Catalano!!!

"I know a dirty word - hello, hello"....Jared Leto is walking on sunshine. White out. Jared is beautifully strutting on a sunshiny morning. What a sweet distraction to the dull ache on my left leg.

And I was imploring - is my near end, O Lord? This pain is nothing to what you suffered for our redemption but let it go away, give me some relief, and some cussing.

I will take emotional pain any day. With emotional pain, you can rationalize your way around it. Even argue with it. Box it in its proper perspective. Shelve it and do things to keep your mind off it but with physical pain, there is no escape. You cannot focus, sleep is a hard commodity to bargain, and you are pratically rendered unproductive and useless....just feeling rotten in one miserable corner, in my own corner of the sky where cats don't fit on the window sill.

No pain, no gain, some quarters say. Well, you can have them all. Just let me be a happy loser.

Rafacious

A new haircut. The arms, still to kill for. Rafa!!! He is futbol's loss and tennis' gain - the ruggedness, the tenacity, the boyish imperfections. Charming.

The Fed and Rafa represent two schools of thought. People who root for them are profiled and said to belong to a different spectrum. Since Rios left, I lost interest so I am not in the thick of things.

Maybe it's like Barcelona and Real Madrid. Barca is perceived to be progressive and run a more scientific game geared towards victory while Real Madrid, despite its stable of talent is pereived to rely more on divine providence to win.

Whatever it is, I look at these athletes as fascinating machines.

The Sun will come out

The internet server (starts with the letter G) was down for a week and for a brief moment, there was this sense of disorientation of some rituals unperformed. What does it matter really if one is not hooked with the so-called "knowledge community" of today's world? Fat deal.

"Patience, patience, patience is what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach - waiting for a gift from the sea." (p17, "Gift from the Sea" by Anne Morrow Lindbergh)

Just wait, wait for life to take its course, without the benefit of this technology that in certain ways, promotes domestication or as KM predicting the evolution of capitalism in terms of "annihilation of space by time" has forged an increasing intimacy and God forbid, dependence, on its dominant power and allure.

I can't be psycho, a week without an internet connection. I cannot fill the hours with yoga routines because it's not physically possible yet. The erratic climate dampens any craving for the beach. If there's any margin of profit this forced break allowed, I was able to catch CNN's Talk Asia's sitdown with the ethereal Annie Lennox. I would have missed it because its schedule falls right on my email time. Thank heavens for Annie.

The Man in the Mirror is Dead

"When someone in the dark reaches out to you,
And touches off the spark that comes shining through
It tells you never be afraid" Michael Jackson, "Someone in the Dark"

Grade VI pupils have not heard of bulimia or anorexia but self-imposed starvation and sheer madness bought me my first 2 cassete tapes: Michael Jackson's "Thriller" and Gary V's first album, the latter once touted by showbiz kibitzers as the "Michael Jackson of the Philippines."

Then Prince came a-strutting - dirtier, much more flamboyant, and did I already say dirtier? This artist who sang that the color of rain was purple and opened my eyes that doves, like humans, also cried relegated "Thriller" into the dustbin. Then those boys from Birmingham, DuranDuran gripped my uterus (labia, behave) and I took a peek of The Dawn's JB Leonor's drumming stool (again, labia, behave) and discovered ideas could be enveloped, so bye-bye Michael.

What totally ruined what could have been an MJ fandom was mixed tape, the rage during my days of quiet content. A classmate named Edgar Ben was wooing a girl named Michelle so he briefed me about his genius of a plan. Side A was a repetition of the Beatles' "Michelle" and Side B was, you guess it right, "Ben" of MJ. And as the song went, "You've got a friend in me," MJ lost a fan but the trick worked wonders - B earned a wife in M many years later. Whew! Mixed tapes, Rob Gordon, you rock!

Anyhow, celebrity deaths, why do they affect us? I was probably one of the last to know about this recent cause of grief among music fans because I went downtown so early in the day without checking the news. A text from Mamon-bebe whom I didn't consider an MJ fan before or is he? kept me abreast, outscooping BBC where I normally get my first hand. Kudos!

Gabriel's Choice

I’m certain, 80%, that I would make an awful TV/radio host - questions smacked in gross blunder. Either they would be overwrought in their zeal or torturous in their inanity.

Raising questions are tougher than answering them, I surmise. Now that I’m just home trying to be healthy again, I have the opportunity to watch talk shows and this I realized, good interviews are largely handiworks of good interviewers more than interviewees.

Robert Smith of The Cure once grouched over tiresome questions “What’s your favorite drink?” and the likes, constantly tossed at him. A music journalist seeking reprieve asked him what question did he want to address. The Cure frontman, with no trace of irony, recommended, “Why are you so scarily good?” Nice one.

Creative artists, I suspect, bemoan to describe their creative process, not only because it spoils the magic or disrupts the intimacy but I bet, even they themselves, cannot fully articulate how a spur of an idea grows arms and legs and wings.

Who’s that director who said that once he knows how his film is going to end before he even begins shooting, he sees no point doing it or words to that effect? Haay! The name is just in my mindyard, buried in oblivion. I hate it when I forget tidbits, just frigging hate it, argh!

Anyway, journalists and talk show hosts are fond of cornering artists to disclose their favorite song or album or novel or film among the artists’ body of work. That’s pretty toxic.

It came as a mild shock that in the latest biography, Gabriel Garcia Marquez: A Life, a product of 17 years of research by one Gerald Martin, the Colombian author of stupefying, spectacular sentences confessed that his best novel is “The Autumn of the Patriarch” released in 1975.

