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According to this article in the Australian Herald Sun, more people are naming their kids after characters in science-fiction movies. Hence Jean-Luc (as in Picard), Neo, Trinity, and so on.

This is not news to those of us who live in a weird names capital of the world, with our senator Joker, actor Dingdong, and numerous old ladies named Baby Girl. We all went to school with someone named Jonathan Livingston Sy or Edgar Allan Pe. My friend Din used to volunteer as a student registrar at UP so he could encounter names like “Crassus, Jr” (named for a Roman emperor; still better than “Commodus”, which might as well be “Crapper”) and surnames like “Bagong-gahasa” (newly-raped). Zed goes to a fish restaurant run by the Misses Kaliskisan (Scales).

There’s a special logic to the naming of kids in Pinoy families. “Why are you named Jade? Isn’t that a girl’s name?”

“Because my mom’s name is Ruby.”

I would caution people against naming their children “Venus”, “Aphrodite”, “Apollo” or “Lovely”. That’s just tempting fate.

Ever notice that one of the main signifiers of socioeconomic class in Metro Manila’s malls is toilet paper? Specifically, the availability of toilet paper in their washrooms. The toilets in the SM malls (We still call them Shoemart, because we remember when they were just shoe stores, which means we are old), which target the lower middle classes, do not have paper. However, little packets of tissue paper are sold in vending machines. Glorietta and Shangri-La malls, which target broader demographics, have both free toilets (no paper) and pay toilets (with paper). The more “upscale” Podium, Promenade, Power Plant, Greenbelts 3 and 4, and Bonifacio High Street (which looks like that outlet mall in Barstow outside Las Vegas) have t.p. in all their washrooms.

Interpret.

rue Cazotte, originally uploaded by 160507.

Paris, je t’aime; the movie not so much. It consists of short episodes set in the different arrondissements and directed by a bunch of well-known directors including Alfonso Cuaron, Gus Van Sant, and Tom Tykwer. The idea is to make Paris seem romantic and worth visiting; the fact that it’s become necessary to make a movie to deliver that point says a lot about Paris’s image these days. You mean Paris isn’t the default setting for romance anymore?

The producers reportedly got the idea from Love, Actually, which made London seem romantic and exciting; the memory of Love, Actually still makes me want to run screaming out of the theatre (and I usually enjoy Richard Curtis flicks). The episode I like most is the last one, by Alexander Payne, in which a middle-aged American postal worker speaking French with a midwestern accent sums up the weird combination of joy and sadness that seizes visitors to Paris. It makes up for the cuteness that afflicts the rest of the movie. Paris is many things, some of them infuriating, but it is not cute.

The most unbelievable episode is the one in which an estranged couple have a drink at a bistro and Gerard Depardieu as the maitre d’ tells them it’s on the house. Ha! A freebie in a Paris restaurant? Has the apocalypse arrived?

Five minutes into the movie, at the end of the Montmartre episode, there’s a shot of my friend’s apartment building. It’s the only building on rue Cazotte, which is the shortest street in Paris, in case you’re in a trivia contest.

By the way there’s a new Woody Allen impressionist on the screen: Julie Delpy. 2 Days In Paris, which she wrote, directed, sang the theme of, and stars in with her ex-boyfriend Adam Goldberg, her parents, and probably her cat, is like Annie Hall with Delpy playing both Woody Allen and Diane Keaton. It’s lovely and hilarious, though it ends rather abruptly. Noel and I both found Adam Goldberg hot all of a sudden. One thing I know about relationships among the hyperverbal: talking never resolves anything, it’s just more ammunition.

Martin Scorsese on Michelangelo Antonioni; Woody Allen on Ingmar Bergman.

“Where almost every other movie I’d seen wound things up, “L’Avventura” wound them down. The characters lacked either the will or the capacity for real self-awareness. They only had what passed for self-awareness, cloaking a flightiness and lethargy that was both childish and very real. And in the final scene, so desolate, so eloquent, one of the most haunting passages in all of cinema, Antonioni realized something extraordinary: the pain of simply being alive. And the mystery.”

“To meet him was not to suddenly enter the creative temple of a formidable, intimidating, dark and brooding genius who intoned complex insights with a Swedish accent about man’s dreadful fate in a bleak universe. It was more like this: ‘Woody, I have this silly dream where I show up on the set to make a film and I can’t figure out where to put the camera; the point is, I know I am pretty good at it and I have been doing it for years. You ever have those nervous dreams?’”

