"Getting Away With It All Messed Up"

For the record. My thoughts on Monsieur Bale.

2009-02-24T21:02:00.000+08:00

(Who's record? LOL. My blog's, I guess.)

About that thing about Monsieur Bale's ranting. Wow, delayed. I'm sure no one gives a fuck by now.

I think people, and when I say "people" I mean all of us non-famous folks, who are quick to call the guy "egotistical", "arrogant", "unprofessional", etc etc should put their fists in their mouths and start choking on them. Everybody blows off one time or another, and this just happens to be a famous guy who was unfortunate enough to be recorded at the time. I'm sure there have been worse blowouts in the history of film making.

I don't know much about what is considered professional behavior on a film set but if Bale is being "unprofessional", it seems to me it was because the DP (director of photography) was being "unprofessional" too. Darren Aronofsky thinks so.

On a lighter note, it was funny that McG was pretty much useless during that whole debacle and was reduced to muttering incomprehensibly.

This is where the title "For the record" actually applies: is it just me, or was that sound clip arousing? LOL. With that enunciation, that accent, and all that rage --- I can only nod my head in approval.

No better way to end this post but with a few eye candy shots:

Oops. Wrong one. Hehehe:

I'm Getting My Bitch Tomorrow!

2009-02-05T13:28:00.000+08:00

Stay tuned!

With all my heart, Fuck the Academy...

2009-01-22T18:59:00.005+08:00

What a sad sad day. I observed, nay, I obsessively followed and swallowed this awards season since August of last year. Moreso than the previous years (last time I was this excited was in 2003). Expectations were high...well, "expectations" is not the right word, I'll use "hope". I was hoping that one particular movie will get a Best Picture nomination because - heck, it undoubtedly is one of the best of 2008.

Today, I was reminded that I was putting my hopes on the hands of old geezers who would lap at anything that is remotely related to the holocaust. Pardon the profanity, but fuck fuck fuck. And fuck some more.

I'm pissed, if you're like me, you're probably pissed too. But I guess the academy can only allow the shedding of prejudices once every ten years (and they already gave the geeks attention in 2003 for ROTK).

But hey, if anything, I'm reminded of a line by the Joker and how it relates to the Oscarwatcher's motto "Nobody knows anything":

"If tomorrow I told the press that, like, a gang-banger will get shot, or a truck load of soldiers will be blown up, nobody panics, because it's all part of the plan. But when I say that one little old mayor will die…well, then everyone loses their minds! Introduce a little anarchy. Upset the established order, then everything becomes…chaos. I'm an agent of chaos. Oh, and you know the thing about chaos? It's fair."

And such is the case, the oscar pundits and bloggers are in upheaval as we speak. Some are outraged, some are smug in their vindication. Oh and did I tell you the Boss was snubbed for his song "The Wrestler" too? And what about "Gommorah" who did not even make the shortlist.

So many omissions that I can't find it in me to be happy for Slumdog Millionaire, and the Wrestler, and In Bruges' orginal script nomination (I'm a little somber right now, but that movie had an awesome ending).

I don't even have the energy to point out that Brad Pitt's performance is overrated. And that while I love David Fincher, Benjamin Button is not at all memorable.

We'll throw our fits each to his own fashion. Come of course the 22nd of February, I'd probably be where I always have been for the past decade --- in front of the TV, making a tally. Fuck.

For tonight though, and probably the next 2 weeks, one word: BITTER.

I'll leave you now with another guy who was snubbed. He looks exactly the way I feel.

That's right. F them all.

P.S.
In case you haven't heard, I'm talking about the Dark Knight.

A Fiction of Sorts

2008-12-01T11:52:00.000+08:00

**because the year will not be complete without confronting a pesky heartbreak**

Guess what, I've managed to become impossibly restrained. A self-imposed silence where you are concerned. Sometimes, I'll be itching to sound off my usual non-sense, a non-eventful "hello, how are you, did you know that..." But halt there Jenny! I've lost that right along with a bunch of other things I guess I didn't feel entitled to at anytime during our joint existence, wholesome or otherwise. Har har.

When I take a quiet moment to ponder this whilst adapting a whimsical far-off gaze, it pulls a forcefully forgotten string to quiver a sad whiny note.

So I pound on the delete button, shove the phone away, and leave it at that. Nearing another eve of an anniversary of an uninteresting event (my Deftones song of the day, had to use it didn't I? Lol), I still can't feel guiltless when dropping a simple "Oi!"

