Tuesday, August 31, 2004
amazing coincidence
I was surfing through a Beatles fan forum and I typed down that one of my favorite Beatle's songs is "While My Guitar Gently Weeps". On the forum was a link to an internet radio station that plays nothing but Beatles songs 24/7, Beatles-a-rama. I tuned in immediately.
The first song they played? "While My Guitar Gently Weeps"!
What are the chances?! I now feel an affinity with this station.
They even play snippets from their interviews. Amazing!
Moving on...
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY AMAZING FATHER!!! YOUR DAUGHTER LOVES YOU VERY MUCH!!! :-)
As part of my gift to you, I'm going to promote your website. People, please go to my sidebar and click on "Writing on Air". Leave him a greeting .:-)
stolen from just about everyone
YOUR PORN STAR NAME
(NAME OF FIRST PET + STREET YOU LIVE IN):
Grisly B. Gonzales- This sounds like the name of a really madungis porn star. May middle initial pa!
YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME
(NAME OF YOUR FAVOURITE SNACK FOOD +
GRANDFATHER'S FIRST NAME):
Snaku Roman-Sounds like a Japanese-European hybrid.
YOUR FASHION DESIGNER NAME
(FIRST WORD YOU SEE ON YOUR LEFT +
FAVOURITE RESTRAUNT):
Peppermints Cibo- er?
EXOTIC FOREIGNER ALIAS
(Favorite Spice + Last Vacation Spot Visited):
Garlic Waikiki- ang baho naman!
SOCIALITE ALIAS
(SILLIEST CHILDHOOD NICKNAME
+ TOWN WHERE YOU FIRST PARTIED):
Ala-Peanut-Butter-Sandwhich Makati- I'll never get anywhere as a socialite with a name like that. Imagine the hassle of captioning my little thumbnail pictures on the society pages.
"FLY GIRL" ALIAS (a la J. Lo)
(FIRST INITIAL + FIRST TWO OR THREE LETTERS
OF YOUR LAST NAME):
A. Par- Sounds good!
ICON ALIAS
(SOMETHING SWEET WITHIN SIGHT +
ANY LIQUID IN KITCHEN):
Chocolate Breast Milk-ahahahaha!!! The breast milk is of course c/o my sister
DETECTIVE ALIAS
(FAVORITE BABY ANIMAL +
WHERE YOU WENT TO HIGH SCHOOL):
Seal Pup Holy Spirit- um... no.
BARFLY ALIAS
(LAST SNACK FOOD YOU ATE +
YOUR FAVORITE BAR DRINK):
Topdeck SanMig
SOAP OPERA ALIAS
(MIDDLE NAME + STREET WHERE
YOU FIRST LIVED):
Nadine Alden- now that makes sense!
ROCK STAR ALIAS
(FAVORITE CANDY/DESSERT +
LAST NAME OF FAVORITE MUSICIAN):
Chocolate Souffle Avenido - ahahahaha!!!
Silly, silly silly.because i am picture happy
dance like noones watching
I never thought I'd meet anyone with a dancing hang-up as bad as the one I have. I've mentioned in previous entries that I never dance. well, the truth is, I do dance. Sometimes at least. I dance shamelessly in my living room, and I'll even dance at a club or party every now and then. I danced at all my proms. And at the Reggae party in Boracay last April, I danced... rather wildly in fact. Just get me happy enough, or drunk enough, or get the dance floor crowded enough (crowded meaning you can barely move) and chances are, I just might dance.
I realized yesterday that my boyfriend is one of those men who don't dance! He has a dancing hang-up, but for a different reason than mine. I don't dance because I can't. He doesn't dance because... he doesn't want to? I've only really danced with him once. We were at a friend's house getting drunk and he popped in his "Gypsy Kings" CD, cranked up the volume, and dragged me into a very sensual pseudo-tango that involved alot of hip gyrating. It lasted thirty minutes. I'm not so sure he remembers that dance. But I remember he had very good coordination and was quite a mover on the dance floor.
Last night, Nino and I decided to go for some Mongolian food at Kublai's along Katipunan. Kublai's is known not just as the Mongolian place but also as the ballroom dancing place. The restaurant area connects to a room with plush, purple sofas, a dance floor, and DJ booth that cranks out ballroom hits: Sinatra disco versions, Abba, Bryan Adams disco versions, 80s dance music, Enrique Iglesias... you name it. There's ballroom dancing in Kublai's 6 days a week, and through the years, it has formed a steady following, a sub-culture of aged fifty-something matronas who go there all made up, in festive dresses with swirly skirts, and high-heeled dancing shoes.
Nino and I were devouring our food when the thump-thump-thump of the music in the room next door suddenly became slow and steady. The DJ had put on some slow 80's love song. I didn't really pay much attention to it. Dancing was the farthest thing from my mind at that moment. It was Nino who sealed his fate and said, "Wow, slow song. Pwedeng pang-slow dance!".
Slow dancing, I thought with excitement. I loooove slow dancing! The last time I ever slow danced was in high school and nowadays there aren't any decent places to slow dance because all clubs play hip-hop or house. So I got all excited and jumped out of my chair and asked Nino if he would please dance with me, please, please, before the slow song ends, and just for one song, please, please. He looked at me like I was insane and virulently refused. So I begged and begged some more saying that we had been together for a year and half and we had never yet slow-danced, and how come he never danced with me, not even at that reggae party in Boracay, and not even in my living room. He still didn't say yes, but he agreed to check out the ballroom dancing area, and then maybe, maybe he would slow dance with me.
So we went over to take a look, and as soon as glimpsed the dance floor, I knew I had made a big mistake. Nino's eyes bugged out as soon as he saw the matronas dancing sensually with three very...er, effeminate dance instructors in tight pants and tight shirts. Also, everyone on that dance floor were serious dancers. They had obviously been ballroom dancing for years, and they were there for serious business, to show the moves, tear up the dance floor. The sight of the matronas gliding on the dance floor, guided by virile, young "D.I."s was too much for Nino to take and he would've bolted if I hadn't grabbed him. "Please?", I said. "Please? We'll stay in the corner, and all we'll do is slow dance, and we'll only do one song. The only other people in there with us will be old women and D.I.s whom we'll probably never see again in our lives"
"No," was the answer. I couldn't do anything at that point. The song had ended and the DJ had started playing Bryan Adams disco versions again. I was pretty disapointed and I decided to guilt him by telling me he owed me a slow dance. He was visibly embarrassed and all he said was, "Ok, some other time".
