Oli’s Raves and Rants

I’ve been playing the Mamma Mia trailer over and over and I can’t get over how infectious it is. The vivid cinematography takes me back to my trip to Italy (even though the movie is set in a Greek island) and seeing Meryl Streep singing and dancing is enough to get this movie buff all a-flutter. On top of that, this is sure to be a breakout role for Amanda Seyfried (who played the dumb girl in Mean Girls and the dead girl in Veronica Mars).

Just watching this trailer is enough to make me want to go on vacation and play ABBA in my iPod on repeat. As Meryl’s character said: “You sound like you’re having fun already!”

And I thought there’s only The Dark Knight to look forward to in 2008.

Writing a letter to a dear friend, I came across a realization that I think has been, until I wrote that letter, an unspoken mantra that’s been governing my life for quite a while now.

If opportunity knocks on your door offering you an ounce of happiness in exchange for a liter of sacrifice, I say spit on it, kick it to the curb, then point your manicured finger at it and declare with as much indignation and righteous anger as you can muster: “I deserve better, bitch!”

Or if you want to attract positive karma, just say “no thanks I’ll pass”, and carry on with whatever you’re doing, be it knitting, baking or even touching yourself.

I’ve observed that, in that never-ending pursuit of that ever-elusive happiness, most of us, myself included, find ourselves ready to cut off limbs or forsake every principle that we hold dear just to get that “one last chance” to be “happy”.

And I caught myself asking not a few times: is it worth it? And when do we say enough is enough? And if we end up sacrificing so much just to get that thing that we want, that thing that we think will make us happy, then can we really enjoy it to the fullest extent, considering how much we’ve given up for it? At what ‘price’ do we say “no”?

Throughout our collective search for happiness, we’ve come up with an abundance of rationalizations (from personal legends to Quixotic quests to Celestine prophecies, ad infinitum) to explain away and romanticize the journey to our own personal heavens (not to say that I don’t subscribe to some of them), when really everything in life should be measured in terms of ROI (return of investment). Whether its financial, emotional, time… sit down and pause and ask yourself, “what am I getting in return for what I’m giving?”

Of course if giving endlessly gives you happiness, then bless your generous little heart. I envy you. Now there’s a Sheryl Crow song that I like, which goes: “if it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad.” She may be right, in which case, I’d be happy to admit my folly and raise a toast to my enlightenment.

I still maintain that whatever it is that will make us happy, it should not entail too much sacrifice. And if it seems that it does, then knowing when to stop the pursuit and move on to other quests is essential. It’s simple survival. If you keep running after that guy even after he’s indicated a dozen times that HE’S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU, then for crying out loud, move on. Knowing when to stop and when you’ve reached the end of your tether can be EMPOWERING, you know.

Like I said, you can take a pass. If that opportunity doesn’t knock on your door anymore, then what’s wrong with knitting, baking, or touching yourself?

I for one wouldn’t mind doing those when I grow old and alone.

Except maybe knitting.

It’s been ages since I opened my Friendster account. I unearthed some old travel pictures and decided to scan and upload them.

Then just now, I just discovered that Friendster has taken the liberty of reassigning my gender, moving me to a place far far away, and turning back the hand of time.

So the default profile setting is now Female, 17, Phoenix OR?

I think there’s something insidious there…

Although I’d be happy to take the 17 part.

Tucked away in a far corner of Singapore’s Changi Airport is probably the only smoking room in the whole area. And I sought it out still, even if I missed getting my luggage and had to go retrieve it from the cargo office.

As if hiding it far far way is not enough, the airport authorities made sure our humiliation didn’t end there. They made sure that the interior of the room looked sad and decrepit, so that those of us who had to seek it were made to feel like cattle leading ourselves to the ugly slaughterhouse. Only in our case, the cattle were the ones doing the slaughtering - of themselves.

I really want to quit smoking. I had it as one of my New Year’s resolution this year, but I gave in after four days. I’ve quit twice before, cold turkey. I know I can do it again. But it just never seems to be the ‘right time’. So I keep putting it off, like so many other things in my life.

Dammit. Now I need a cigarette.

You, sir, are one big, gaping, cock-starved asshole.

And you deserve one big, throbbing, nasty hemorrhoid.

And maybe a few servings of rectal herpes.

I hope you get them soon.

Scum.

AJ Tabaldo, the only Fil-Am in this season’s American Idol, just got booted out. In favor of the disappointing Brandon and Gayle King-look-alike Sanjaya.

The judges obviously disagreed with the result, with good reason. I have never been one to cheer someone on just because he/she happens to be of Filipino descent. I didn’t care for Jasmine Trias (I think she stayed WAY longer than she deserved in Season 3), and I really didn’t see AJ as being in the same league as LaKisha or Melinda. But he didn’t deserve this early exit. Sanjaya did.

Well, American Idol fans have been wrong many times before. Tamyra Gray, Mandisa, and yes Jennifer Hudson. Thanks to Simon for pointing out to that dim-witted, untalented, snarky little skank Antonella Barba that it was the voting audience who booted Jennifer out of the competition and not the judges.

I hope she and Sanjaya, untalented pretenders that they are, get the boot next week.

There is nothing like a good dance workout to cure ennui (albeit temporarily).

I’ve been in the doldrums for the past couple of weeks, and it was refreshing to finally get back to the gym after a two-month hiatus. It was the usual jampacked hiphop class, with the same faces, same music, somewhat different choreography, but it was all good.