I don’t know which surprised me – that he was actually able to pick a favorite because I sort of expected him to demur like most artists or that of all clever things to tell, he had to select a novel which this non-fan hasn’t read. That’s not hip, Gabriel.

Somewhere in our small house, two novels are buried in a cobweb of dust. Sure, safe choices for a non-fan: “100 Years of Solitude” and “Love in The Time of Cholera”. I read “Memories of My Melancholy Whores” at Powerbooks (yippee!) without paying a single cent.

Memo to self: scour friends’ libraries because you can’t afford to buy books.

Martin, the author of the latest biography, suggests that “The Autumn….” is loosely based on Fidel Castro with whom Marquez shares in his own words, an “intellectual friendship” with, something Marquez is heavily criticized for by fellow writers. Without reading the book yet, I risk disagreeing. Marquez is such a passionate, partisan individual, the fact that he can actually pick a favorite among his novels needs no greater testament. He is super-loyal to Fidel and I fairly remember an article of his spirited defense of Pres. Clinton at the time of the Lewinsky brouhaha, fanning the hypocrisy of the conservative right. I think, more than any other written work, that write-up is my most admired. I don’t think he is capable of painting a caricature of a friend with whom he shares a tight connection with.

Mario Vargas Llosa with whom Marquez had a quibble with and a public fistfight in 1975(something to do with a lover, so goes the speculation) which led to that black-eyed photo of Marquez circulated about 2 years ago branded the latter as “Castro’s lackey.”

Novelists, we gasp at their lack of inventiveness in name-calling.

B-List

Hollywood released its annual list of Beautiful People last month. Deppster topped the list, no violent objection there. However, many of my beautiful ones were ignored. Hollywood is not looking hard enough.

01. Benicio del Toro – If that scandalous elevator incident years back involving Scarlett is to be believed. Muy delicioso. His remarkable performance in "Traffic" surely caused traffic in my aorta and arteries and valve and veins.

02. Daniel Craig – He is beautiful in the tradition of Viggo Mortensen and Val Kilmer, only if Viggo was not too chiseled and Kilmer didn’t pout as much. Craigster assembles his wares way too perfectly. I thought Lawrence Fishburn had the sexiest walk until Craigster in "LayerCake" – just a hint of swagger but a normal gait by all accounts. In "Enduring Love", he was the target of stalking by a man gradually descending towards madness. I mean, if middle-aged males snap out of their sanity over him, how much more the other demographics?

03. Jared Leto – You could drown in those devouring eyes. He wears horrible eye make-up for his band 30 seconds to Mars and still manages to be Edward Scissorhands-beautiful.

04. Justin Theroux – David Lynch saw something in him before everybody did. I am just glad I caught on.

05. James Franco – Playing James Dean, he offered a complex and emphatic performance. He can be dark and broody but when he turns on that goofy smile, he can light up the whole of Africa – a solution to our energy problem.

06. Mads Mikkelsen – Watch “After the Wedding” and “Prague” and you’ll know what I mean. The baby factories don’t produce beautiful men like Mads these days.

Mulled over including John Cusack but he is more cool than beautiful, like Tim Robbins. You imagine hanging out with them, raiding their ref for beer, and puking on their bathroom and they won’t call the sheriff.

Adel, A Good Deal

The bright spot in the sex video scandal involving local celebrities is, eng-eng!!, not some senator’s impassioned speech and name-calling.

It’s the sobering demeanor of Adel Tamano, spokesperson of the “Genuine Opposition” and counsel of one of the beleaguered victims. He transports you back to highschool when people exercised leniency when you screamed your lungs out everytime the acolyte in your parish church crossed your path.

His calmness and intelligence lend class to this otherwise sordid affair. Give me sordid any day of the week if it means him blazing the TV screen.

Crossing the Line

Is he or isn’t he going to file for divorce? This isn’t the first time my phantom drinking buddy, Sean Penn, has vacillated over his decision to finally crumple his marriage contract to the equally bold and luminous actress, Robin Wright-Penn and throw it to the bin.

As to those drooling over him, prematurely rejoicing that finally he can make honest women out of you – there will be no Thanksgiving or Christmas together and the honeymoon in Maldives or is it Galapagos that you booked in advance? Call your travel agent and replace them with tickets for the World Cup in South Africa.

I wonder what my favorite comedians over at Fox News are ranting this time. Are they going to fete him for upholding rock-solid family values by not pushing through a messy divorce?

When news of this present divorce broke out, those funny guys had a heyday speculating on the reason(s) – “Oh, he’s a worthless piece of (bleep) for not acknowledging his wife in his acceptance speech at the Oscars”

Granting that his acceptance speech was unorthodox, the man, well, is. I think it was a smart move to grab that chance, when million of viewers, in rapt attention were listening, to articulate his advocacy against hatred of marginalized people. The right-wingers only heard “gay rights,” something they are virulently against with but if they listened closely, Sean Penn’s speech was about tada-ding! LOVE. “Gugma, kun ha Binisaya”

Love for the heck of it, as I always say.

And it was a sprightly speech – “You commie, homo-loving sons of guns.” That brought a hearty chuckle.

For those who expected him to enumerate a litany of thanksgiving, just check Milk’s credits. One thing I know, it was the powerful vision of Gus Van Sant that galvanized the movie. And my sagging butt, he can thank his wife properly in private, in a manner that he has mastered.

What do we care about the intimate lives of celebrities anyway? At least with Sean Penn, he was persecuted for not thanking his wife in public, with the cameras on, when it was a call of propriety to do so, or at least feeding people’s conventional expectations.

The current local headline is about celebrities exhibiting in public what is supposed to be a private matter, which isn’t a call of propriety but at least, feed people’s prurient expectations.

Sex, lies, and videotape.