Well "some other time" came 15 minutes later when the DJ decided to play another slow song. And it wasn't just any slow song, it was "The Way You Look Tonight", and Nino knew that was one of my all-time favorite songs. I gave him a look and I knew that he knew what it meant. There was no way he could refuse to dance with me this time, not if the song was "The Way You Look Tonight". He knew it would be a grave, grave sin if he didn't dance with me. So I lead him to the dance floor. He had a look of impending doom on his face.
Slow dancing is usually a very simple thing. It involves placing your arms around your partner in an embrace, swaying left and right to the beat, staring into each other's eyes, and whispering to each other. In other words, you're supposed to get caught in the moment! I promised him we'd stay in the corner, but I didn't think he'd take it so literally. He insisted on staying in this dark, tiny area beside a plastic tree where we could hardly move. Plus, he was so anxious that he was stiff as post and and he hardly even looked at me because he kept looking around at matronas and D.I.s who twirled and swirled around us like fairies. Everytime I'd try to drag him near the middle, he'd drag me back to the plastic tree. I could hardly get him to sway with me, and I had show him how to move his hips and his shoulders. The way Nino looked, you would've thought he was being made to face a crowd naked or something.
I finally got him to sway... sort of. It took so long we ended up staying on the floor for three songs instead of one, and when we left he looked seriously relieved, as if he had just been spared from some major embarrassment. Poor, poor boy. I wonder why he is so embarrassed to dance. I look like a flamingo when I try to dance but I dance anyway. He's the one who knows how to move and yet you can never, ever get him to dance. Is it some strange, male ego thing? I don't know.
So that's the story of my slow dance with Nino. To my male readers, always take opportunities to slow dance with your girl, whether it's in a club, a plaza, or in your living room. She'll love you for it. :-)
Posted by
at 5:54 PM 11 Comments!
Sunday, August 29, 2004
I discovered Adobe Imageready today!
That's all! Carry on to the next post please :-p
Saturday, August 28, 2004
castes
For many years, I had a childhood playmate who went by the name of Itok. He was the nephew of our maid, and he lived in a slums area a 10-minute walk away from our house. Even at a young age, I was not blind to the reality that we were of very different social backgrounds. I observed his clothes, always slightly tattered, the slight smell of the slums that always lingered around him, and how he couldn't speak English. But these differences meant nothing to the two of us. We were children and the most important thing was fun and games. He would come over to play almost everyday, whether I invited him or not. Once or twice, I even visited the shanty his family lived in, accompanied by our maid. To grown-ups, the slums isn't exactly the most pleasant place to be in, but I remember the trip being a grand adventure for me. To get there, we had to cross a rickety, make-shift bridge over a wide ravine. I remember looking at all the little shacks in awe, sweet, little houses pieced together with junk and scraps. I remember staring in awe at the duyan in Itok's house, a hammock for the baby made out of an old blanket suspended from the ceiling, and thinking, "Wow, we don't have that. That's so cool!".
Although he was poor, and I was from a relatively richer family, Itok and I were both skinny kids, with runny noses, messy hair, and scabs on our knees. We played so many games, from the marathon races we'd run down my long, long drive-way, "Pepsi-7-Up", Piko, and our own version of soccer. We'd draw with chalk on the sidewalk, play video games, play with the dogs, go biking and skating in the street (I'd lend him all my extra gear) till the sun set. He'd spend Christmases and New Year's Eves over. We even took a bath together once or twice.
Itok was a sharp kid. When we were a little older, during the last few times we ever played together, I taught him how to play Chess. I was considered a pretty good Chess player as a kid, it was a kind of talent, and I remember beating Itok during the first few matches when he was still learning how. However, by our 6th match, he won over me, and I never won a Chess match against him ever again after that. He was brilliant.
Our two-year age gap didn't make a difference until I turned 13 and started leaving him behind, a natural process that happens to all friends who are a few years apart. he eventually became my little brother's playmate. Then I started seeing him less and less, and for a about a year, I didn't see him at all. He stopped coming over.
One day, I walked into our dirty kitchen and saw him there. He was visiting our maid, his tita. Even before I said hello, I knew something had changed. He wouldn't look me in the eye anymore, and when he said hello, it was so soft that it was almost a whisper. Some people may speculate that the awkwardness was due to the fact that we hadn't seen each other in a long time. But I knew it wasn't that. I knew that he had awakened to the reality of our social differences. Maybe his parents gave him a talking to about the inappropriateness of a rich girl playing with a poor boy. Or maybe he came to that realization on his own.
Nevertheless, I was hurt that he had let it get to him, that he felt we couldn't be friends anymore and that he now had to address me as "po" and "opo". I hated how he had resigned himself to a position that made him feel as if he was lower than me, and had to treat me with respect. I couldn't say anything of course. Sometimes, the conventions that surround us are stronger than what we feel is right. I resigned myself to the fact that I had lost a friend to these conventions. Class division, some children are awakened earlier to the reality of it. Others, like me, had a more painful awakening.
It's been years since then, and I cannot deny that convention has caught up with me and sunk it's roots in me. I admit it, I am a product of this society, I cannot deny the influence it has had on me. Sad to say I'm no longer that indiscriminating little girl who didn't think social class was a big deal. Like everyone, I do feel the divide between the social classes very distinctly and it has made me awkward. I don't like it, but it's reality.
Itok stayed away for many years, and I got the surprise of my life recently when I saw a grown man eating in our dirty kitchen and realized it was him. He was tall, much taller than me, and fair, and well-proportioned, with an angular jawbone. He still stops by sometimes to visit. Not to visit me of course. I catch him sometimes hanging out in our kitchen and I always make it a point to say "Uy!", and smile, and raise my eyebrows at him, like I'm greeting an old friend. It catches him off guard and he says "Uy" back.
i am my father's daughter
They blow dried my hair straight at our Penshoppe shoot yesterday and I noted with victory that my hair is the longest it's ever been in my entire life: half-way down my back. Yay!Never mind that it's been fried by the sun and heat styled to within an inch of it's life.