What was pleasantly surprising was the new Body Jam class, which came right after the hip-hop grind class. This release has the most number of energizingly kick-ass tracks in recent memory; from Justin’s SexyBack, Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie, Beyonce’s Deja Vu, Fergie’s London Bridge, to Pussycat Dolls’ Buttons. Throw in some old school gems such as Snap’s The Power and Martha Wash’s Good Vibrations for good measure. Evidently, the licensing guy from Les Mills had been busy acquiring rights for these songs, and a job well done indeed. The music surely more than makes up for the lackadaisical choreography.

But more than the welcome endorphin-induced respite or the jammin’ music, this blog is really about this lady who I’ve been looking at with admiration since last year.

She’s old, probably 60-ish, with a pear-shaped body and thick glasses. She occupies the same spot in our Body Jam class, right there by the corner, in front of the instructor and near the window. She seems to get the same spot no matter how packed the room is, I guess the regulars just defer to her and give her that prime spot. But she doesn’t seem to be the prima donna type, unlike those dancing lolas who stake claim at prime spots in other Jam classes in Greenhills or ABS.

Yes, she’s old, unassuming, looks very motherly. But by God, she just works it, and dances her flabby (but surely well-exercised) ass off like no one’s watching (and isn’t that the only way to do it? Dance like nobody’s watching… so said Satchel Paige). She can’t execute the steps as flashily as we younger ones can, but she knows the sequence and her movements are defined. And it is both amusing (in a good way) and inspiring to see this spritely lady sashay her hips to Buttons and shimmy and samba through Hips Don’t Lie.

I’ve always maintained that people are sexier when they don’t know that they’re sexy.

And you, tita, are the sexiest one in class. To paraphrase JT, keep getting your sexy on…

I have said before here on this blog how much I love the rain. And I still do, even when it douses cold water (lots of it) on a spur-of-the-moment vacation in Boracay.

There is something about rain that is calming, soothing. There’s that endless metaphor about how it cleanses everything, washes them down, and renews. But I guess I’m a rain fan mainly because I see it as a respite from the stifling heat and the punishing sun that is the norm here in the tropics, of which I am no big fan.

Surely, that batallion of Russians who flew in from Vladivostok last weekend don’t share my fondness for something that has - for the most part - ruined their grand tropical getaway. But hey, one fat Russian’s misery is another gay man’s delight.

Not that I am jumping for joy. I don’t mind it, but it sure would have made for better photo-ops (for my friend who is here for the first time) without it.

I hadn’t planned on coming here at this time of the year, but a friend from San Francisco is in town, and he hasn’t been to Boracay, so I accepted his invitation for me to join him and show him around.

He’s in the room now getting a henna tattoo (there are none outside because of the rain so we contacted someone to paint us black inside the comfort of our room), and I am here at the lobby of Willy’s Resort taking advantage of free Wi-Fi (what will we do without it?), listening to the trickle of water on water (it is high tide now so I can hear the raindrops falling on the sea surface), sipping vodka (it IS happy hour after all), and writing this blog.

Directly in front of me is Willy’s Rock, which up until now and after many previous trips to this island, I didn’t know was named as such. I’ve always just known it as The Grotto.

Earlier, we had to postpone a diving trip and was forced to seek shelter from the rain at the Hobbit’s House at D’Mall, which up until now I didn’t know is a popular establishment in Manila known for its vertically challenged waiters and waitresses (God bless them). Put up an Irish pub, fill it with midgets, and call it The Hobbit’s House. Genius.

You learn new things everyday. I learned two today. Yay.

While sipping some Guiness, we made small talk with our guide, Chris, who at 20 years old, has a lot more on his shoulders than I myself can possibly handle. It was encouraging to know that he is worried about and against the proliferation of mammoth construction projects on the island, and its adverse effects on the ecosystem. And as he ranted against the big developers, he reminisced about his childhood and the gone days of unspoiled Boracay. We talked about a lot of things that I hardly noticed the time, and I am the type who finds small talk with strangers insufferable. It must have been the rain.

It’s my turn to get a henna tattoo. I’m not even sure I want one.

And the rain has stopped. We can go out now.

Decisions.

I’ll light this cigarette first and think about what I will do next.

I’m supposed to be in Bangkok this week, but I couldn’t get any available flights back to Manila before Christmas, so instead of shopping till I drop in Chatuchak, I find myself blogging here at the Horizon Club in Shangri-La, sipping Dom Perignon and nibbling on caviar. More than fair trade-off I should say.

Twenty-three floors below, Makati Ave. is at a stand-still, with last-minute holiday shoppers making their way to the mall to fill up their stockings in time for Monday. I should be doing MY shopping, of which I have not done any. I vowed to do it tomorrow morning, as early as 10am, to avoid the crowd. That is, if I wake up.

Recent events got me thinking about the things that I’m giving up, the things that I”m settling for, and how the latter doesn’t seem to be giving me a fair trade-off for the former.

Champagne wishes and caviar dreams. I’m experiencing them right now, but I’m still restless. Anxious. Agitated.

I wish I could have everything… so there won’t be anymore need for trade-offs.

Makati Ave. is still at a standstill. It all seems so pointless.

I wasn’t feeling well when I came to work earlier. On top of that, there were a lot of things going on both at work and in my personal life that kept my mind running a mile a minute.

While working on a deliverable, I couldn’t handle it anymore and I just burst into tears. It wasn’t the dramatic kind where I just sobbed all of a sudden. It was more subtle, the kind that built into a crescendo.

I went down and took a walk. It was cathartic. I feel much better now.

Grown men should cry more often.