How to Get Robbed by the Marcos Highway Robbery / Hold-Up Gang 9 comments

Everybody gets robbed at least at one point in their lives. At least here in the country this figure is generally true. Whether you just found out that your cellphone is missing from your bag or you were held at gunpoint in some dark alley, I think it's safe to say that everybody has a story to tell by the time they're 80. Apparently, I was not an exception. 

For everybody's information and security (so that if you travel by the same route you'll know the strategy of these vile lowlife criminals), here's a detailed description of what happened to me yesterday as I was commuting from work.

So I was on my way back home, about 10:30PM to 11PM, traversing the Marcos Highway stretch from somewhere near Anonas to Sta. Lucia East Grand Mall. It was raining and there were more than a handful of commuters waiting for a ride. My iPod Touch was in my right pocket and Maroon 5 was crooning about being at a Payphone (Mistake #1). It's a fatal flaw, I know. I cannot be in a moving vehicle without music in my ears or else I'll go insane from boredom.

That said, I managed to hail a jeepney close to bursting with passengers and squeezed myself in the only space available, somewhere between the middle of the vehicle and the exit. At my right was some guy I didn't even got a good look at although he was 20-something-years-old by my estimate and at his other side was an unsuspecting couple. Across me were a bunch or random men with generic features I didn't bother to observe because they didn't look at all suspicious nor did they seem to know each other. 

As we passed the LRT2 Santolan station, the robbers declared a hold-up. At least that's what I think they did because I was practically deaf at that time from the pop music blaring in my ears (Mistake #2). All I knew was that pandemonium broke loose inside the jeepney as about 3 men across me began yelling and yanking people's bags and the guy at my right started grabbing for my iPod in my right pocket. I didn't try to stop him. He did this uncontested for about 5 long seconds before he finally got the device out because a) he was obviously an amateur and b) his other hand was holding a knife at my face as I was leaning away from him.

I knew I should be terrified but all I could think about was how loud Katy Perry was wailing about rumbling thunder and crumbling castles in my left ear as one earphone fell off and I heard him frantically threatening me "Gusto mong masaksak?" and I remember thinking 1) Oh God, I'll be one of those Direct OR Stab Wound patients and wouldn't it be ironic if I get rushed in the very same hospital I work in, in the very same operating room I just scrubbed in earlier, 2) This  Katy Perry song definitely doesn't suit the situation and 3) Why is that knife not glinting from the (albeit, dim) jeepney lights?

Before I made up my mind that the knife being waved at my face was indeed fake and we were surrounded by a bunch of cowards who didn't even bother procuring real sharps, they started jumping off the (slowly) moving vehicle somewhere in the Ligaya area. I thought that was the end of it when the robber in front of me suddenly grabbed my bag which was still hooked on my shoulder. I managed to get a hold of the strap but not the actual bag itself (Mistake #3) and pulled as hard as I could as the robber did the same. Apparently, my bag decided it wanted to run away with the criminals and the strap that I was clutching heartbreakingly ripped off from its body. 

I watched helpless and kind of dumbfounded as the robbers sprinted away with everything that I had that night pursued only by a brave and terribly pissed off male passenger who was sitting beside me and managed to get out the window and run after his bag. The jeepney kept on moving the opposite direction without stopping and I remember feeling helpless, not knowing what to do, whether to: 

a) get off the vehicle and run after my bag, but then I knew I stood no chance of catching up and I'll look pretty stupid running in all white uniform in the pouring rain,

b) get off the vehicle and report it to the police, but then since the jeepney didn't stop nor even slowed down, we were then in a dead area between Ligaya and Robinson's Metro East and I didn't even know where to find an officer in that downpour, much less know what to report since, out of shock and my brain's inability to memorize faces, I didn't remember what the robbers looked like, and

c) stay inside, get home as fast as I can even though I have no money left and immediately call my banks' hotlines so that I could get my ATMs and credit card blocked as soon as possible.

Needless to say, I chose letter C. All in all, only my bag, the pissed off guy at my left who took pursuit and the couple-beside-the-exit's bags were stolen. All the passengers near the driver cowered together and formed this sort of Passenger Bond that prevented the robbers from attacking them. And since I was one of the chosen ones to have been surrounded by criminals both on the side and front, I was not as lucky.