So I'm signed up for another year with Penshoppe! I usually don't talk about these things, but I'll make an exception for this one because I'm pretty happy about it, even though I told myself a couple of months ago that after the Penshoppe deal ended, I would stop modeling entirely.
I always had alot of issues about the whole modeling thing. People never got why I was never entirely comfortable with it. I mean sure, it was fun having everyone recognize me as the girl with pineapple and oatmeal dripping down her face, and it was funny how complete strangers would scream "Hoy! R U 1 Of Us?!" everytime I'd go by. But I didn't like the feeling that somehow, I had a repuation that cemented itself before people actually got to know me. Having strangers know me as the girl who comes out in commercials (aka "commercial model"), is not without all the things that people like to attach to it. People think that once you land a spot on and, or on the cover of a glossy, then you are more likely than most people to be:
a. maarte
b. kikay
c. "fashionista"
d. mayaman
e. mataray
f. "up there"/"hard to reach"
g. "conyo"
Ah, okay, sige, whatever. Box me in, won't you.
It was a very exciting time when I started doing ads and stuff, but it also made me panic because I felt that I was quickly becoming associated with a world so very different from where I wanted to belong. Growing up, I wanted to be a painter (and I still do). In Grade 6, I picked up a copy of "Sophie's World" and had a short lived dream of wanting to be a philosopher. In high school, I was so sure I wanted to be an actress in theater. In college, I suddenly wanted to write, make music, and be a psychologist. And all these things I wanted to be were always put into practice. Modeling and TV always seemed like a possible option, but it wasn't my greatest dream. So when I started working for TV, I suddenly felt like all of the things I just mentioned above were swept aside and slowly becoming disassociated with me. In high school, people would ask me to paint, to join plays, to sing, to write; but nowadays most people only ask me to host, to join fashion shows, and to pose for whatever photo-shoot.
My dad always tells me that we're exactly alike in how we feel about ourselves. Admittedly, it is fun to come out in ads and glossies, and a certain amount of celebrity is enjoyable. But in the end, we'd rather have people know us as artists and creative thinkers. Call it superficial, or call it existential angst but I grew up with my musician/writer/artista father, and my artist/model mother and that's definitely where I get my odd, hybrid personality.
Anyway, I deviate from the point. As how Siddharta shunned all wordly things to pursue solitude and Nirvana, I thought I'd quit modeling and TV to take time off a world concerned with appearances and popularity, and cultivate a more substantial, unglamorous side of myself. Hahahaha!!! Whatever, right?!
To my surprise, Penshoppe signed me up for another year and oddly enough I'm happy, thrilled, and excited about all our upcoming campaigns and projects despite my resolution to shun all things of the modeling/ media world. I love the camera, I do, and everytime I face one, I realize that I miss it. Besides, Penshoppe is the most pleasant client I've ever had to work with and I really don't mind working with them. So here I go, another year of shoots and hosting. Yay!
Aaah, torn between love of posing/ performing and being an artist. It's not that you can't be both. It's just that people generally don't expect the two to go hand in hand. Two irreconcilible worlds, hahaha! Well, that's the way it goes. Then again, why should I even care if I ever really fit into either community as long as I'm doing what I want to be doing? Screw convention, right?
Thank God I have a father who has learned to be both. In the past, he's stood in the very eye of the showbiz storm, and though he presently still does TV every now and then and performs with the APO, he's also known as writer, a photographer, and a creative. Maybe someday, I will find my balance.
P.S. Only my boyfriend has the patience to listen to me when I start going on about this. For those who made it to the end of this entry, thank you for your time.
babysitting
My sister was out all afternoon, and Ananda's yaya is on leave, which meant me and my mom had joint responsibility over Ananda all afternoon.
I learned that it takes 1 woman to watch a baby for an hour. 2 hours at most.
It takes 2 women to watch a baby the whole afternoon.
It takes 3 women to watch a baby the whole day.
My new favorite past time is giving her a bath. I just get such a kick out of it, even if she cries sometimes.
Posted by
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
wanting something
My friend Pia is amazing. She has a feature in today's 2BU on her story on how she managed to raise more than 60,000, using Livejournal and good deeds, to buy herself a ticket to Barcelona to attend the World Youth Festival. She created a website called Buy This Dream saying that for every person who pledged 300 pesos for her trip to Barcelona, she would perform for them any good deed of their choice. So many people pledged that she ended up raising more than she needed.
I remember how all of us girls dressed and made her up Jenn's room the night before she left for Barcelona. It was almost like a Cinderella moment. We were picking her clothes out for her and adorning her with jewelry and make-up, giving her our women's blessing. She was so giddy and excited and we all knew that it was a balance of both destiny and human effort that was delivering her to Barcelona.
I've always known her as one of those extremely pro-active people who go out there and just make things happen! She's all over the place, joining and heading organizations that make changes. She's always trying to change the world.
Reading her journal, one passage she wrote caught my eye:It's been interesting to observe how different people deal with their dreams. Some accept. Some deny. Some fear. And some don't even recognize that they have dreams at all!
It makes me reaize how I really don't strive for anything at all, at least not with a lot of effort. I am one of those who fear and deny my dreams. I'm afraid to speak out loud what I want to do, and what I want to be, for fear that I might never get there. I only dare to reach for the things that I know I can attain. I only take gambles where I where I know there is little to lose.
I know I am wasting my life by continuing to let myself be dominated by this inertia. I am one of those people, whom it seems, was born lucky. Things just fall into my lap, and most of the time, I get what I ask for. I'm not talking about my parent's spoiling me or giving me money. My parents never gave me everything I asked for. They taught me the value of working for what I wanted early on. And in terms of money, we were given allowance, and it was our responsibility to budget that money to pay for the little baubles we wanted.
No, I'm not a spoiled brat. What I mean about getting everything I ask for is that when I ask life for something, life always seems to deliver. When I audition for a part, I get it. When I try to get in something, I get in. When I gamble, I win. When I make an endeavor, I succeed. Somehow, the ball always gets in the hole even when it's a long shot, and at almost no cost to myself. There were a few times when the ball didn't make in the hole, and yet I lost nothing.
