Ayyyy, Mamma!

This movie by writer Johnson and director Lloyd (both are women, ahem) is utterly kitschy, superfluously song-and-dance-y, ultra-cheesy, unquestionably clichéd, and almost a wee bit predictable.

I LOVE IT.

I was approaching my 450th calorie count on the Elliptical when the sloth bug bit me hard in the arse. It hit me: after a long harrowing day spattered with three resignations in the office, I totally deserved something more enjoyable than two hours of running, huffing-and-puffing, cycling, weight-lifting and stretching. On 448.6 calories, my fingers started hysterically typing away on my phone, ransacking the contacts list on which ones would want to catch a movie--either Hancock (whose lifespan in the cinemas is about to expire) or Mamma Mia! By 473.4 calories, I have gotten my sixth declination. I figured I could only take so much rejection, so I haphazardly pounded on the Reset button of the damned machine and headed to the locker. Just as I was entering, my buddy Jao came popping out of one of the doors. I asked him if he fancied a movie over the crazy heat at the gym--seeing that he was just about ready to start his workout. Luck was on my side. He was keen on getting a Get Out of Jail card himself. So we hit the shower and got the hell out of the gym and headed to the cinemas.

After withstanding the absurdly long queues at both the box office and the takeout counter of Burger King, we finally got inside the cinema, missing the first 5 minutes or so. Honey, Honey was already playing--apparently Sophie's already gotten hold of her mother Donna's diary and had shared it with her girlfriends already. Nothing major missed out anyhow.

Mamma Mia!, to the completely clueless, is originally a musical based on the songs of Swedish pop group ABBA. Having said that, need I say more about the references to age, and era? Uh-uh. You shut your mouth or I'll tell you where to put it!

The movie version was pretty loyal to the musical, I must say, considering all the theatrical and stage limitations. Veterans Meryl Streep, Colin Firth, Pierce Brosnan, and Julie Walters gave totally stellar performances--and mind you, the singing and dancing weren't exactly mediocre. You would expect something Dolphy-ish or Tito Vic and Joey-ish from these otherwise po-faced icons in the movie industry, but you'd be so astounded by their vocal prowess and terpsichorean abilities as they literally let their hairs down...and get donned in spandex and besequinned outfits.

The songs, aside from being almost seemlessly woven into the storyline, were nostalgic of a glorious age otherwise known as youth...and a whole bunch of people in the cinema were actually heard mumbling and singing along to Dancing Queen, Voulez-vous, SOS, The Winner Takes it All, and Money Money Money, among others.

The set was perfect. The rustic Greek locale where it was shot in its entirety oozed of beauty, tranquility, simplicity and unpretentiousness. The costumes--and even the lack of it on a lot of scenes--fit everyone very well...and I wasn't referring to how it drops on their shoulders like they were mannequins, but how it was effortless for everyone wearing their characters. The lighting, the decorations, the paints used, the rocks...hell, everything on the set was just facile. Just wait for the final scene where Sky and Sophia leave in a motorized boat to the tune of I Have a Dream, and tell me if it does not take your breath away with its sheer celestial aura.

Will I recommend this movie to people? Hell, yes...whether you grew listening to ABBA songs or its remakes, or you just want to see newcomer Amanda Seyfried (amazing voice) or hunk Dominic Cooper (hate him and his V-cuts and absence of fat albeit being already thirty years old). I must tell you, Meryl Streep's splits in mid-air, or Pierce Brosnan's belting SOS, or the breath-taking scenery alone should at least entice you to watch it on the big screen. Oh, yes. If you must insist on getting it on those damned pirated DVDs, at least watch it on a 42-inch flat screen TV with matching stereo surround and major subwoofers. It's well-worth it.

Now, imagine the Philippines making more movies like this instead of artificial comedies with grudgingly corny and cheesy musical song and dance numbers for fillers, and having veteran (and up-and-coming) actors who could really sing and dance (uhm...talent?).................[end of dream sequence]

Bahay-Kubo

A couple of days before my birthday, I was feeling rather shitty and felt like wading in my own vomit of self-pity. You, of course, would remember that from my Pooping In My Pants Yet Again blog entry about a month ago.

By the week before my big day, I was totally a mess. At some point (that was before the Vietnam trip--which all turned out well and great...details of that later, lest I'd jinx the goodies! Yay!), I found myself practically hysterical over being a complete worthless piece of work. I was crying at one point--thinking to myself, "Damn. I'm 32. Unlike my classmates in college and colleagues at work, I don't have my own car, my own house, and not even a Goddamned huge paycheck."