There was a slight commotion after the robbing incident inside the jeepney where we, those who have been robbed insisted that the driver should have stopped the vehicle while those who escaped with all their things intact argued that if the driver stopped, the criminals might have come back, a reasoning which I thought was a very large pile of horse manure.

I arrived home with only my umbrella (which I was unknowingly holding the whole incident), my earphones (which managed to loyally stay stuck in my ear minus the iPod) and just the strap of my bag. It was a depressing sight, that strap. I would have gladly handed over my cellphone and other gadgets if I can keep the bag and all the non-resaleable but important stuff in there. 

So kids, what have we learned today? Right now, in my still catatonic state of mind, all I can think of are these things:

• Keep cellphone inside pockets.
• Sit close to the driver.
• Do not use iPod when commuting at night. (Although I doubt not using the device would have made any difference since my whole bag was taken.)
• Robbers operate after pay days and before important money-requiring events (i.e. first day of school).
• Contact number and iPod backups are lifesavers. Don't forget to backup!
• BPI customer support for lost / stolen cards B L O W S.
• Changing of passwords is a must if cellphone/s and/or iPod/s linked to social networking sites and emails are stolen.
• Wide Awake by Katy Perry is a crappy robbery background music.

UPDATE (06/02/12)

I've talked to somebody earlier when I was getting my Affidavit of Loss typed and notarized that there was a similar incident that happened not too long ago. Same strategy, four or five men declaring hold-up inside a jeepney on the Marcos Highway stretch, grabbing bags and taking off in the Ligaya area. I'm convinced they are the same persons and/or part of the same syndicate. None of the passengers in our jeepney went to the police because of the mentioned factors but hopefully, with this post, people will be more aware of these kinds of strategies and be more careful the next time they unsuspectingly board a public utility vehicle. I sure will.



UPDATE (06/06/12)

I remember now the PLATE NUMBER of the jeepney I rode at the night of the incident.

Red Jeepney with Plate Number DVL 183

Route: Cubao - Angono Hi-Way / Tikling
With Yellow Light at left side and Red Light at the right side of the exit doors.
With loose Pull The String To Stop cables on the ceiling.

Upon hindsight and talking with a co-passenger that night, I'm convinced that the driver and  conductor was a part of the whole robbery plan.


First, because he didn't stop the vehicle during or after the incident nor did anything to attract passing cars' attention. One of the reasons why we, victims, didn't have the chance to go to the police was that the driver didn't even stop when the criminals took off and before we even got the chance to gather our thoughts and decide on what to do, we were already in near Sta.Lucia and definitely farther from the robbers than ever.


Second, he was traversing the dead and dark area between LRT Santolan Station and Ligaya on the side of the street (where darkest and least likely to attract attention) in a consistently slow manner even as the criminals declared a holdup.

Third, the driver and the conductor didn't even seemed surprised by the incident nor at least shaken by having knife wielding robbers aboard their vehicle. It as like nothing happened and they continued their route like nothing at all happened.

So, how did I know / suddenly remembered the plate number of the jeep from 3 days ago? Because I boarded the same jeepney just yesterday, same time same place, and everything came back. The lights, the interior, the seats. I stared at the driver for about half of the whole trip and he seemed to recognize me, and I him. I was seated near the driver this time and he seemed fidgety the whole time staring left and right like he was uncomfortable as I was trying to stare into his soul. 


I know none of these information will hold in court that's why I'm posting it here in order to at least share awareness to commuters near the area. Be safe, everyone.

On Being SINGLE, Bad Dates, Macho Luxury Liners and Sarcastic Midgets 3 comments

So you're suddenly single. Or you've been single for a long time, maybe a few years or months, and at this time, you're probably wondering when you're going to find someone new. Someone that could elicit overly hyped up but undeniably true feelings only a special someone could. The pounding of the chest, the butterflies in the stomach, the anticipation of a brand new first kiss.

It's not that you're unhappy, there are definite perks in being as free as you can be, but it's also not like you're in heavenly bliss either. After the near suicidal physically-painful post-breakup era and the feeling of boundless freedom and excitement of meeting new acquaintances without the guilt of a jealous rage from your other half that comes afterwards, things have plateaued down into a consistent and stable blah. 