Life has been very good to me. Life has given everything I need, and everything I don't really need, and everything I don't really want. I'm lucky, and yet I waste it because I've never really tried to go the distance to attain the dreams that really matter to me.
When I was in high school, I use to make something called a "Wish Book" every start of the new year wherein I'd cut out pictures from magazines of things I wanted and stick it in a scrapbook. I'd cut out a whole lot of random things: clothes I wanted, vacations I wanted, goals I wanted, what kind of boyfriend I wanted, books I wanted to write, people I wanted to meet. I'd put superficial goals, and I'd put meaningful goals.
Every time one of those wishes would come true, I'd draw a gold star next to the picture. At the end of the year, I'd look through my wishbook and find that most of the wishes had indeed come true in one way or another. Even the most far-fetched ones came true, like running into an old friend during my only night in New York (I had less than 24 hours there and I ran into the one person I wanted to see). And the ones that didn't come true, I always told myself that they were somehow on hold and that they would come true some day.
You might think the whole thing is just a hokey, little girl's past time, but it really makes a difference seeing your goals and wishes put down on paper, with a matching image of it. Somehow, it makes it more concrete. In a way, it's like cementing your desire.
I haven't made a wishbook in two years. Maybe it's time to sit down again and make one.
an hour after i wrote this entry...
... someone emailed me this. I really liked what she had to say. Thought I'd share it.
Hi! I loved the idea of a wishbook, and thanks to you, I'll be making one for myself.
"Cementing your desire", sometimes that's all it takes for you to achieve what it is you really want, and the universe hears your wish and grants it, provided you put in your part of the bargain: You audition - you get the part. See?
Don't question so much the ease by which you come into possession of fulfilled desires, just remember to say thank you. Ask and ye shall receive nga naman diba?
A friend of mine suggested writing a letter to the Universe asking for what you want out of life - and making things concrete, on paper, or in a Wishbook, it gives you the impetus to get out there and get these things for yourself, with a little help from the Universe in terms of synchronicity and 'coincidences'.
Hope you do make your Wishbook, thanks for a lovely post.
Posted by
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
beatallica
Okay, this really made my day! Ahahaha! If you don't know much about rock (or at least about The Beatles and Metallica), you probably won't get it and you'll think I'm weird :-(
Ah well. Hahaha!HEY DUDE
(sung to the tune of "Hey Jude")
Hey, dude-it'z true not sad
Take a thrash song and make it better
Remembah! That metal iz in your heart
Then you can start to be a fretter
Hey, dude-don't be fuckin' 'fraid
You were made to go be a shreader
The minute you let us under your skin
Then you'll begin to be a fretter
So crank your amp and deal the pain
Hey, dude-you're fuckin' insane!
The riverz run red with blood of poseurs
And don't you know that he'z the fool
Who playz it cool
But needz for hiz beer to be much colder
Hey, dude-nevah turn it down!
You must pound her, I mean Kip Winger
New wave of British heavy metal iz in your heart
And you can start with Diamond Headerz
So let it out! Let it in!
Hey, dude, begin
Don't wait for the Eye of the Beholder
You'll never know when bellz toll for you
Hey, dude, you'll do
Just sling that flying-V 'cross your shoulder
Hey, dude-it'z true not sad
Take a thrash song and make it better
Admit it! Beatallica'z under your skin!
So now begin to be a shreader, shreader, SHREADER, SHREADER, SHREADER, SHREADER AAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIHHHHH!!!!!
Na, na, na, nananana....
WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!! I'm laughing so hard I wanna bang my head on the floor.
Oh well, that's my entry for the day. I know, I know, it's totally useless. I promise I will have something more substantial next time (or not).
Posted by
Saturday, August 21, 2004
"just do it!": where ala tunes in to her inner athlete
I've had this aversion to physical activity my entire life. Physical activity meaning anything at all related to sports, and exercise. It's not the actual exercise I hate. It's having to display my body in motion in front of alot of people. That explains why I was never athletic while my older sister was in the Philippine Gymnastics Team, and why up to this day, I will never, EVER dance in public.
I realized a couple months ago that I grew up with a deeply ingrained belief that I was weak, sickly, horribly uncoordinated, and incapable of anything athletic. I thought I just didn't have "it". God created two kinds of people, those who can be athletic, and those who were "weak" like me. My sister was always the "athletic" one, while I was the "weak" one. She was the gymnast, and I was the artist.
In many ways, it was true. I was and still am not exactly on the strong side. I'm not Ms. Coordination and I look ridiculous when I dance. When it comes to sports, I am more often than not the weakest link. It comes to no surprise that any exercise or art that involves vigorously moving my body remains untapped to this day.
I only realized that I've had this belief unconsciously about a month ago, after an incident with my mother. I told her I was going to stay out late at a party and she told me I shouldn't because "hindi kaya ng katawan ko". I remember being a little stunned when I heard it. What? I've been staying out late my whole college life! And aside from that, I had trekked through mountains, clambered through caves in Sagada, and walked long distances on a weekly basis. What did she mean by "hindi kaya ng katawan ko"?
That's when I realized that I had been hearing that from everyone pretty much all of my life. I had been conditioned to think that whatever it was my body wanted to do, it just couldn't do it, or take it. Not even those incredibly inspiring Nike ads could convince me otherwise. That's why I never really tried. And it's not really my mother's fault. Growing up, I must've been hit by every single epidemic, the children's diseases that make mothers tremble with fear. From age 1 to 10, I was hit with primary complex, 4 different cases of strep-throat, tonsilitis, H-fever, and a virulent strain of sore-eyes that nearly cost me my eye-sight. I was also the one who started a small-scale chicken pox epidemic in our household. And of course, let's not forget the ultimate scourge of my childhood: hepatitis. Hepatitis left me unable to do P.E. for a year. It reduced me to skin and bones and made me tire easily. I was on these weird vitamins, my mother constantly worried about me, and always told me to sit down and rest. That was in grade 4, and I was ten years old. But I guess that in a mother's mind, I'll always be a 10-year old even though I'm 21 now and you can't blame mothers for thinking that way.