One of my favorite cosmic coincidence sites is Goro Adachi’s Etemenanki. (Etemenanki is one of the towers of Babel.) This post connects the showing of a Battlestar Galactica episode about radiation poisoning, solar flares, a Discovery launch, the opening of Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto, the end of the Mayan calendar, the Transit of Venus, the “passing of the torch” from Ronald Reagan to Arnold Schwarzenegger, Deep Impact, the octagonal floor plan of the Dome of the Rock, the Russian spy Litvinenko who died of radiation poisoning, Comet McNaught, Nostradamus, Pink Floyd, the death of Gerald Ford, the execution of Saddam Hussein, 2001: A Space Odyssey and two must-haves of any good conspiracy theory: the Knights Templar and the Book of Revelations.

Mind-boggling entertainment, the start of a migraine, or your signal to drop everything and head for the hills to await the apocalypse?

So if you’re planning on writing the next Da Vinci Code-type bestseller, you know where to rip off your plot.

Has it occurred to you that Transformers has a premise similar to that of 2001: A Space Odyssey, only it’s much less static?

Mat writing his column, originally uploaded by Koosama.

Today is Mat’s birthday. A former neighborhood tough and Casanova, Mat now stays home and plays war games with Koosi and Saffy. I named him Matthias because when he appeared I had just seen The Scorpion King. Who was called ‘Mathayus’. Fortunately we can spell.

No spoilers, I promise. The Bourne movies have become the standard by which Hollywood spy action movies are measured; you see their influence on recent products such as last year’s Casino Royale. The Bourne Ultimatum directed by Paul Greengrass (Bourne Supremacy, United 93) has the speed, efficiency, and up-close dirty fighting of the previous movies, and it’s an altogether satisfying conclusion to the series. In fact it’s so good, I wouldn’t mind another sequel. Recent Hollywood movies have been bogged down by an excess of back story, as if dwelling on the hero’s toilet training and playground issues would turn shit into a real movie. For the finale of a trilogy about an amnesiac in search of his back story, this one is not only smart but refreshingly free of amateur psychotherapy.

As always Matt Damon is terrific as Jason Bourne, maintaining a preternatural calm while everything shatters around him. You won’t catch him acting: he’s a bottled-up meteorological event. (I like to think of Matt and his former writing partner/frequent co-star/(Are they still best friends?) Ben Assfleck as parts of an experiment that tries to answer the question: What is more important, intelligence and discretion, or traditional good looks and celebrity?) Challenging Damon in the calmness department is Julia Stiles, who returns as the CIA employee Nikki. Over the years the Bourne movies have provided employment to some of today’s finest character actors: Chris Cooper, Brian Cox, Joan Allen, and now David Strathairn, Scott Glen, and (I’ll let you enjoy the surprise). Paddy Considine’s portrayal of a journalist is so dead accurate—that combination of clued-in and clueless—I’m convinced we know the same people.

I’ve been drinking coffee since I was eight. Skip this part if you’ve heard it before. My habit began one afternoon when I wanted Ovaltine and we’d run out of it. So my father gave me a cup of coffee. I’ve been drinking four or five 8-oz cups a day since childhood—does that mean I’ve consumed enough antioxidants to become immortal, or did the antioxidants only start working after they became fashionable? Everyone’s going on about the health benefits of coffee; I don’t care, I just like coffee. I take it black, no sugar, so I can actually taste the coffee.

You know who has good coffee? Dunkin Donuts. I went to a Dunkin Donuts yesterday, and it had been tarted up into a “cafe” and the plain honey-glazed doughnut was P28. It tasted like. . .a plain honey-glazed doughnut. So that’s their plan to ward off competition from Krispy Kreme (awful coffee with artificial milk)—raise their prices. Any place that serves Illy is alright, if they know what they’re doing. UCC is expensive but the coffee is worth it, although you have to remind the staff to bring you the chunky sugar crystals. Afternoons they serve arroz caldo made of oats. Sure I go to Starbucks, but not for the coffee, which is weak and tastes burnt. I go because it’s clean and comforting, even if every branch in my (extended) neighborhood is covered in law students. I like Figaro, plus the Figaro guys were my neighbors and when I was doing a radio show (I miss radio, does anyone want to produce a radio talk show?) they kept everyone caffeinated. My friend wandered into a McDonald’s McCafe one morning and found the staff making espressos which they stored in a thermos bottle; he fled in terror. Coffee at Via Mare, Pancake House, Gloria Jean’s—bleccch. The words “coffee” and “Chinese restaurant” don’t usually go together, but I had an excellent cup at Panciteria Lido in Binondo.