On the contrary, the reason's not as simple as the obvious conclusion a regular Joe might derive without batting an eyelash. Or maybe, just maybe, because I'm not sure myself...I might not have looked at you any other way as I have thought. So the mere looking subconsciously reminds me of...well, I guess, you. So it follows that there's no "before" that I can go back to as a point of reference. How dramatic. And it stinks of cheese.

And my friends, you know me and cheese.

Chloe and I were burning our eyebrows away late at night a couple of weeks ago while deconstructing the word "hate", and how this little gem of a word could be one's magic bean --- sprouting endless possibilities, catapulting the self into heights of conjured salvation and well-being. At the end of that conversation, we surmised that fabricated hate can only last you for x number of months.

I surprised myself when I declared that I, Jenny, can never genuinely hate you. Chloe stares at me with awe as if I'm nobility and goodness incarnate. I shiver and let out a long "Pffttt." We can't have that now can we?

So...

When you find it, burn it. Think of it as the fact that I may have lied. I'm sorry.

Deconstructing Jenny

2008-10-26T15:15:00.000+08:00

Pardon Me If I’m Spilling

2008-10-22T15:32:00.000+08:00

Since I was so convinced that I’m really in love with the self, I spent 2 hours reading my old blog entries. And for the past 120 minutes, I’ve been cringing in disgust.

I’m not that in love with myself anymore. In fact, I’m a little bit turned off. Jesus, was I dramatic or what? And whiny. And too theatrical!

Remind me again why I decided to write for a living? Love is blind indeed.

The only thing I enjoyed reading was my attempt at gonzo journalism when I covered Toby and Arbee’s clash with the badminton titans.

Dude, I should seriously find myself another job.

Titles are for Dweebs

2008-10-13T17:09:00.001+08:00

I am flying the coop yet again.

Frankly, I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for. But it comforts me that I’d probably know it, once I’ve found it. So I guess I should keep looking.

My mantra has always been “Never settle.” Lately, I keep seeing myself as an overage, used, abused, wrinkly, old prune – this at the tender age of 25. Older friends tell me I have got a long way to go, greener pastures to chomp on. But being Jenny means to shit on said pasture rather than graze to my heart’s content.

And I’m way over the whole “finding meaning” stance, I’ve adapted the Absurdist point of view. One’s efforts to find meaning is absurd because there is no meaning. Embrace the nothingness and you will be free. To quote the all-knowing wiki, “…the absurdist’s refusal to hope becomes his singular ability to live in the present with passion”. So here I am, feeling the “now”, on the floor, scrapbooking all my so-called torments, waiting for the passion to commence. Still have to work on that though. Tralalalalala.

It’s none of your business, and you probably would not understand what I am about to say, but I don’t think I’ll come back anytime soon. A tumor is growing and it is getting heavier still. But don’t worry, it’ll pop by itself or maybe it’ll take a life of its own. That and almost anything else is more interesting than the zombie I stare at when I get up in the morning. Plaster on the awkward grin and hold them at bay. They won’t notice, not really. But until then, I’ll see you. And I’d probably kick your ass. Playfully of course.

Toodles Noodles.

Gnashing at a randomly exposed flesh,

P.S. To cement this post as the most disjointed crap ever written, I would like to add that I'm dying to see this film: Let The Right One In.

Not So Much of a Mystery

2008-10-08T17:00:00.000+08:00

I have to say, IT is absolutely alien to me now, well, not after reading all that well written material. Which is something of a surprise, not certain yet if this is a good or a bad thing, since I have been fairly exposed to IT a good number of years. But then again, 2-4 years could be just a mere blink of an eye to some. In this case, IT probably needed a little more than that to start churning up all the moldy bits. I have got to say though, IT is interesting and IT wasn’t the IT I know.

Personal biases aside (I’m wrapping up the process of disentanglement), I’ve never seen this side of IT before, which adds a whole new other dimension (a good thing) to something I’ve grown weary of. And if IT and I were still in speaking terms, my detached curious proclivity would take a stab at a friendly discussion and analysis of ITs previously unknown human drama over a cup of tea, miniature sandwiches, and of course, a couch for IT to lie (and I mean all the connotation the word entails) on.

But I must digress off of my intellectual interest in the matter. IT is different from what IT chose to reveal to me, ergo, IT…is none of my business. Har har!

I hope it ends well though.

To XA from JG

2008-06-06T10:41:00.000+08:00

Dear You,
I am coming.
I'll be the sand in your eyes
And I'll kiss you goodnight,
but not without cunning.

Dear You,
I am coming.
Deaf to the chilling cries
of my loneliness and your despise,
but only because I am drowning.

Dear You,
I am coming
with a bag of lies
and a cheap suicide,
but you'll never see me waning.