Hepatitis does take it's toll on your body and it takes years to heal and regain your strength and resistance. But I realized the other month that it's been 11 years! Surely I must be fully cured by now! Surely I must stop being treated like I just recovered from Hepa yesterday! It dawned on me then that I've been conditioned to think I was weak all these years, and so I've been acting weak. Surely I could run like the rest. I had legs, right? I was healthy, young, and normal... so how can anyone say that there's anything wrong with me? Why would my body be incapable of running, swimming, dancing?
And so something strange happened a few days ago. My sister asked if I wanted to use one of her guest passes for a free workout in Fitness First, and I said "yes". Let us ponder on the significance of that "yes". I have shunned the gym since the first time I went in 2nd year high school. I couldn't understand the point of lifting heavy things, and taking walks that never got you anywhere (the treadmill). I stopped.
I tried again in my 3rd year in Ateneo when Morro Lorenzo was newly opened. The first day I went, I blacked out. Literally. As in my vision went black and I felt that my head was going to explode from all the blood that was rushing to it. I tried two more times, and I hated the smell of other people's sweat on the machines. I hated being a skinny, wimpy girl all alone midst these sweaty, panting, humongous men lifting hundred pound weights. It made me extremely uneasy, like a flower tossed in the middle of a highway, in danger of being trampled. I stopped, and the dream died.
And so, let us return again to that "yes". It is truthful to say that that yes was a really, really big deal. What the hell made me do it? I don't know. Maybe I've been hit by a sudden fear that I'm growing older, that my prime will pass me by without me ever having reached my true peak. Or maybe I just don't care anymore what people say.
So I've been going to the gym, I've gone thrice, I feel super duper great, and I am happy. I still haven't started on weights and I can't say I'm excited about it but I'm slowly trying to get myself to warm up to the idea through fun cardio classes. I've done yoga, body combat, a class called "buns, and tums" or something like that. I'm still the weakest link amongst all the fabulously fit women who take it with me but I have fun anyway, and I don't really care what people say. My body has been feeling great.
Besides, they may be fit but I always have the best tan! Thanks to my Hawaii trip, I am a bronze godess among the pale, pasty gym-goers. When I perspire, I glisten while they all just look sweaty. So there. Haha!
I'm "just doin' it".
things that bore most people
One of the things that really stresses me out with this modeling and hosting is having to deal with new make-up artists for every single project. Imagine having a stranger touch your face and alter it's appearance. Imagine trusting a person you've never met to make you look good, especially when we all have our own ideas of what "looking good" is. Sometimes, it's not even about looking good. A session with a make-up artist can get very personal. Maybe it's because the face is such an intimate area. But here we have this person slathering all sorts of stuff on you from tubes and compacts, trying to make your face conform to what he/she thinks is "beautiful". And sometimes your make-up artist may have radically different perspectives on what he/she thinks looks good on you. So he/she tries to change your face to conform to his/her idea of beauty, sometimes totally changing certain features so that it looks nothing like how it's really supposed to look. That's when it starts getting personal. Oh I know, I know, it's a make-up artist's job to make you look different. But you can always tell the difference between a make-up artist who changes your face from a make-up artist who enhances what you already have.
Some make-up artists immediately pounce on you like hyenas on a dead carcass. They immediately want to make your eyebrows, straighten your hair, pointing out all these things that aren't what they should be like. I hate that word, "should". I hate it when make-up artists make my face 3 shades lighter than my actual skin tone because they think I "should" be whiter. I hate it when they darken my eyebrows too much, or extend them another inch, making them look like bat wings. I hate it when they immediately try to straighten my hair, without asking whether I'd prefer it curly or straight. I hate how they assume that curly hair is something that must be remedied, something that must be countered with the straightening iron. And when I insist I want it curly, they look perplexed before finally giving in by saying, "Well, at least bagay naman sa iyo eh". Why wouldn't it be? It's my natural hair texture! I've encountered this scenario so many times. It used to make me b*tchy but I've learned to be very straightforward about it. I make myself very clear with what I like and with what I don't. I know it makes them uneasy, but heck, it's my face, I know it best, and I know what looks good on it.
Sometimes it's necessary to completely change your look if a shoot asks for it. That's when it's okay with me to lighten my skin, darken my eyebrows, straighten my hair. In fact, I love being able to change the way I look. But during moments when I just have to be me, like when I'm hosting, I like to stick with being as natural as possible. That's when it's not okay to want to change me.
Then there's the delicate matter of how a make-up artist handles your face. I've worked with darlings like Lala Flores and Xeng who treat your face like they're painting a flower petal. Then there are those I've encountered who treat your face like they're painting rubber, pummeling it, and rubbing your skin raw with the sponge. They line your eyes with a pencil so dull and unsharpened that the wood scrapes your skin. The pain is equivalent to a bundle of toothpicks being dragged across your skin. They use crusty old mascara, and nasty lipsticks, and sponges that you know should have been thrown away a long time ago. Ugh.
Okay. Can't relate, I know. I'm done.
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Tuesday, August 17, 2004
blue hawaii
Dolphins are sooooo cute! They're so friendly that they're almost like dogs except they swim and they don't have fur. They feel firm and muscular but at the same time really soft and smooth... reminded me of those gel bicycle seats, except smoother than that. The tips of their fins feel like a rubber spatula.
I was so kilig the whole time, I felt like I was 5.
After spending a week in Hawaii with my tito, tita, cousin, and his yaya, I've decided to put it on my list of "Places I Would Consider Living In". Sure, it's horrendously expensive, but heck, I love it. It totally fits my current tank-top, and tsinelas life style.
I have absolutely no interest in living in America, but you don't really feel like you're in America in Hawaii. Maybe because there are no white people, and if there are, chances are they're tourists. 6 out of 10 people you'll spot there are Japanese. The rest are Filipino, Hawaiian... and lots of mixed races.
I think I'll hold on to my US passport a little while longer.
we all live in the white submarine
We took a submarine ride 120 feet under the ocean... a white submarine, not a yellow one. Saw a couple of shipwrecks and and an airplane wreck a la' Titanic.
Here is an artificial coral reef made by the Japanese. It's become a home for sea life.