In a world of millions of lonely people, common sense would dictate that they should all just pair up and be happy. But there's nothing common nor sensical about love. In my experience (and probably everybody else's), it's either you don't like the person/persons who likes you or it's the other way around. Literature, theater, the film industry and lyric music are full of stories like these, and it's not without reason. For a feature film or a paperback novel, unrequited love is a goldmine that sucks everyone in but in reality, these circumstances just plain suck.

I've had my share of bad I-wish-I-didn't-agree-to-this dates that just made me miss the connection I had with someone from the past and really good ones that made me want to believe in freaking fairy tales and an assortment of Nicholas Sparks novels. But then, of course with my rotten luck and as with any tragic story that brings tears to the sentimental and joy to the sadists, things did not go the way I wished them to.

See, I probably am one of the few who jumped off the ship without having something to fall back on. Most people would make sure that they have another vessel to hop on to before they let go of a consistently reliable relationship. But that situation usually leads to deceit and overlapping of commitments and I'm really not the kind of woman who would finalize a board and pass to another without terminating an existing contract.

Okay, analogy overload. Forgive the hyperactive imagination.

It's like being stranded on a ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The motors are wrecked and you know you're going nowhere. The rooms are comfortable and it brings solace from the harsh waves of uncertainty but you know you'll be staying there for a looong time in the middle of vast nothingness if you don't leave now. What do you do?

Me? I foolishly wisely jumped off the ship with only a lifeboat, a paddle and my emergency kit of loyal friends and headed to a nearby island and learned how to make fire, eat alone and be friends with a volleyball named Wilson. Every once in a while a ship would pass through, manly honking their horns and blowing off steam in a macho way asking me to board their presented luxury liner but I refuse because it's either I see a band of pirates or their route is to somewhere I don't want to go to.

I'm not that paranoid, really. I almost boarded one, but then the ship sank before it even got the chance to sail so I just swam back to shore, wet and frustrated (wait, that didn't sound right), chopped a few trees just for kicks and went back to having meaningful and thought-provoking conversations with Wilson.

So, here we are. At the blah stage. In this island. Time has been good but circumstances have possessed me to build a great wall manned by an epic army of pellet-blasting plants and highly-armed midgets with a perpetual expression of I'm-surrounded-with-idiots on their faces to guard me and Wilson from pirates and passerby alike. Sometimes I spot a mighty ship float uncertainly near my area probably contemplating whether to risk the journey but then passes by just as quickly, intimidated by my midgets. Go figure.

Right now, the walls are higher and the guards are fiercer than ever. Picture all the armies of the different monarchies of The Seven Kingdoms, House Stark and Lannister together, with Khaleesi's full-grown fire-breathing dragons leading the pack and Tyrion Lannister (head midget) blasting out sarcastic quips (he wrote this post by the way) from a pedestal.

Not all hope is lost though. It may sound like I retreated to this impenetrable fortress and cursed all men into eternity of sexless pursuits and Gonorrhea but that's not the case. I still let visitors in, but it's not without my invisible dragons breathing on their back and sardonic imps carefully observing from their posts. 

I guess this is how it is to finally grow out of a fairy tale bubble.

State of the Blog Address 4 comments

I am disappointed with this blog. I feel like it has lost the free-spirited feel and purpose it was created for. I look at recent posts, and though they are still infested with acerbic humor and my trademark phrased adjectives that-look-like-this, I feel like I've lost my voice. 

Not only are the past articles just composed of book/movie/cellphone reviews and vacation recaps which nobody really cares about, the thoughts are dry and painfully robotic. Yes, there are still advocacy themed articles but they are less than before and far in between.

Where is the spontaneity? Where are the personal insights that I once wanted to share to the world? Where are the amusing observations about the roller coaster ride that is everyday life? The good, the bad, and the downright humiliatingly hilarious? 

I started this blog as a personal haven for all those little quirky impulses my neurons keep on emitting several times a day in the most inappropriate of times.  I guess my mistake these days is holding everything I write at arms length and watching it take form while devoid of actual passion and conviction, the kind of writing that comes out which reeks the impression of doing chores and things-that-you-just-had-to-do.

This personal blog has become less and less personal for a long time now, and I hope you're with me when I say that I think it's time to go back to the basics. And yes, that phrase just reminded me of underwear billboard ads.

So with that, I will shun the inner procrastinator in me that has long been reclining in the La-Z-Boy of my left cerebral hemisphere like she own the place. I don't blame her, she has been there forever and I oftentimes give her treats like when I spend hours on Facebook and Twitter just reading (and liking) random crap my friends and total strangers post on their walls and feeds, half of the time thinking "I wish I have her life" or "Waaay too much information. I'll just pretend I didn't see that.". 