I will hurry.
I will take you with me.
As you gasp, it will be to thank me.

Dear You,
I came.
But I changed my mind.

I lost my phone.

2007-11-05T18:20:00.000+08:00

Butters would say, "Oh, Hamburgers..."

I asked for a sign. Well. There 'ya go.

Oh well.

On the bright side, it would be nice to go ex-communicado for a while. Mass text of christmas cheer and what-have-you are wasted on me anyways.

Toodles Noodles.

I am not a young professional.

2007-10-09T17:27:00.000+08:00

I got a job because I had too much free time.

I want a job because it's nice to get paid.

I will only work for people I can respect.

I will only work for people who respect me.

I will not let any corporation exploit my skills. They're mine.

My job does not define who I am.

I am above and beyond titles.

What ladder?

I am not a young professional!

The Tao of Me (Corporate Edition)

2007-10-09T17:18:00.000+08:00

Tic-toc, tic-toc, tic-toc. A different office, a different cubicle, a different desk, and certainly a different dress code, and yet I could have sworn that I haven’t moved a muscle in the past 3 years of my fledgling career. If you’re wondering, this would be employment #3.

Some people ask: How the hell do you expect to advance in your career if you don’t know how to stick it out? Oh the horrors of starting again and again at entry level. Stick with what you know, with what you have, where you are and sometime, somehow, and if you’re patient enough, you’d get your due.

That’s fine and dandy. If I had a candy for everytime someone gave me the you-have-so-much-potential-if-only-you-had-the-ambition-to-match-it speech, I’d probably have no teeth by now.

Unfortunately, the dazzle of corporate success doesn't bring out the desire in me. Money is a good thing to have, yes, but this generation's obsession on becoming the corporate rotweiler that's ready to snag the next big corporate bone one after another...well, that's a fever I did not catch. There’s the corporate ladder and everyone’s foaming in the mouth and stumbling over themselves to go climb it. There I am standing a few feet away from the crowded base. There I am. And I. Am. Not. Getting. It. And so I go tra-la-la-ing away to see if there's something else to do. Society has a term for people like me: Irresponsible Imbecile.

I’m sorry. I don’t do that kind of climbing. I'm more of a strolling-up-the-slope kind of person.

Hey, I did have an ambition once upon a time when I was an idealistic little dork. Then I learned to ask “Why? Why should I?”

Because I want to?

Says who? Folks, you think you want to because all your life everyone says you have to.

So until that day that I find a job I know for certain I want or at the very least can compromise with, I will not settle. I'm not one to fear the idea of starting over...Excuse me for trying to resist some ambiguous-know-it-all-theorist’s preconceived plan about how life is supposed to be lived.

Lemme see:

Now I’m born. Check.
Now I’m educated. Check.
Now I work. Check.

Next we wed.
Next we breed.
Next we die.

There’s your happily ever after.

Wow. I can’t wait.

Hamburgers.

Huff and Puff...and then Puff some more!

2007-10-01T22:25:00.000+08:00

A year ago, I came to a conclusion that the reason why I’ve stayed far away from pen, paper, and keyboard, was because there was not a god damn thing worth writing about. Add on another couple of months and I’m starting to get twitchy. When I’ve been able to rag on about the littlest things before, surely with some major occurrences in my life, I should be scratching the skin off my palms and itching to bitch about it. Shouldn’t I? I should! And that’s why I’m thinking about getting worried.

5 years ago, I was in a hell of pain. It was the German measles. I had mouth sores on every available space of soft tissue inside my mouth, and finding it already cramped in there, the little suckers decided “What the hell, the throat’s not exactly prime location, but I gotta lay claim on this sick baby.” I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t hum, I couldn’t wet my flaking bloated lips, I couldn’t drink water, and eating became the equivalent of a hundred little explosions inside my mouth.

But most of all, I couldn’t express myself other than a small buzzer that was constantly battered by my rashed itchy finger everytime I needed nursing. And believe me, if you were in my house at that time, you would have forgotten I was sick and just raged inside the room to ram that annoying buzzer down my throat --- but after seeing my painful oral state, I bet you would reconsider and instead just drive it up my ass.

I couldn’t swear, I couldn’t throw a tantrum, heck, I couldn’t even cry but can only manage an “uuuunnnggggg”. That little groan there should include an “hhhhh” in the end, but I couldn’t afford that. That would mean blowing air and causing a riot with the mouth sores. Frustration and pain forcibly shoved down my bowels when I would rather bellow it to the gods that I, Jenifer, have a lot of complaining to do about this nasty little business. I thought it the most excruciating pain I’ve ever felt in my life. And if Homer Simpson were there to hear me, he’d tenderly ruffle my hair and say “The most excruciating pain SO FAR!”