And here is a shipwreck. Pretty cool, HUH?!?!?
states means shopping
As always I went crazy in my favorite store, Hot Topic. If I could only shop in one place in the US, it would be Hot Topic...and Wet Seal, too hehe. I bought alot of awesome stuff there including a "Jem and the Hollograms" t-shirt for myself, and a Sirius Black shirt for my little brother. But I am proudest of this purchase:
My kid is going to wear that jumper one day! But since that's pretty far-off, Ananda can wear it for now. Her mom and dad are both hip-hop heads, but I'm ninang, and therefore her spiritual guide, and I am allowed to let my influence shine through. I will not let my god-daughter grow up completely ignorant to the world of rock. Besides, her mom loved the idea anyway.
On another note, it frightens me how I am a size zero when I shop for RTW in America. Size zero! It makes me feel like I don't really exist! I'd end up buying a size one just to make myself feel better.
ohana means family
My only playmate in Hawaii was my 7-year old cousin Jamie. I didn't know it till then, but I really, really needed the company of a 7-year old. I'm momentarily sick of people my own age. 7-year olds are more fun.
Jamie and I had tons of fun lying on the sand, at the mercy of the waves. The waves would carry us to the shallow part, drag us across the sand, and leave us in weird positions. We were pummeled by the end of it.
MARIHUANA!!!!
While I was in the states, I picked up this DVD at Tower out of sheer curiosity. It's a 1936 movie called "Marihuana". The packaging was so campy I just HAD to buy it!
Ooooooohhhh! And I just love that satanic, red hand in the center, amidst the joints that say "lust", "crime", "sorrow", "hate", "shame", "despair".
WAHAHAHAHA!
But it was the synopsis on the back that really made me buy it:
Marihuana chronicles the downward spiral of a group of teenagers from frivolity into the depths of decadence brought on by smoking the "giggle weed." A young girl drowns while skinny-dipping at a beach party. Another teen gets pregnant after a turn with her boyfriend in the sand - both the result of dope smoking. The mother-to-be gives up her baby and becomes a hardened drug dealer, earning fur coats and diamond rings while coldly turning her clientele into drug addicts. With a central message that using marihuana incites "the user to extreme cruelty and license" and down the path to hard narcotics, this 1936 precursor to "Reefer Madness" is a cult classic by director/producer and exploitation master Dwain Esper. Contains nudity.
I can't wait to watch it!!!
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Thursday, August 05, 2004
'nyeta naman o
P*nyeta, why did I watch The Exorcist? The four times I've seen it, it's scared me to death and I always swear I'll never watch it again. So what the f*** compelled me to watch it again yesterday? Maybe it was because it was the director's cut, and I hadn't seen that yet.
Four times I've seen it, with 2 year intervals in between, and still I watch through the cracks in between my fingers.
The first time I saw it, I was nine years old. I was with my sister who was thirteen, and our parents were out to dinner. At that time, we were both on this horror trip, and we were excited to watch it on HBO. Little did we know...little did we know. My parents came home, to find us huddled on their bed whimpering and close to tears. My dad, our hero, slept in in our room for two nights after just so his two little daughters could sleep. I think The Exorcist deprived me of total peace of mind for much of my childhood.
Good thing Trina, Jenn, and Pia slept over last night. Trina, who watched it with me and was just as afraid as I was, was drunk on red wine and kept screaming bloody murder about the devil lurking everywhere in my house, in the curtains, in our Arowanna tank. It was pretty funny.
Tonight I sleep alone... even that ridiculous looking man, "the devil", in the red and white face paint seems pretty scary when you're all alone at night. And that voice... that voice!!! Forever etched into the deepest chambers of my mind, where nightmares breed. How the heck did they make her voice like that anyway?! Sounded like they made 5 different people say her lines, then mixed them all together. Shet!!!!
Dimi, why you do this to me, Dimi?
AAAAHHHH!
Or how about, that scene when the exorcist arrives and she screams:""Meeeeerrrrrrrrrriiiiiinnnnn!!!!!!"
AAAAHHHHHHHH!!!! 'Nyeta lang talaga!
Well, at least I'm directly beside an Opus Dei seminary. Madali lang makakuha ng pari....niyahahahahahha! I noticed this time that the priests in the movie, Fr. Merrin and Fr. Carras where both Jesuits. Well, should I ever need an exorcist, I can just run to Ateneo and get Fr. Nebres or Fr. Dacanay.
P*nyeta. P*nyeta talaga.
Good thing I'm going to Hawaii... nobody gets possessed there. Yeesh.
Two words to make you shiver: spider walk. AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!
pic of the niece!
On another note, I'm glad Ananda is staying over the next few days. She can keep evil spirits away. I just know it.
She fell asleep on me for a whole hour the other week. I got a nasty arm cramp but I'm smiling anyway.
death1
I sometimes wish God would reveal to me my destined moment of death. It'll be like a headstart to actually living my life. If I knew when I was going to die, I'd be more honest with myself and stop wasting so much time. Knowing your moment of death is near gives you special privileges. You're allowed to let it all hang out, tell people the things you just never could say before, go on unnecessary vacations, quit your job to pursue what you really wanted to do all along. It can also improve your relationships with people. Knowing there is no time to waste, people will start being honest with you. But what the heck, I know I'm going to die anyway. Why do I have to wait until I know when before I get the guts to do all these things. When am I going to let people know how much they really mean to me? What am I doing now? Why all the game playing? Why is it so hard for people to allow themselves to love one another? Why is love so secret?
I want to start living my life in total honesty.
death2
I don't understand eulogies. What is the use of saying such beautiful things about someone when the person can't even hear it? Is it so shameful to say these words to his face? Wouldn't eulogies be so much more meaningful if the diseased was able to hear it while he/she was still alive? Why wait before it's too late?
If I were given a few months or weeks to live, I'd hold a living funeral. It won't be in chapel, and there won't be a coffin, or smelly, monstrous bouquets of crysanthemums. Just good friends, good music, and good food. It won't be to mourn me, it will be to celebrate life. Anyone who has ever known me is welcome. I want people to come forward and say what they have to say about the life we've lived together, because I'll have something to say back also. I want people to laugh with me, cry with me, and even grieve if they must. I want to be there to hear it all. Don't wait till I'm dead.