And of course, there's always the lethal viral pet videos that's just Satan's way of telling you to waste your life for him, one adorable YouTube clip at a time.

But I'll be honest. My track record regarding resolutions doesn't exactly paint a picture of absolute adherence to said self-promises. But we'll see. I might be able to banish thy inner procrastinator permanently to the depths of Mordor or Tartarus, or wherever the heck it can stay and not bother me again.

Meanwhile, let me leave you with a photo of an adorable puppy sleeping on a cellphone straight from the 90's "I-have-a-flip-phone-I'm-so-cool" era. 

Just because.

The Test You Begged To Fail 6 comments

It's the "positive" result most people would have heart attacks over.

It starts with that dreadful feeling of a missed period after an inappropriately timed unprotected action. You try to go on your routine ways but the thought haunts you. You delay the errand of buying a pregnancy test kit as long as your curiosity can withstand but then succumb to your neuroses a few hours later. You purchase the blue box as inconspicuously as possible but then the old holier-than-thou woman behind you on the counter notices and gives you the dirty eye. You come home feeling like your bag is armed with explosives. In the middle of the night, when everybody else is asleep, you brace yourself. You take a deep breath... and pee.

Minutes later, you find out that your life will never be the same again.

Of all the tests in your life, this is probably the only one you have prayed and begged to fail. But it seems like fate has a different plan for you or maybe the Powers That Be chose you as the reluctant center of their cruel game. Either way, the two red lines on that blasted stick stare back at you mockingly. Ha! This is what you get for pretending to be a star of a Nicholas Sparks novel turned movie, the urine-drenched lines taunt.

How could this happen? You're so young, with your whole life ahead of you and yet there's suddenly this parasite in your body feeding off of your blood, hopes and dreams. You still plan to do so much more with your supposedly carefree years. Spend the entire night drinking at Distillery until dawn breaks, go trekking at Mt. Pinatubo or island hopping in Anawangin, visit Boracay and flaunt that bikini so you can post lomofied version of the pictures to Facebook. How are you supposed to do all these when there's another human being that's supposed to come out of you nine months from now and demand things like milk, clothing and education for the rest of your life?

And how about your career? You're not yet successful. Or at least you don't feel like it. You don't feel like you've done anything substantial yet with your life especially since it's just starting to form into something meaningful. It's too early for you to settle down and be imprisoned in a life of diapers and responsibility. Add to that that just when you're starting to feel beautiful and attractive, it's either you'll have a episiotomized vagina or have a caesarian section scar to bear for the rest of your days. Oh, and the stretch marks, don't forget the stretch marks. 

And one last thing, your parents are going to kill you when they find out.

After the initial shock, you study your options. Do those herbal medicines in Quiapo work? Where the hell can you buy Cytotec that isn't fake these days? They say the black Cytotec works better, is that true? You scour the net and look for black market sellers. There are so many you don't even know where to start and yet all of them look untrustworthy. Your cousin knows a friend of a friend who had an abortion before, does she still have the guy's contact number?

You start to panic. You don't know what to do. The father of this thing inside you (which you like to refer simply as "blood clot" since it's still too tiny to be considered as a life form) is useless. He's ambivalent and says he will support whatever decision you make. It's a choice you have to bear on your own. 

You wish that this is all a dream and you'll wake up any minute now free from this nightmare. You bargain for a time machine that will take you even for just a second before you make the stupidest decision of your life. You're no Allie in The Notebook or Savannah in Dear John. Real life unprotected sex leads to real life babies. 

You think of the jeering stares and hushed gossip of your sudden predicament from the people who know you and start to opt for termination (so that everything may go back the way they were and you can pretend this catastrophe never happened) but then something feels wrong. A subconscious part of your brain fights off the thought of taking an unknown pill that could very well cause hemorrhage, a fatal trip to the E.R. and one less soul tethered to this earth even before it had the chance to live. 

Here it comes, the Safeguard-commercial conscience moment that wrenches your heart from the inside. It feels like the Virgin Mary Mother of God herself is standing transparently behind you, crying pools of blood in despair. You know deep in your gut that although it measures only roughly an inch right now, it will be so much more in a few months, more so in the years to come. A baby, a student, a journalist, a lawyer, an ambassador for a humanitarian council who knows?

