I?m on the routine now. Spend six months on the territory and you?re bound to know the tourist spots (and try to avoid it or at least go there discreetly), know which buses to take and which trains to transfer, where to shop cheaply, and know a few Cantonese sentences to get you by through the day and perhaps get you hooked one lonely night in a bar.
Culture shock here is not when you see a bunch of old Chinese folks doing flawless Tai Chi every morning at the park or being amazed (or nervous) around a gang of tattoo-clad kids with extreme fashion-forward `dos. Culture shock here is when you see a flood of Filipina domestic helpers along sidewalks at Central on a Sunday. One is guaranteed of this tear-jerking moment as random flashbacks of Milan , Anak and Caregiver overwhelm the first-time visitor. I?m used to the sight though. Like me, they?re already ?local?.
Urban legend has it that Filipinos are more hard-working abroad. After more than a year as an OFW I?ve completely dispelled myths that Flips are lazy. Take away the trisikad, tricycle, trisiboat, multicab, jeepney and the occasional habal-habal and see the Pinoy walk. Here in HK, Filipinos adapt to the system without much qualms. We walk, we fall in line, we alight on designated bus stops and we don?t complain. This energetic and disciplined lifestyle reflects on one?s performance at work. At the end of the day, I?m tired but proud of myself for surviving yet another day without the usual conveniences.
So I get used to the absence of a nearby sari-sari store, tipid packs, and E-load and embrace a culture that has been perfected through centuries. Start the fireworks and throw the confetti, I?m a `local?.
And as part of the routine, when the work is done, the `local? goes back to his quarters through a sea of lonely, weary workers on crowded walkways and trains, opens the door to his apartment, throws his bag on a corner, collapses on the bed, picks up the phone, and calls someone back home.
How to spot a tourist: a long face, phone cards and two mobile phones.
I hope the header is symbolic enough. I have arachnophobia. I have a new template. If eating freshly popped fear is easy for you to understand, we're transmitting brainwaves in the same frequency.
In any case, I'm back (yet again), with new harder equipment, a faster wireless connection, and a stronger sense of commitment to my blog. It should be better now, I think or else I'll have to give you the finger (video by BaratsandBereta).
Ladies and gentlemen, I don't fit the type but yeah, I am a teacher. Highly respected (I call the kids dude or bro), well-regarded (our 'handshake' is the knuckle rub), and all-knowing (does anybody have a calculator?) teacher.
Since day one I've made recess and lunchtime a PSP open-tourney, taught them Rent's Season of Love in Music class (maybe next year I can show them the movie and have them close their eyes during the strip show), played basketball with them during PE and called it hoops, and told them to go crazy on a piece of paper for their Visual Arts class. If you thought Robin Williams' unorthodox professor in Dead Poets Society was rebellious then you haven't seen me sing Crawling with my students while holding sour gummy worms.
My teaching style might be too racy for some but I think it's the only way to get more kids to listen. Boring teachers only get the attention of the smart ones. But what about those who are always distracted or daydreaming? You only need to watch an episode of Late Show with David Letterman to understand what I mean. Annoyances are sometimes necessary to keep your audience focused, imagine the irony. Back in my primary school I'd always look forward to classes that my favorite teachers handled and they were the ones who knew the language of my generation.
When I was in fifth grade, my dad taught my PE Class (funny how life comes to a full circle sometimes). He was one of the cool teachers. I guess I can give him props for that. Like they say, the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree, but personally, I prefer the "shit doesn't fall far from the ass" analogy. Bun intended.
I?m in
For the past three months I?ve been a semi-bum because I?m not allowed to work and receive compensation. It sucks. After having a busy and ?happening? life, it was hard to go back to being a slacker.
More than a year ago I was on my way to becoming a filmmaker. Well that was the plan anyway. But I had to put that on hold and go to
Being sidetracked is part of life and those who say ?you?re in control of your own destiny? are just plain lucky.
In short, songs were a necessary evil ? part of a larger plot by MNCs and snack and beverages makers to pry hard-earned Indian rupees from white-knuckled clutching fingers of the unsuspecting suffering masses. Sets and costumes were as important a part of the film, as ceiling fans are in engineering colleges the nation over ? purely for show, and absolutely no thought whatsoever gone into its actual purpose and function in the grand scheme of things. How else can one explain Telugu movies? Unless of course the entire Telugu speaking community happen to be color-blind in addition to hearing-impaired. Needless to say, ishtyle is a phenomenon least understood in golt land. Probably all the gonkura gone to their brain.
Thankfully, this not being a Telugu film, I did not have to suffer a brain hemorrhage while watching it. Sets and costumes, normally falling under either the tolerable-but-boring or ridiculously-hilarious category, were pretty decent. Songs were good, not mind-blowing, but enjoyable and definitely hummable. Sets were a visual feast. Every detail, every object in the frame, insignificant as it was, was taken care of and the effort definitely showed. Costumes were a spectacular treat, down to the minutest sequined details on Rajni?s 3 inch thick belt. Over the top? Yes. Outlandish? Yes. Ridiculous? Yes yes yes, all of that. But! That be the magick of a Rajni flick. To be all of that, and to still draw you into its story and characters and have you cheering and hooting all the way to the end credits.