Under normal circumstances or time frames, I would never have compared myself with anyone, let alone feel envious of their good fortune or wallow in self-pity. But these days, out of all 365 freaking days of the year, were my PDDs ("Pre-Birthday Depression Days")...and on every single one of those freaking dayS of the year, I'd allow myself some time to whack myself in the head and entertain self-defamation of character. At that time, I came to realize that, at my age, all I have are a freaking laptop, an iPod, a refrigerator, and a microwave oven. At a certain point in the future, I would literally be the homeless guy with just an iPod.

The idea of me being thrown out of my leased 3-bedroom condo if it got sold (which, by the way, has been for sale in the market since 2003--no takers), and not finding a similarly-cozy new condo scared me shitless. That got me jumpstarted and started crunching numbers. I am buying my own goddamned condo.

Yeah. Sure, the four-bedroom house in Bataan will be mine eventually. I've already made some improvements in the structure and construction, yeah. But...but...I want something I could call my own. Something I purchased with my own money--from my freaking blood, sweat and tears. And not something I will inherit from my mother. Don't get me wrong...I ain't gonna complain or even decline the estate! But..but...ahhh, heck. You know what it's like. Or do you?

So, now, I've been going to showrooms, and meeting with agents, brokers, and financers (uhm...5/6???). Been collecting and collating flyers, proposals, and financing computations. So far, I've seen Belton Place, Senta, Avida West, and later today, I'm heading to Eton Parkview. I have my eyes set on either a combination one bedroom plus studio, or a standard two-bedroom, or that one-bedroom loft unit overlooking the Makati CBD. Turn-overs on 2011. Hmmm...that ain't too long a wait. I should be able to finish financing by turn-over! =)

See you at the house-warming! ;-)

Anaknaaaaaaaaaaaang!

I was Friendstering a while back in Bataan--up in my room, where there's no Wi-Fi or DSL or even dial-up, so I was using my Globe GPRS connection (tama yan, magsayang ka ng pera) when I stumbled upon this profile from one of my network's network:

Yes, ladies and gentleboys. I was staring at myself...but with a different name and a different location (apparently, the MiddlefuckingEast). I messaged the poor guy, saying "Dude, I am flattered that you would actually use my photo as your own--it's beyond complimenting me. But...may higanteng kulugo ka ba sa mukha at ayaw mo gamitin ang sarili mong picture?"

WTF???! I had to choke off the Cherie Gil exclamation ("You're nothing but a second-rate......"), but, really...what's up with that?

Now, what I need to know is did this Francis Ocampo dude actually scored with the chicks (or the Arab dudes) using my pic...! I should SO totally demand royalty fees.

Pooping In My Pants Yet Again

(Spoiler alert for those who haven't watched Sex and the City. So...shoo!)

In the movie Sex and the City, Charlotte Goldenblatt--upon being given advise by future Mrs. Carrie Preston not to worry about her new baby because everything will be alright...and that she should not change anything about who she really was just for the baby--blurted out that bad things happen to good people: run-away grooms, cancer, divorce, the works. What was to stop her from believing that nothing bad was going to happen? She was almost convinced that her shit-out-of-luck kismet was just right around the corner. There is absofuckinglutely no reason for Murphy's Law to jeté away from her...and that she will most definitely get her turn in the bad-thing-happening-to-good-people round robin. Carrie, in her farcical fashion of speaking, exclaimed, "Oh, honey, you've Poughkeepsied in your pants (in Mexico)...I think you're done!"

When does your bad luck really stop? When did it begin in the first place? And why do bad things (or bad people, too!) happen to good people? In the great big scheme of things, why is it that sometimes (or a lot of times), you do not get what you deserve...or get those that you don't? Why is it that despite all the goodness that you've brought about in this world, the bad things still creep in and hurricane on your parade?

As a behavioral trainer I've kept talking about not fixating on circles of concern--where we do not have control over, and just be proactive by focusing on our circles of control. As a devout Catholic, I've kept looking at the patience of Job--despite the loss and suffering, he still remained steadfast with the Lord. As a "seasoned 'survivor'" in the field of bad lucks and bad people, I've held on to the silver lining that all experiences I've withstood over the years only made me better and stronger. As a hardcore song enthusiast, I've repeatedly looped India.Arie's This, Too, Shall Pass on my iPod--that this day will one day be the past.