And if I knew I was going to lose someone dear to me, I'd do the same for him/her.
death3
My wake will look something likes this:
1) There will be no coffin. Coffins are ugly. Especially white ones. Plus, I don't want people seeing me stuffed with cotton and fourmaline, and coated with bad, cakey makeup. I want to be cremated as soon as I die and placed in one of my mother's handmade urns. No coffin, only pictures, pictures, pictures, and my favorite objects. And paintings!
2) There will be no wearing of black, or navy blue. I want people to come in only white, pink, yellow, orange, and bright green. The same goes for the flowers. No ugly, stinky ones.
3) I want music and singing at all times. I want irreverent speeches. And jokes.
4) My diaries and planners, always subject to exploitation in my lifetime due to the many colorful drawings and entries on them, are to be passed around during the wake so that people can exploit them one last time. Let my secrets and sins desseminate. Have people remember me as human and imperfect.
old art
Found some more old art work I felt like sharing. I'll be posting them as links to preserve bandwidth.
Graffitoon Ala, 1999-I used to love hiphop in highs chool and it really influenced my drawing style. This is a small cartoon of me with short hair, and baggy pants made in 1999.
Indian Ala, 1999- As you will soon notice about me, I draw myself alot. It could be a healthy dose of artistic narcissim (like Frida Kahlo), or it could just be because I know my own face the most. This is a small sketch I made in 1999 after the play "Rama at Sita" came out, and I went out in bhindis all the time.
Tonight I Can Write- This was made in 2000 at the pinnacle of depression. It was inspired by the Neruda poem "Tonight I Can Write" which I felt like I identified with then (my, my, how dramatic am I). It was painted on a small plate.
Returning To Myself, 2000- This is another depression piece. I don't think I've ever put more meaning and feeling into any other painting I've made. It shows two girls, both me, with the weaker one turning towards her higher self. Naks! In case you're wondering why it looks familiar, the look was inspired by the "Six Pence None the Richer" album cover. Here's a close-up version.
Another depression painting, 2002- Never really thought of a title for this one. I drew it in ten minutes without plan. I was just feeling miserable, and a little reckless so I took it out on my sketch pad and chalk pastels . I should probably call it "I Hate Myself", hahaha! Sometimes I think I'm more productive when I'm depressed. Nothing kills artistic inspiration like happiness.
Me, 2003- No more depression in this one, hahaha! I do at least one major self-portrait every year, and this was last years. Notice the change in self-image hahaha!
I'M LEAVING FOR HAWAII ON SATURDAY!!!!!! YABADABADOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
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Monday, August 02, 2004
bars, bands, baguio, and blackouts
I went to Baguio with two missions: 1) to attend the Red Horse Muzik Laban where Nino was set to play with Greyhoundz, and 2) to host the Penshoppe Dance Slam at SM City Baguio. I decided to go up a few days early with Nino, my cousin Pimee, and friend Charlene, to turn the business trip into a full-fledged vacation. (I notice that I go on alot of vacations... hmmm. Ala's life has no direction)
Little did I know what was in store for me!!! Mwahahaha!
On the first night, we attended the MuzikLaban at Alberto's bar along Legarda. We were in a corner, at the backstage area with some of the Cheese guys who had decided to come along. We saw some good bands, and some not-so-good bands. We laughed at the "No man-to-man dancing" warning signs that hung on every wall of the bar. I took dainty little sips from my bottle of Red Horse. I was not drunk.
Greyhoundz came up onstage to play, leaving me with Pimee, Charlene, the Keso guys, some girlfriends, etc. The night was young, the Red Horse not even half-empty. I was not drunk. At all.
On the 3rd Greyhoundz song, I began to feel a little sleepy. No... dizzy. Was I drunk? Weird. I only had so little. I buried my face in my arms on the tabletop.
The place suddenly seemed awfully smoky, even though there weren't even that many people smoking. The smoke mixed with what little oxygen there was and invaded my throat. I didn't like it. I tried not to breath. I was feeling awfully weak. My belt suddenly seemed unusually tight.
4th song. Was I drunk? Why was I so dizzy? Was I going to throw up? "Charlene, can you come to the bathroom with me...please?"
"Ok." It was halfway through the fourth song.
I stood up. Woah. The world around me dimmed like a shrinking candle flame. I grabbed on to a chair (am I drunk?).
All I remember next was that I thought I was dreaming. I had this very vague, distant, and fleeting notion of having felt something hard hitting me. I had no body and there was a blurry face in front me opening and closing it's mouth in slow motion, but there was no sound coming out. There was noise but it was very far away. People said I was mumbling "No!...No!".
Then like a lightning bolt had hit me, I woke up. The blurry face, DJ's face, came into focus, and I remembered I was in a bar in Baguio. I sensed a sort of commotion around me. "What's happening?" I asked, completely confused. "You fell", they said. "What?" I was totally disoriented.
It took another second to hit me that the commotion was about me. I was totally confused. And I got totally shocked when DJ and Biboy grabbed me by my arms and lifted me up because I realized then I was on the floor. "What am I doing on the floor?", I asked. the whole time, I had thought I was still on my chair. I had no clue that I had ever even left my chair.
So they sat me down at our table but I was so dizzy that I found myself slumped over on the table again. Someone put a glass of water in my hand, and before I knew it, I was being passed by the hand from person to person and finally whisked out of thr bar by Charlene, who kept me from falling everytime I'd start toppling over sideways. The world was swimming.
It was only when I got a breath of fresh air outside the bar that I could really understand that right there, in a bar in Baguio, in front of everyone, while my boyfriend played on stage, I had blacked out, fallen against a wall, and slid down to the floor. My ass was sore because it had hit the ground with a thud (hence the vague notion of something having hit me). And the reason for it wasn't alcohol like most people thought it was. It was lack of oxygen.
