



A lush landscape of human voices and sounds. No instruments, but rather the human voice as musical instrument. From human beatboxes creating the rhythmic beats to haunting moans and wails, Björk pushes the musical envelope another notch. With Mark Bell programming, it's got the same gorgeousness as Homogenic. I can't say I love it all, but I like most of it; some of the overlapping, pressed moaning, screeching, vibrations tend to get a bit messy in my ears. On the whole, if you're a stranger to Björk, this album will be strange indeed. If you're a big fan, you'll recognize some form of old songs reincarnated as new acapellas and just a flourish of music on the mundane landscape of guitar driven rock.

12:08 AM | |