All these nuggets of wisdom, under normal circumstances, would've effortlessly appeased my bothered heart and mind. But today is not a day that would fall under the category "normal circumstances"...as my melancholia surge has officially begun--one that I usually get weeks before I turn one year older yet again. Today, I cannot, for the love of me, seem to find solace.

I couldn't help but think: 525600minutes into it, when's the next time I find myself Poughkeepsie-ing in my pants?

Spiffy Me

when i did my customary inbox check this morning, i got this email/link from my friend daniel, who's now a truly rising, celebrated artist--with one-man exhibits left and right (and top and bottom...*evil grin*). his email notifications for his newly-posted blogs are like clockwork--he's an rss of a writer that feeds us with his updates manually. and in these ala-rss feeds, he gives snippets of what's to be expected or read in full on the blog itself.

i did a bird's eye view of the sneak preview (wow--a bird's eye view of the bird's eye view...i'm such a birdie!) and this line caught my eye: "i know ben won't be caught dead in a massacre without looking scrubbed." i stopped and read.

read the rest of the blog entry by clicking here.

as i moved on to the next few lines, i couldn't help but grin and shake my head. just a few years ago, i was marked as the unofficial fashion guru of the company (click here for the story about that)...and as a faculty cum image consultant at john robert powers, i can't seem to revert to my old jologs barok self. damn, i miss my age-old peyups attire--torn pants, tsinelas, ethnic burloloys, and plain white tee.

i guess, i'm "doomed" to being voguish, what with corporate wear being unreprieving in terms of propriety and smartness. skinny ties over striped shirts with the requisite "cosmopolitan" 3/4 fold of the sleeves. flat fronts pants (pleats??? eekk). square-toe shoes. extra wide belt buckle. baket ba hinde na lang ako nag-Company barong???

daniel, no matter what you say, i am still the same old barok ben you guys met in jologs citiland (wahehehehe). what was that j. lo song..."don't be fooled by the rocks that i've got, i'm still, i'm still jenny from the block..." NAMAN. may ganon?! LOL

congrats, dan! this is our year, i swear! sunod-sunod ang blessings--both in our careers/rakets and, of course, love life. (uuuuuuuuuuuuuyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, kilig!)

Zanjoe My Love So Sweet

anaknaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaang! why on earth would i want zanjoe's journals? whapppaaaak. rhis is exactly the reason why telecom networks rake in big bucks and are able to give their employees up to freaking 19months pay: FIVE fucking pesos for a freaking journal, which we all seriously know were composed by some bored pimply tween boy. people of the philippines, come...on! (like i can emphasize that more by making it big bold red braggadocio font) just invest your five bucks on something more worthy. like internet porn, maybe. double whapppaaaak.

62 invites??? WTF???

How Many Licks Does It Take...?

...till you get to the center of the lolly? or better yet, how long does it take to finally know it's the right time? when do you know when the time is right?

i was faced with this very same question barely 12 hours ago over lunch at heaven and eggs in glorietta--where i literally wolfed down a plateful of three types of sausages, rosemary and thyme-flavored potato wedges, over-easy scrambled eggs with onions, and two pancakes.

this, to date, is my nth time to have faced the question sans the Jeopardy theme/jingle playing in the background. ever since the pandemonium of a breakup between me and my ex, i have never saddled back into the commitment bandwagon. my friendster status has played from It's Complicated to Single and back to It's Complicated again. if there were any variable blank spaces under the space "Status", i would've permanently put Serial Dater, Currently Commitment Phobic. damn friendster and its limited canned status options.

with B in the picture, and an imminent expatriation on the line, time's a tickin' and some choices--mostly major--need to be made. and although labels are, really, for goods and not people, there will most definitely come a time when an earmark of some sort should be identified to define where B and i are in this presently charming picture. after all, we both are not getting any younger [insert ARRRRGGGH and sound effect of smashing China here].

*sigh*

in time, B. i'll be good and ready. and when that happens, we'll make beautiful days together. (and maybe babies? hehehehe) :)

for now, i'm restarting the countdown on my iGoogle widgets till you're back in my arms. it is now--since you left early this evening for the airport with tears in your eyes--officially 5 days 8 hours 13 minutes and 29 seconds remaining...and i'll be enveloping you in my tight embrace again.