Exhibit Three: Dialogues and superstar-masala-flick elements. Read: pandering to the lowest common denominator and/or mass entertainment aspects. You?d think it stands to reason that if one were looking at a movie from a purely commercial aspect, throwing in a generous dash of crowd-puller, item number and mass-entertainer bits and the like would invariably lead to a dip in overall story-telling impact. Not so. One of the good things about Sivaji is that there is no vulgarity or blood and gore violence ? a rare, well-deserved U rating for the certified ?family movie?. All necessary superstar-masala-flick bits ? punch dialogues, fight sequences, basic storyline and plot, essential characters ? have been tastefully incorporated into this mad celebration of the quintessential superstar masala movie. I did find the Angavai/Sangavai/Pongavai sequence a tad insensitive, but that?s my only gripe with an otherwise funtastic roller-coaster of a ride.
Hilarious dialogues and light, humorous comedy sequences. Essential snarling and frothing at mouth by necessary sub-characters. Yes, strips of paper from nowhere fly all over the place when our hero walks in. Yes, his hair ? I still haven?t figured out HOW they got him to look the way he did. Brilliant stuff ? flies about oh so elegantly at just the right, dramatic moments. Yes, he has the ability to bend space and time and single-handedly overturn five hundred odd years of math and science and the basic principles of physics and everything our understanding of the universe is modeled on. But really. Who cares? This be an epitome of The Rajni Movie. Bleddy sheddup and watch. Rascal.
Exhibit Four: Special effects and other odds and ends. Special effects are, for the most part at least, seamlessly crafted into the film. Fight sequences fairly entertaining, tad longish in parts, but overall quickly executed and never monotonous or tedious. Dance routines, rapid-paced and stylistically rendered. Pure fun and energy, more than anything, which is why when our man Superstar Rajnikanth stops a bullet with his glance, or throws a gun that boomerangs, shoots his victim and returns to palm, or throws off fifty odd baddies piled on top of his back without breaking a sweat, one can?t help being sucked into the whole mad over-the-top affair and whistling one?s head off. Hey, if I can clap for a wooden-faced leather clad sunglassed Keanu Reeves fending off a hundred Agent Smiths, I figured I might as well go crazy here.
And finally, the final and most important element of the defendant?s argument? here is a movie that is quite simply, fun. Forget sets, costumes, songs, dialogues, cinematic grandeur, mass-entertainment elements, socially-conscious message, cast, crew everything? at its core, is something undeniably enjoyable: pure, simple fun. Every song, every flick of the wrist, every punch delivery is infused with the light-hearted reverie that Rajni is known and loved for. But going beyond the obvious star of the film, there isn?t one person here who doesn?t make an impact with his presence. Right from the top, main hero and baddy and sidekicks, down to the poor musical-instrument buyer or the Angavai-Sangavai twins, memorable performances all. What a relief to watch a fun, jam-packed, energetic film ? and performances ? that doesn?t get weighed down by its own self-importance.
Ah but then again, one can simply say, tis a simple story: riches to rags to riches again, and along the way, boy meets girl, defeats baddie, saves world from itself, boy wins girl and all the sidekicks live happily ever after in eerily dust-free buildings. Tis not rocket science, true. But surprising how even overly simplistic movies tend to take themselves too seriously and end up becoming a gloriously bloated weep/preach fest for the miserable paying public. Bollywood extravaganza indeed. Where have all the good Superstar films gone? Kudos and more to Sivaji for converting this staunch-superstar-flick averse movie-goer into a born-again fanatic.
Now that the snooty reviewer in me has artfully deconstructed the Sivaji phenomenon, the defense would like to rest its case and go stand in line to purchase another ticket. Or to put it another way.
Summa adurudhullai!
Oww eez it?
so i left
still
i
am.
i am the little straight line with a dot on top.
i am the square root of negative one.
i am me.
but mostly, i am
i.
.
She is gone.
Like a piece of cancerous tissue delicately removed with a sharp, surgeon?s knife.
My space is sacred again.
Sometimes I wonder if patients miss the parts of them that are cut away
Even if it was unhealthy.
I saw her clothes neatly laid out on the bed today.
A white salwar freshly ironed and folded, ready for her to wear.
It made me crumble inside.
A tiny crack opened where there wasn?t any before.
Like a slight tear.
Like the one on the sleeve of her white salwar, the one
she?d been meaning to fix.
Can you really cut away bad tissue without damaging the rest?
Will the hole close in on itself?
Will it ever grow back?
If it does, would it be healthy?
Or are we simply asking the wrong questions,
Bearing the wrong instruments,
Drifting through life with knives in our hands, slicing away the parts that don?t fit
When all we really need is needle and thread.
12 stitches.
First the knife. And then the thread.
We must tear open, before we can mend.
We must break down, to build up again.
We must destroy, and then create
not destroy all that we create
Till all that remains, is scar tissue.
To remind us of what once was, and no longer is.
The salwar is mended
Should she decide to come back for it
Don?t be evil.
Go ogle.
1 ? Hot Pink: the girl?s guide to primping, passion and pubic fashion. For only $29.95, you can get your hands on ?seriously useful information?. Like Chapter 2, Creating Pubic Art: A Style Guide. http://www.hotpinkbook.com/
2 ? If you think this dude?s got it bad, the FAQs inform us the doll?s pubic hair is realistically embedded, one hair at a time, into her silicone flesh? So, what do you do for a living? Er? yeah, about that?
Clock Work Orange posted a photo:
every week that i happen upon this intersection, i keep expecting this old gas station to vanish. now that the economy and the developers have gone bust, it may last a bit longer... like some lost faux-Mayan ruin.
Clock Work Orange posted a photo:
i'd previously shot the "Sanitary Grocery" wall... but had never noticed the faded remains of yet more around the corner. rain-stained bricks awakened them.
Clock Work Orange posted a photo:
...to know which way the wind blows.