In the news: Brit teenager lands in hospital from coffee overdose. Seven double espressos in a row will do that to you. Remember when espressos were a new thing in Manila restaurants, and when you ordered one the waiter would warn you, “Kaunti lang ho yon” (It’s a very small serving)?

My friend Zed is sitting in a van crawling through traffic. It’s two in the afternoon of a hot day so naturally the airconditioner conks out, and after 10 minutes of breathing the same air, she opens the window. Along comes a little sampaguita vendor, a girl who looks about 12 (though she’s probably older). She waves the sampaguita garlands at the window and says, “Lady, buy sampaguita, very cheap.”

“No thanks,” Zed says. “Please, lady, I really need the money,” the kid says in a monotone. Zed shakes her head. “Just one, so I can have something to eat,” the kid goes on. Zed shakes her head. “Come on, can’t you buy just one?” the kid repeats in her unchanging monotone. “No,” Zed says.

Then the kid takes one garland and throws it into the open window, where it lands on Zed’s lap. “There,” the kid says, “That’s my gift to you.”

Zed tosses the garland back out the window and the kid catches it. (Maybe I shouldn’t have done that, Zed says, but it was instinct.) “No, thank you,” Zed says. The kid tosses it back at her. “Take it, it’s a gift.” Zed tosses it back, the kid tosses it in, Zed tosses it back, it’s becoming absurd. Finally Zed takes out her wallet. “Let me pay for that one,” she says. She hands the kid a ten-peso coin. The kid throws it back into the van. “You can keep it,” the kid says. They resume playing catch with the sampaguita.

Finally the sampaguita vendor moves away from the van and goes over to the sidewalk. She takes her garlands of sampaguita and starts whipping them against a concrete wall.

When feeling particularly savage or dull, check out this Kipling story, The Head of the District. Rudyard Kipling, who died in 1936, has more to say about current geopolitics than any number of overhyped 9/11 novels. If you like this story, proceed to his finest novel, Kim.

Thanks to Tina for the link.

Translated by me, the captive audience in the taxi
“See that billboard? Is that (well-known showbiz personality we probably shouldn’t name)? I used to work for her. I was her driver for a year. Balasubas yan. No, I got paid alright, but the yelling and cursing! She would scream and cuss at me. In front of other people. Celebrities! (He proceeds to name all the famous people who witnessed his being berated by famous employer. Public humiliation is bad enough, but to be humiliated in front of celebrities!) She would call me to bring the car around and if I wasn’t there in five minutes she would scream like a madwoman. What if there was heavy traffic?! You know, her boobs are fake. They’re made of silicone. And her legs are ugly, they’re veiny. She’s big now but her fame won’t last because she’s not nice. You never heard such cursing! And from someone with an education! Well, not really. She’s a college undergraduate! (The horror!) I saw her resumé when she enrolled her kid in school. (You have to present your resumé to your kid’s school?! I’ve heard that you have to show your marriage certificate to prove that your child is legitimate, and that many Catholic schools don’t accept the children of single/separated/divorced parents—so much for kindness, charity, etc—but now they have to see your CV?! “We regret that we cannot accept your child as a student. You lack twelve units of Serbo-Croat, your background in Uzbek literature is a little sketchy, and since your masteral thesis disproving the Yang-Mills equation is incomplete, you do not have the necessary qualifications to be a parent at our school.”) Mark my words, her career won’t last. She bought this house and lot for over 20 million pesos, but that’s going to burn. (Was that a threat of arson? Should I have written down his name and license number?) The old stars, they were good to their staff. Dolphy, Susan Roces, Nova Villa. . .Yeah, I’ve been driving a cab for a long time, and sometimes I work as a private driver. I worked in the Middle East, too. I was a heavy equipment operator. Now the pay in the Middle East is too low. The Indians, Pakistanis, and Bangladeshis were accepting less pay, so the salaries went down. Ay, heavy traffic. It’s because there’s classes today.”

Lovely, yes, but so hard to keep dry., originally uploaded by Koosama.

Twisted Travels is available at all National Bookstore, Powerbooks, and Fully Booked branches. Cover price: P260. If you cannot find it in your neighborhood bookstore, let me know and I’ll alert the distributor. If you live abroad and would like to order it, email zeus.books@gmail.com and we’ll figure out how to get it to you.

The book is a compilation of my travel essays in the defunct (and sorely missed) Today from 1996 to 2002. A review in the Fully Booked magazine says these pieces appeared in earlier Twisted books—No, they didn’t (although the California essay was in my old blog). Good review though, thanks.