Rated: PG

for my first statement on this blog, i've decided to ask it in the vernacular...for more impact and direct-to-the-point hit: bakit ba may mga taong patay gutom?

patay-gutom (PG). user-friendly. manggagantso. usurper. freeloader. kapal-muks. ultra-utilitarian. call it by any name, but it's relatively the same banana: people who are so thick-skinned and with calloused conscience (that's on the premise that they still have something left of what resembles a conscience), who thrive on the kindnesses of other people--where they literally "leech" on these people's good will or generosity (which, usually borderlines naïveté).

these PG's are notorious for fraternizing with you if and only if they know beforehand that you have some form of utility or benefit to offer them. free access to your gadgets, designer clothes, high-priced items, car, services in general, money, etc. name it, if you've got it, the PG's are bound to flutter around you like a moth to a flame...only this time, even if you're the flame, you end up getting burnt. why? because after all the kindheartedness and selflessness you've offered to them, you end up being, well, used.

with all these dj montano-brian gorrellish scandals creating such a clamor in the web, one can't help but think, yet again, bakit nga ba may mga taong patay-gutom?

personally, i would subscribe to the pseudo-psychoanalysis that i've made of these people--basing these assumptions, of course, on my own personal experience with someone named Fitz Mitchell Tanhuetco (obviously, not the real name but you get the glaring insinuation about the proper identity). nuknukan ng kapal ng mukha. came to me almost literally empty-handed. i helped...asking nothing in return. after some time, i realized i was getting pilfered of my stuff, money included; my almost new jack spade bag that i took care of with all my might suddenly was torn and dirty and not even ukay-ukay worthy; my designer clothes missing from my armoire; and most recently, my mp3 player which was supposed to be for my little girl, he was claiming i gave to him (with that amount, and that purpose [to be given to someone else] in mind, i seriously doubt i would've forgotten a declaration that i've given that to him).

Fitz is a classic wolf in sheep's clothing--the seemingly-sweet facade throws your sense of caution off; he makes you fall for the el shaddai-worthy charisma so you'd end up trusting him and giving him your very soul (makes you wonder if the mumbojumbo hypnotist going around stealing people's money in the malls and Fitz are one and the same...). apparently, his partner, Alessandro, was a "sucker" himself, as Fitz likewise leeched a good amount of money, "chauffeuring service", clothing and other intangibles as well. this, to a man who housed him, provided him with great care, and unconditional love. now THAT's what i call utmost kapatay-gutuman molded and kneaded with kawalan ng utang na loob.

now, the cheap psychoanalysis: Fitz grew up with almost literally no affection and accolade or approval from his family. he grew up with scanty resources, was made to work like a commonfolk in a hick environment amidst all sense of simplicity. fast forward to the cosmopolitan environment where Alessandro (and eventually, myself as a good friend and landlord) introduced him to the razzle dazzle of the Klieg lights. with all of these never-before experienced sensations and spectacles, Fitz just literally got devoured by the blinding lights. an apt filipino word for what he wanted to do with all those things and experiences would be "kamkam". yes--all these things new and foreign to him, all he wanted to do was to kamkam. mine-mine-mine was his unending mantra...and it never seems to end.

to date, Fitz is already supposedly a successful model and performer on various shows. he now flaunts a newfangled apple macbook, an up-to-the-minute iPod, a two-bedroom condo unit of his own... and i, on the other hand, am yet to receive payment for his long-time no-interest monetary debt from me, get my mp3 player for my daughter which he claims i've given him and refuses to return to me (because he has most likely given it away to his fellow soil-tillers in his province), and aless, is yet to hear from him for all his debts, his borrowed clothes, and other things any other decent individual would've already returned and/or paid for.

i guess all PG's think and work that way: mine. mine. mine. PG's are people who seem to champion the scarcity mentality, i.e. "there is not enough for everybody". they will stop at nothing just to get what they want--at the expense of other people's welfare. and the disheartening part of this is that, with their surpassingly calloused conscience, they have every reason to believe that there is nothing wrong or evil with what they are doing...and they can sleep soundly at night.

until there are fitzes and dj's in this world, the word "fair" will never be upheld or appreciated. i just heartily hope that, in the greater cosmic scheme of things, their karma for every single remissness they have done awaits them in the corner--with a firm bite in their ass...at isang kinakalawang na kalawit.

Kagat Labi

Oh, c'mon. You seriously did NOT think this was about the Joey de Leon song, did you?! Hell no. It's about something else. Anyway...