The power of your body to create something, a life no less, out of nothing is unparalleled and feels extraordinary. Could you really give all that potential out for a cheap shot at momentary freedom and an illustrious chance at "success" (whatever that means)?

The fog in your brain clears up and the panic subsides. The drama-inclined may call it an epiphany, but you know it's just your heart talking to you.

You know what to do.

---

*Images taken from Google Images and http://fahdphotography.tumblr.com/

Baguio: City of Pines, Strawberries, Tiangges and Dogs in Sunglasses PART II 3 comments

Burnham Park

The boaters kept reiterating that the lake was only 4 feet deep. I resisted the urge to argue, "I do not fear of drowning, I fear of dying from infection!" (not to mention humiliation).

And yes, there in the  far right of the picture is SM with its evil tree-cutting plans. Somebody please call Captain Planet and the Planeteers.

Burnham Park, known for the man-made lake in the middle of a mountain. A trip to Baguio would not be complete without a 30-minute paddle around the murky waters that probably haven't been changed since its first construction.

I guess I'm a hygiene freak when it comes to non-sanitized elements from sources I do not trust, the same way I frown at people drinking from the "miraculous faucets" of Manaoag Church while thinking, "Is that thing even purified??". 

So, in fear of overturning and/or sinking like a wooden Titanic, we hired a paddler for our boat (additional 25 php), who turned out to be a seaman so we knew we were pretty much in good hands. He sure can handle a 5 foot non-motorized boat if he has studied extensively how to be Poseidon's adopted son.

A quick walk around the park after the boat ride. If not for the few degrees Celcius drop in the temperature, I would have thought we're in Luneta Park or Quezon City Circle. Where were the unparalleled green sloping lawns that I remembered back in high school when I first visited the place? And what are these ugly blue tents that just screams Divisoria? I want to speak to the manager!

The Grotto of our Lady of Lourdes

(a.k.a Stairway to Heaven)

Bring your anti-hypertensive meds, inhaler for the asthmatics and a coffin for the rheumatics.

I don't pretend to be Kuya Kim to know how many steps there are before you reach the Grotto which seemed to be just at arms length from St. Peter's pearly gates (especially if you have a heart disease), but I could confidently tell you that there are a LOT.

A friendly climbing-the-grotto cheat sheet:

If you want to cut the climbing time / effort / calorie consumption / risk of myocardial infarction in half, bring your own car and park it in the grotto's designated parking space.

Upon walking to the "stairway proper" you would realize that you've already climbed half you way to the Grotto, leaving you with only a measly 50 or more steps to the finish line. Great news for senior citizens!

End Note:

Unfortunately, the Baguio City that everybody knows and loves has succumbed to the pressure and lure of over-commercialism. There are stores everywhere, in areas where the untarnished beauty of nature should be reigning supreme. There are too many wanting to take a slice out of the profit cake in expense of the destruction of nature which is ironically the primary reason why people flock to the destination in the first place.

More than a few places already feels crowded and chaotic from all these people selling stuff from Baguio bonnets to overpriced sweet corn to pictures with fluffy dogs and neon-colored horses. The city has their climate to thank for the relentless tourists from all over the country looking for an escape from the humidity of summer city living, but will the interest still suffice if the pride and honor of the place is already overrun and destroyed by super mall giants and the locals themselves looking for some quick cash?

There is so much potential in this place. I just wish locals and officials learn how to harness that potential without stepping on the simplest of grass and plant-life that makes the destination spectacular in the first place. So that, in the years and decades to come, people will still say, "I want to go to Baguio", not because it's cold, but because it is a place of beauty.

Baguio: City of Pines, Strawberries, Tiangges and Dogs in Sunglasses PART I 1 comments

Turns out, an unplanned trip on what felt like the ends of the earth while sitting on a moving vehicle for 8 whole hours was just what I needed to cap off an unbelievably boring vacation month of April. Welcome to Baguio City! Known to be the City of Pines (which SM is hell-bent on destroying) and City of 24-Hour Air-conditioning.

It was the middle of summer yet we were in our jackets. This. Is. So. Cool. Literally.