I was totally amazed. I had never fainted before. I stood outside with Charlene and Pimee having a good (and relieved) laugh over it. I'm sure word will spread that Ala Paredes, former MYX veejay, went to Baguio, got pissed-drunk, and fainted. Mwehehehe!
the perils of playing twister
We stayed at our house Baguio house, a cozy little 3-story structure. We had a blast cooking up huge, delectable feasts everyday for breakfast and dinner, and playing Twister in the living room at night. Twister is a deceptive game. It all seems so easy, so fun. Little did we all know that a full round of Twister can sometimes be equivalent to a full workout. From our nightly Twister Olympics, Charlene and Pimee suffered from sore, aching bodies throughout the trip. We played so much Twister that by the end of the trip, we had all discovered new positions we had never been in before (that sounds kinky).
things i'm usually not brave enough to say
I will be bold in this entry and speak my silly fantasies out loud. I wish I was a musician. I'll say it again. I wish I was a musician. Damn, that feels good! Ooh!
I know that I am one. I love music so much, how can I not be one? I know I must be a musician in one way or another. I know it's just in me somewhere, too afraid to show itself. A sure indication of it is that I'm insanely, painfully jealous of people who are so out there with creating music. Jealousy is born out of frustration with one's self. If there wasn't a musician inside me somewhere, I wouldn't be frustrated about not being able to make music. .
I'm musically constipated. Why? I love reading, and I'm not afraid to write. I apppreciate art very much, and I'm not afraid to make my own. I love music, why can't I make music then?
How can I decide on a direction when there's so much distraction? When there are so many choices? How am I suppose to put forward my puny, insignificant little efforts at music when I'm surrounded by frightfully talented people?
I hear so many voices in my head that make me waver. There's my exboyfriend who was such a talented musician, but also such a ruthless and unforgiving critic of everyone else who wanted to make music. He had very specific tastes, and anything that didn't fall withing range of his tastes was sh*t. Back then I took every word he said as gospel truth, and it was all probably enough to scare me into never making music. I also grew up with a famous musician father who spawned numerous hits, and constantly likes to drive down his belief that any music at all worth listening to stopped being made when the 70s ended, and that almost anything made afterwards can't be anything else but rip-offs or rehashes. Then there's my super-talented boyfriend who is this bass-God-music-machine whom everyone worships/ wants to collaborate with. Then there are the voices of every single person I know who is out there making music. How is one supposed to find a niche among all of this? Instead I demote myself to lowlier places, chasing only shadows of The Big Dream. Maybe that's why I love karaoke bars.
I can sing... I really can. But I'm scared and I've hated myself for years for being such a chicken-shit, little asshole ('scuse my french). I deserve a big kick in the head.
In the meantime, I made a list of People I adore and want to be like also known as PEOPLE WHO ROCK. In no particular order:
1) Lauryn Hill- I was about 16 when her album "The Myseducation of Lauryn Hill" came out. Her album is a keeper for life. I dare say that this is the first album that showed me what a truly good, genuine artist is all about. Musically, she wasn't just another hip-hop artist taking off her clothes and puking out poor lyrics to some cheap, canned, sampled beat. She knew exactly what she wanted to sound like, she composed her own music, and lyrically, she's undeniably wise beyond her years. To this day I get inspired just reading her words on her album jacket. She has no pretensions, no false attitude, no unnecessary glamour, just pure, genuine, beautiful self-expression from a great poet and talented singer.
2) Stevie Wonder- When he sings, it's just pure, uninhibited life, energy, and passion. With all the processing and mixing music goes through in the recording process, what we really hear on our stereos are really just shadows of shadows of shadows of the original performance. It's amazing how Stevie Wonder's energy still carries over in great amounts in the recordings we hear. I wonder what it must be like to see him play live? It's one of my greatest dreams. He is just incredible.
3) The late, great Freddie Mercury- I seriously think that most rock singers are afraid of singing as expressively and uninhibitedly as he does for fear of sounding... well, gay. The guy was gay, and sometimes I think it's what made him so damn good. Straight guys are just too scared to let it all hang out the way he does. He was a gay rockstar, and I think he kicks any macho rockstar's ass anytime. Not only could he really sing, but he was an electrifying showman. I think he is one of the greatest singers ever, and he wrote most of Queen's best songs and defined an unimitable sound (don't you even dare compare Queen with The Darkness, ever). Idol ko siya.
4) Robert Plant and Jimmy Paige together- I looooove Led Zeppelin, I do, I do. But what always captivates me is seeing Robert Plant on stage with Jimmy Paige right behind him (and sometimes in front with him) doing the thing that made Led Zeppelin Led Zeppelin. They were with the band, but they stood out from the band. They were a sort of love team. Sometimes I wish I were born a man so I could be a vocalist like Robert Plant, rocking out on stage while making obscene gestures and gyrating my pelvis, and have people cheer me on for it. You just can't do that if you're a woman. It doesn't work that way.
5) Razorback- Okay, so you all know this and I don't think it needs much explanation. I realize that I'm such a Razorback fan not because I'm a mindless, swooning fan-girl, but because I want to be them. I want to be a maangas, cursing, smoking, drunkard on stage singing "Nakaturo Sa Iyo". I want to be part of a worshipped guitar tandem. Listening to them makes me wish I were born a man. Curse this woman's body.
6) Nino Avenido- You can't blame me for being biased for this one because I'm not. Nino is one of the most talented people I have ever known, and it kills me how he never likes to hear people telling him so. He doesn't care much for praise and flattery, and refuses to let it all get to his head. He's just in love with making music, and what makes him so much more amazing is that he doesn't feel like he's licensed to put down other aspiring musicians just because so many people worship him. He's open to playing anything and playing with anyone, which makes him so musically liberated. Alot of musicians can be snobs with what to play and who to play with, and it boxes them in. Nino doesn't let that happen to him. To him, music is something to be shared and celebrated. I wasn't aware that music could go so many ways before I got to know him. He is such an example. And I'd say this even if I wasn't dating him.
7) Jun Balbuena- The most incoherent person I know, is also one of the most awesome musicians. Drummer of Kapatid and Kjwan, Jun lives and breathes music. Almost anything he does is musical, the way he talks, the way he walks, the way he can create a song out of thin air anytime, anywhere. Jun is another one of those musically liberated, no-boundaries types. He's got this overwhelming passion when he performs. He's in love with music, and watching him perform, you'll fall in love with the music too.
p.s.
Anyone who is interested in the writing class, it starts on August 17. For details, you may e-mail our teacher, columnist Ms. Barbara Gonzalez, at lilypad@skyinet.net.
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