So far indeed.

Five years later and here I am yet again stifled. You’ve heard of verbal diarrhea. I have mental constipation. It’s all there. It’s jammed inside. I just can’t get it out. This would account to the months and months of static silence especially in writing my little monologues. Lately, I cower when given a pen. I’m sorry, sign my signature where? Oh no!

Cigarettes, they say, have a laxative effect and I can give you full names of people who suck on a stick while going about the oddly-pleasant-yet-still-obliged-as-eeky process of shitting. But surely I’ll be crossing an ethical line and we’re not running an exposé here. Seeing as I am literally shit-constipated too, I am addicted to what I like to call an enema rolled into a 3½ inch stick. NO, I’m not talking about a penis. Or a small penis. *snorts in disgust* Alright, so I’m bad at metaphors right now, screw you!

I can’t really attest to the laxative powers of smoking other than sometimes it gives me a bad case of gas, but when taken while walking around the city during semi-cold nights and ears plugged with music from my iPod (wow, how commercialized am I now eh?), the so-called mental constipation sees a glimmer of release. Headlights, streetlights, smog, nicotine, and strangers in the night makes for a good fix to get that clear reception of free-flowing thoughts back. Plus it helps if I start walking against the flow of the crowd. The voice in my head, my eternal narrator comes within hearing and I can totally see her smirking and barking out observations and ridicules.

Problem solved? Sure, if I can learn how to scribble fast while walking.

Again, the question. Should I be worried? No. Not really. I’m just building shit. Material, some would say. And besides, you can’t just pull these things out of your ass now can you? I’m gonna go, when I gotta go!

I’ll take another puff for now. J

Blow me, Blow me not

2007-07-17T17:29:00.000+08:00

As I sat imprisoned in a bleak holding room of interrogation by a potential new employer, I couldn’t help but think of how futile the whole employment process is. I know that a good ten months from now I’ll be whining and complaining as obnoxiously as before. Gripping the arm rest with shaking hands (not of nervousness but of a freak physiological unknown defect) and raking claw marks with fingernails I’ve been too lazy to trim despite my constant state of inactiveness (I am unemployed), I probably looked like a petrified Bambi about to be shot.

The employer probably was mentally scratching his head at the ridiculous demeanor I was showing. Why would anyone look like she was about to drop on the floor and convulse when the question was simple enough --- How long have you been working?

There are certain questions bound to induce a montage of terrifying flashbacks. For Gandalf, it was Frodo’s “What happened Gandalf? Why didn’t you meet us?” To which Gandalf replied, “I’m sorry Frodo. I was delayed.”

*cue flashback of Gandalf being whooped by Saruman*

Mr. Employer, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I’m going through this again. And odds are, I would have to do this the rest of my life. This is life. And I’m sick of it.

*cue flash-forward of me looking morose and chewing on a pen cap in a cubicle at age 40*

I’m taking this moment to chuckle to myself. I’ve spent the last year with forced reformation. Sweep away the negative and suck in the positive. I’ve delayed writing ostensibly until I have only good things to say. Flowers and fairies for everyone. But no. Sometimes you have to realize that changing your disposition is like excreting your spleen from one end (yes, that other end) and swallowing a brand spanking new one. A spleen is a spleen. Spitefulness, bad temper, and melancholy. So get ruddy well used to it.

Now back to my litany of woes. Is it really tragic when you see the road ahead and recognize your so-called life for what it truly is: suffocating routines disguised as a variant of choices; a series of hard hitting blows of disappointment? No, the tragedy is that you don’t…and that’s why you have drama. Funny, I don’t feel comical at all.

Optimistic friends will tell me that what makes life interesting and worthwhile are human interactions blah blah blah. We humans exist to provide each other the necessary amusement to pass away the mundane times. High times. Indeed.

Looking at Mr. Employer with his mickey-mouse ears and his pretentious look-at-me-I’m-important necktie, I start to doubt my ability to be amused. Or for that matter, for anyone to have the ability to amuse me anymore.

Finally, after an hour of feigned enthusiasm on my part, we start to get up and shake hands.

He goes (in his less than perfect English), “Here at ____________, you’ll be sure that we’ll train you for something higher. You can do to supersede your superiors if you want. You can even do me.”

Excuse me.

He mutters, “My position, I mean. We embed you with enough qualities to achieve that.”

Right.

Maybe I’m wrong. I’m giving humanity a chance.

---------------------

Disclaimer:

Let it be noted that putting your faith on humanity can produce less than desirable results. Look at Samson.