So hours (and 2,000 php worth of gas) later, after traversing the whole of NCLEX and SCTEX, the never ending one-lane roads of Tarlac (I get a mini-heart attack whenever we're about to overtake a slow moving vehicle) and going up the winding roads to the city proper of Baguio, we finally got our first whiff of fresh cool air.

We were tourists in every sense of the word, asking for directions at every encountered intersection. We went to all the touristy places and bought touristy Baguio key chains. Here's the experience told in the most mocking way possible (a.k.a. the way I normally write everything).

The Mansion / Wright Park

Pretty. There it is, the summer getaway palace of the president, demurely introduced to all by that inconspicuous sign in the middle of a lawn telling you that you are indeed outside "THE MANSION". What a joy for dyslexics. 

Some clicking of the camera. Okay, there's nothing really left to do. Let's move on.

Wright Park, on the same hand, feels completely, well, the same. Oh look, there's a tree, some flowers... oh joy, a shrub! I think you've noticed by now that I'm not a huge fan of plants. I mean, I appreciate their role in the ecosystem but to gaze at them with awe and admiration is something you would not catch me doing. 

Oh, and the fountain water looks funky.

Mine's View Park

I didn't know what to expect when we were finding our way to the famed park. I just knew there was going to be some spectacular view ala that Tagaytay picnic ground area I forgot the name of. Anyway, there were plenty to look at, alright.

Bags, sandals, endless key chains and ethnic-looking figurines. Flavored corn on a cup worth 30 freakin' pesos. Pink horses everywhere and a couple of huge St. Bernards in sunglasses. Adorable! Must find a way to smuggle that dog inside the car. Oh, and there's a "viewing deck" filled with people with cameras. Us included. Okay, it doesn't matter that people can die from the tumultuous trek down to the area if they can witness this kind of scenic view... a view so... so foggy you can almost feel like a goddess in the clouds looking down serenely at those foolish mortals in the metropolis baking under the heat of the sun and relentless humidity.

Camp John Hay / Butterfly Farm

Finally, a place in the City of Pines with actual unadulterated pine trees. The place is gorgeous but it lacks the excitement of more populated tourist destinations in the city. Aside from posh-looking conyo kids having overpriced coffee at Starbucks, there are only golfers in white looking all rich and mighty. I almost expected to see Chief Justice Renato Corona taking a swing or Pacquiao training in the distance.

The Butterfly Farm is another story. Nestled in the middle of a seemingly barren piece of wilderness, you have to brace yourself and pray for courage because it looks like a homeless person's house (if that makes sense to you).

You will be greeted by an enthusiastic caretaker/tour guide which will share nice-to-know facts about butterflies in an amusing accent and act as a professional photographer afterwards, putting butterflies in your hair and face for useful Facebook primary photo shots. Honestly, that man will single-handedly save the experience from being a boring 10-step tour around a greenhouse searching desperately for shivering butterflies hiding in corners (butterflies thrive in warm weather, so we're told).

Strawberry Farm, La Trinidad, Benguet

What would a trip to Baguio be without strawberries? So we went straight to the source of all the berry hype in La Trinidad, Benguet, half an hour ride away from Baguio town proper.

It was the most fun I've had surrounded by plants in a long time. This time, I didn't mind the endless strawberry stalls around the farm proper (vast fields of nothingness scares me). Young sister got to pick our own berries from kilometers of strawberry plants and I got to snap numerous shots of fields and of myself looking like a blue-blooded haciendera with over-sized sunglasses on worth 50 php straight from a mall stall and a designer umbrella. Notice the irony.

...to be continued.


Part II:
http://orchestroscopy.blogspot.com/2012/05/baguio-city-of-pines-strawberries_06.html

The Avengers feat. Joss Whedon 0 comments

The Avengers. Seven heroes from different parts of the universe and genres, including a recently thawed all-American superhero, a self-made iron flying machine, a Norse God of lightning with his mighty hammer and a bunch of other characters I'm too ignorant to describe.

Pardon me for not being well-versed in the whole Marvel comic world (what's the name of that Bow Guy again? A friend just called him Black Hawk and I was tempted to add the word "Down" but then that's another movie.) but if there's one thing I know, it's Joss Whedon's works and his absolute brilliance.