Last Sunday morning, I woke up to "frantic" (I say frantic because there were about four or five full-length, tele-novela-worthy messages) SMS's from my tenant, Arvin. The gist was something like, blahblahblah may higanteng orchids dito sa guard house mala-Christmas tree blahblahblah it's got the name Ben Redulla written on the card in the basket blahblahblah hurry down and pick it up bago pa kainin ng mga doggies ang mga sobrang gandang bulaklak blahblahblah. It wasn't even 9am and I was still lost in reverie--somewhere in between where I wouldn't dare leave that morning and a place where I'd rather not be at 9 fucking AM on a Saturday when I had nothing better or more productive to do than snooze till my head hurts.

I tried calling Arvin. No response. Maybe he's driving. So I texted (smart move, eh?! Like SMS-ing was safer over taking a phone call) him with a totally earth-shatteringly cerebral, HUWAAAAAAT??!!. As if I didn't understand the first four SMS's, he texted me again the same message, this time paraphrasing it into more Kindergarten brain tidbits. I understood it this time, just as much as I did the first: I had a freaking Christmas Tree of a flower arrangement waiting for me downstairs.

I stood up, got into my Thai wrap-around shorts (with underwear, dammit!), and fished a shirt from the fresh laundry delivery from last night. I was washing my face when the doorbell buzzed insanely. With the urgency of the buzzing, it felt like the Horsemen of the Apocalypse were waiting for me at the door, fetching me to face kingdom come. This better not be a "wrong number" (you know, those idiots who can't single out from the seven buildings which is Cluster X from Cluster Y), or I swear, a royal fit will be in order.

I was in my I'm-coming-you-buzzer-happy-bastard face when I opened the door, ready for some exchange of blasphemies...when I saw the Christmas Tree. I kept still for a good 20 seconds--seemingly hauled back into that reverie I was describing earlier. Without even bothering to look at the delivery boy (who was almost as high as the flower arrangement basket), I scribbled my name on the delivery receipt, fished a 20 in my wallet, and carried the Christmas Tree Orchid into my room.

I fished the card (yes, Arvin wasn't kidding--it had my name on it) out of the stick that was protruding from the mosses and charcoal and flipped the envelope open. It read, My dear Bentong. I wish I could be there to watch you. Good luck on tonight's show. I'll see you very soon. Love heaps, B.

I was in a state of total awe. It was only when I took a glance on my full-length mirror and saw myself covering my mouth with my left hand while holding the card on my right hand that I looked like a girl that was just told by her doctor that she was going to have a baby...so I immediately got out of the pose and resumed the--ahem--manly stance...but wiping a bit of a tear on the corner of one eye.

My choirmates had no idea why I was ultra-giddy that night. No, it wasn't the jitters. Fuck that.

This morning, like clockwork, waking up from a good night's sleep (after 2 hours worth of Skype-ing with B), I looked at my phone inbox to check for B's message. Nada. I guess 'twas too early, so B would prolly still be asleep or something. After all, Thailand's an hour behind. So I went to the kitchen to nuke last night's Yellow Cab calzone for my breakfast. I was biting into the second slice when my SMS alert buzzed. I guess I got too thrilled to hear from B that I bit my lower lip HARD, I was bleeding like crazy.

I spat what was left of my calzone and perhaps a few mL's worth of fresh copper-tasting blood, and headed to my bedroom. I picked up the phone and saw B's name in my inbox, with this message, g'morning baby. love u love u love u love u love u love u love u love u love u love u love u love u love u love u love u love u love u love u love u love u!!!

Now, THAT was worth any lip-bursting mishap, wasn't it?

Ko Koro Koro Part Deux

Eto naaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

After months of rigorous belting...este rehearsing pala...the Koro Ilustrado is finally having its debut performance...as one of the "et als" in the Madz Et Al Concert/Festival.

Quoting The Manila Times Internet Edition's article on the said event...

Madz brings musical revelry
The country’s premier choir presents six days of delight

The Philippine Madrigal Singers present Voyages: A Wonderful World of Music, a musical festival continuing the Madz Et Al tradition since 1981 produced in cooperation with the Philippine American Life and General Insurance Company.

Running from May 7 to May 12 at the Philamlife Theater, UN Avenue Manila, the festival begins at 7:00 p.m. each evening and features various choirs from all over the Philippines.

May 11 boasts a lineup including the Kilyawan Boys Choir, Our Lady of the Pillar Cathedral Choir, Maryknoll Sanctuary Choir of Baguio City, KHP Coro Techniuv, Shrine of Jesus Academy Children’s Choir, and Koro Ilustrado.


Nuod kayo ha! Debut concert naman namin ang next! :)