I discovered lately that there is a threshold for emotional fuckery (because there is no other word for it). I thought it was just the odd weather or my preoccupation with jeepney engines but I found out today while battling the cold weather with thick coats, I can no longer hear my thoughts. It's all just white noise.
Gah, am I burning out all over again? Please tell me I'm just bored.
My 11 day old niece hates the Backstreet Boys. She has a thing for Death Cab For Cutie. And DCFC only. Not Kings of Leon, not even Led Zep. Not even my singing. I'm not sure if I agree. Hee.
We recently discovered during babysitting duties that the only sound that could calm an irate Caitlin was Ben Gibbard's narration on DCFC's Cath. We hit play, she instantly stops crying and goes to sleep. It's like a Christmas miracle.
I'm not sure what it does. Maybe it's similar to white noise or radio static, which babies most respond to. Whatever it is, it sure helps tone down this babysitter's paranoia. Now we play the whole thing on loop until she falls asleep. I'm not sure what that does to everyone's sanity, but we're willing to gamble with our lives.
I can't believe it. We have a baby in the house!
Love. Love.
Here's the track. Maybe you can tell me why the baby falls into hypnosis with this song. :P
If there's one film to cap off this year and meet the new year with more hopefulness to muster, it would be Slumdog Millionaire.
I get fuzzy-wuzzy warm thoughts just thinking about it. Maybe it doesn't help that I have a pervy crush on Dev Patel. I can't help it! He reminds me of that geeky, over-achieving 12th grader Indian boy genius (who knew far too much British History for his own good) I had a silly schoolgirl crush on when I was 11. I completely forget his name, but whatever. He was cute. On that premise, it's not totally wrong, is it? I digress.
Slumdog Millionaire is hot champorado on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Familiar, comforting, modest and absolutely delicious.
The deliberate use of saturated colors and AH Rahman as its sonic master, brought out what Danny Boyle intended of this film: nostalgic and almost romantic. The world is beautiful and yes, there is beauty in the agony of being painfully poor.
If there's any forewarning I need to issue before you do scout for downloadable links and dibidi copies, it's that Slumdog Millionaire is totally a love story. And yes, like most Indian films, there is dancing! So if you're a total grinch, don't watch this if you're bent on keeping your neo-smartass political attitude towards the third world.
Here's the trailer that gave me goosebumps:
This is a short clip from the film with the boys on the train and M.I.A. declaring her fixation over paper planes. Gah, that remix is a killer.
P.S. I am going to the Taj Majal someday. Mister Gandhi, please make it happen.
This sonic mumbojumbo is dedicated to that lukewarm, distant, unfamiliar future, wherever the hell you are. This is from the brilliant garage extravaganza, The Mess Halls.
I feel like hitting something, okay, throwing furry lightweight stuff. Or reaching out for my pinhole picture-creature. Either or. Aim and shoot, baby.
How could I? Diego Luna was battling with all my fantasies of him and Tuscany! Or some relevant Before-Sunrise scene!
Sean Penn is nothing short of a genius with his art, but so help me Gus, I cannot stomach him and my Diyeeegoh kissing! Oi! I thought I was prepared for it, too. I hoped and prayed that I wouldn't lose my sh-t when he'd ineffectively (of course, he would be) make goo-goo eyes at Harvey Milk. But I'm not too self-possessed these days.
Milk is a little film of mass proportions on the history of gay rights movement in the US. In the little over 40 minute footage I saw, the level of awareness and activism exploding all over my monitor screen was pure magic. You gotta love men on a mission. Gay or straight.
Watching Harvey Milk calling out to the sea of angry faces to march the streets of San Fransisco sent a familiar feeling you don't normally shake off at times like these. Like impatience, nausea and nostalgia exploding in a blender at high speed.
All I need now is Slumdog Millionaire to intoxicate me with its saturated reds. Someone give me a copy, pretty please?
It's the most wonderful time of the year.. to be gullible and play victim.
Three days ago, my sister lost her phone to a stealthy secondhand merchandise enthusiast. He was on the prowl for the blood of defenseless phone-toting bystanders. Today, however, offered a more interesting turn in street-no-smarts.
In a jeepney ride from Sto. Nino Church, a passenger stole my five peso coin. He took it before handing the driver the rest of the fare. It was very criminal savvy. I didn't realize what had just gone down until the driver accused us as freeloading pansies as we proceeded to flee, err, terminate the carriage contract . Not his exact words, but the 50 year old scowl on his face said so, along with a few syllables that escapes me. The shame killed all neural traffic.
Was I to curse every fiber of this coin-napper's morally revolting being? Or was I to denounce my demons and bless him instead?
I chose to be a wuss, I took pity. I'm not saying this out of my ass: if he needed that five peso coin that bad, I would have offered my last 20.
I laid down my bases for an ounce of sympathy. The guy looked lost, in need of a shower(or three) and a meal. Someone you could easily pick out of the tens of faces that haunt the dingy streets of Colonnade. I realized, I do not make a good cold-blooded executioner.
The Christmas season invites the most creative and distorted versions of giving and receiving from common criminals and petty theives.
These Streets
Pink
Street Smarts
Pasindi
This Is How Fat Burns 