It is no secret that I'm a huge fan of everything in the Whedonverse (Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly, Dollhouse etc.) and watching The Avengers made me smile wistfully at all the little Joss-signiture quirks that I didn't know I was sorely missing. The whole movie was a trademark of his unparalleled wit and talent. I almost expected the whole gang to burst into song and dance number ala Buffy's Once More With Feeling and Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog. Now, if there is one person who could pull a bunch of superheroes in costume do a sing-off, it would be this man.

The movie, besides the strong intelligent script and amusing dialogue, is also a visual masterpiece. I remember reading an article almost a decade back when Joss had to tweak a Buffy script because of budget restraints. This certainly wasn't a problem with this film because the eye-candy and non-stop action that the movie brings to hungry and expecting audience is nowhere near disappointing nor lacking.

I honestly don't know how to end this review, if it could be called a cohesive review in the first place because all I've managed to do is gush about Joss Whedon and all the marvelous neurons inside that balding head of his.

I guess the point of write-up is, the movie is great and you should all spend P200 to go watch it in cinemas because cam versions uploaded in streaming sites and torrent just won't cut it. 

Orchestr-o-meter: A

Fifty Shades of Grey, Smut and Fluff: A Book Review 4 comments

I've procured a digital copy of the Fifty Shades trilogy even before Twilight moms went raving about it, catapulting it to the New York Times' Best Seller List. After spending a month on my iBooks library, I decided to finally give this highly controversial series a chance, and, boy, did it give me an eyeful. 

As much as I don't want to admit it, the first book was surprisingly addicting. There is something about the mysterious, rich, handsome and sparkly perfect male love interest falling for the seemingly mediocre girl next door with self-worth problems. Sounds familiar? It should. The premise has already been published internationally, garnered millions of screaming hormonal fans and gave birth to an equally ridiculously successful movie franchise. 

Twilight-inspired BDSM fanfiction. This is ultimately what the whole series is. Anastasia Steele is precisely Bella Swan in ropes with her self-abhorrence, exasperating quirks and irritating dislike for expensive gifts. The same way Christian Grey is Edward, minus the superhuman strength, blood cravings and literal sparkle. 

Having read and written too many fanfiction chapters for my own good, for me, this literary serving came from the McDonald's fastfood chain of greasy fiction. Not much seasoning, full of unwanted calories and prepared for the non-choosy masses. There are countless of better places to dine in, however, it still sells and people keep coming back for more.

It's like reading crack. You know it's bad for you and you could even feel your neurons wasting away but you can't seem to stop. At least for the first book (Fifty Shades of Grey), I've had this experience. However, with Fifty Shades Darker, the only thing that got darker is one's view of the plot. Because there was none. It felt like reading endless fanfiction chapters of fluff and smut with no direction whatsoever. Even the graphic sex scenes, which, let's face it, are a big contribution to the success of the trilogy, were toned down to make way for cuddles and never-ending professions of love.

Whether I will find the will and the patience to start and finish the latest installment of this runaway hit, I don't know, although one thing is clear. People reading these books should throw away the paperback novel and stick to their obscure iPads, Kindles and iPhones ebook versions because if I were to spot someone reading this book on the LRT, mental snickers would follow. 

You'll know what I mean.

Orchestr-o-meter: B-

Before Ever After by Samantha Sotto: An Anthology of Short Stories 2 comments

I'll be honest. "Pinoy Pride!" and "I'm so proud to be Filipino!" mantras aside, I only read this book because I heard that a Jose Rizal protegee has managed to penetrate the international publishing market with this debut novel. Thank you for living my dreams, but I will not sugarcoat this review and worship the ground that she stands on (ahem Charice fans ahem) just because me and the author shame the same ethnic background.

So here's my untainted opinion about this book that has been covering the shelves of local bookstores lately. It was... okay.

Three years after her husband Max's death, Shelley feels no more adjusted to being a widow than she did that first terrible day. That is, until the doorbell rings. Standing on her front step is a young man who looks so much like Max; same smile, same eyes, same age, same adorable bump in his nose; he could be Max's long-lost relation. He introduces himself as Paolo, an Italian editor of American coffee table books, and shows Shelley some childhood photos. Paolo tells her that the man in the photos, the bearded man who Paolo says is his grandfather though he never seems to age, is Max. Her Max. And he is alive and well.  

As outrageous as Paolo's claims seem; how could her husband be alive? And if he is, why hasn't he looked her up? Shelley desperately wants to know the truth. She and Paolo jet across the globe to track Max down; if it is really Max and along the way, Shelley recounts the European package tour where they had met. As she relives Max's stories of bloody Parisian barricades, medieval Austrian kitchens, and buried Roman boathouses, Shelley begins to piece together the story of who her husband was and what these new revelations mean for her "happily ever after." And as she and Paolo get closer to the truth, Shelley discovers that not all stories end where they are supposed to.

Let it be clear that I am not a fan of semi-supernatural love stories. Either have a whole new world of mystical beings such as vampires having relationship with slayers and wizard friends slowly falling for each other or have a completely realistic circumstances (albeit unlikely) set in places that actually exist in real life. 

That said, this novel is exactly at the middle of these parameters, much like The Time Traveler's Wife. But as much as adore that book, I can't quite say that with this publication . It doesn't mean that it's not any good nor doesn't deserve to be read. I've read lots of reviews praising the prose. I guess it just didn't fit with my tastes and expectations.

For me, the greatest weakness of the novel is the lack of an actual main plot and a satisfying ending to answer the mystery that has been slowly building up since the first page. The book is made up of endless short stories, spanning from a few decades ago to the beginning of civilization, portraying different characters and explaining historical sites, all of which are interesting, but after the nth flashback, I just wanted to skip all the Mother Goose tales and get back to the real plot. Unfortunately, this finally happened with only a handful of pages left, which were not sufficient to quench this reader's appetite for plot hole clarifications.

I do have to applaud the novel for the witty and superb writing style that made me stay with the book up until the end. The characters are likeable enough, I admittedly found myself swooning every time Max is on the page. For a romance novel, it lacked a few passionate punches here and there. It did, however, make me crave for baked eggs and cheese.

It was not an unputdownable book, nor a novel that would haunt me long after reading the last word, but I did pick up a few things from the journey, and that in itself made it worth the time and effort.

Now, if I can only find the recipe for that infamous Baked Eggs & Cheese.

Orchestr-o-meter: B-

The Hunger Games (2012) Review: A Reader's Dream 2 comments

It's quite fitting that I haven't eaten for more than 24 hours when I found the time and waking neurons to catch the latest YA-Novel-to-bigscreen-superstardom flick of 2012. The Hunger Games is definitely one of the most anticipated movie of the year, and let me just say that all the hype and excitement surrounding the next-big-franchise was not a waste of time. Cower in your sparkly boots, Twilight, teenage angst will only get you so far, but a gripping story and strong independent characters will always prevail in the hearts of the thinking masses.

The movie opens with a sorrowful portrayal of District 12, showing scenes of poverty and destitution in shaky, head-aching angles that could only come from a camera man with a neurological disorder. But aside from the near-migraine I got from the style they decided on showing Suzanne Collin's world, I appreciated how the production made it a point to differentiate the way of life of poorer districts and the lavish colorful existence of those from the Capitol.

Enter the Capitol and the Hunger Games mission control center. From a film with a limited budget and a complicated world it has to portray, I think they succeeded in luring in the readers and giving their imagination the visual candy it deserves. Save for the disappointing silent screen Cornucopia scene (which I found terribly disappointing) and the bloody and violent killing moments which the production decided to soften by again putting their cameraman with uncontrolled spasms behind the lense, the movie portrayal was a success even for the whiniest and eyebrow-raising book fan that I am.

Strongest points of the film? The actors, without a doubt. Jennifer Lawrence played Katniss Everdeen perfectly. She carried the role with such power and social awkwardness that fits the character that I did not have to convince myself that she is the heroine in my mind while I was reading the book. The other actors also carried their own weight, although I do wish that Gale and his jawline managed to get more screen time. In the next movie, perhaps.

Weakest? They could have wrapped up the film more tightly, in my opinion. There are numerous scenes of morose lamentations and soul-searching stares that the 2 1/2 hours of the film could do without. I'm all for character development, really, but in a movie that boasts a televised arena where teenagers kill each other in order to survive, more action, less talk please.

End Note:

With the end of the wonderful and magical Harry Potter era and the closing of the sparkly slightly-homosexual vampire saga of Twilight later this year, this fan is happy to say that in a time of never-ending book adaptations, there is one that stayed surprisingly loyal to the prose. It didn't need to cut scenes nor add ones to make the film more interesting. Both the written and shot versions were superb and if that doesn't say the odds are definitely in our favor, then I don't know what does.

Orchestr-o-meter: A