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My new favorite shirt Spoilt. Contains spoilers. Thanks, Mark., originally uploaded by 160507.

If you write movie reviews, you hope that one of two things will happen every time you see a movie. One, that the movie is very good, so you can devote a whole column to explaining how it works, or two, that it is very bad, so you can devote a whole column to mocking it. It’s the mediocrities that are of no use to me.

Therefore I am pleased to report that The Other Boleyn Girl (You pronounce it ‘Bullen’) is awful!! It’s like a Tudor teen Dynasty with bad accents. I can’t deny that it’s fun to see history reduced to a soap opera, but other than Henry VIII being king and divorcing Catherine to marry Anne Boleyn, I wouldn’t believe anything in the movie. I remember that when Shekar Kapoor’s first Elizabeth movie opened, Ted my publisher was spitting nails over its historical inaccuracies. Someone get the tasers ready.

So the ambitious Boleyn at the urging of his brother-in-law the Duke of Norfolk pimps his daughter Anne to Henry VIII, who goes for her sister Mary instead. But Anne the scheming wench manages to steal Henry from the good-hearted Mary. Catfight! Vamping! Batted eyelashes! Cleavage and bad acting all around. Still, this movie will appeal to the following demographics:

1. Those who find Eric Bana hot, i.e. 85 percent of everyone I know, plus myself.
2. Those who find Jim Sturgess hot, i.e. Across The Universe fans, esp. Kermit.
3. Those who find Natalie Portman hot, i.e. Star Wars fans and the pervs who watched Leon twenty times.
4. Those who find Scarlett Johansson hot, i.e. males of the species.

First, you find the Pinoy. One of the basic tenets of my World Domination Theory is that nearly every famous/influential/rich person on earth has a Filipino in their employ. (If you are not familiar with World Domination Theory, you can look it up in Twisted #1 or Flip #1.)

On a recent visit to New York City, a Filipino student got into an elevator in an apartment building and was promptly addressed by the elevator man. “Pilipino ka?” said the elevator man. “Oho,” said the student.

“Wanna meet Anne Hathaway, star of The Devil Wears Prada?” said the elevator man. No preamble necessary—we Pinoys know what really matters.

“Yes,” said the student. The elevator man then introduced her to Anne Hathaway’s Pinay maid, who told her to come back the following afternoon. “Can I bring a friend?” asked the student. “Of course,” said the maid.

The following day the student appeared at the building with not one but seven Pinoy friends. Hey, we like to travel in groups. The student thought that they would catch a glimpse of Anne Hathaway from the kitchen. However, when she and her seven friends rang the bell, Ms Hathaway herself opened the door. A tea party was in progress, and Ms Hathaway graciously invited them to join the other guests.

So the Filipino student and her companions ended up having tea with the star of The Princess Diaries and Brokeback Mountain. She even poured the tea herself. After the tea party, the Pinoys got into the elevator, and the elevator man said, “Now do you want to meet Nicolas Cage?”

A study published in the Journal of Neuroinflammation says a daily cup of coffee may protect your brain. It may cut the risk of dementia by blocking the damage inflicted by cholesterol. Apparently coffee creates a “blood brain barrier” which shields the central nervous system from the harmful chemicals carried around in the bloodstream.

We’re talking about coffee, the good bitter black stuff, not the sugar or artificial sweeteners, whipped cream, syrups and junk that people ingest with it.

Recently a friend asked me if, as a child, my favorite story in Edith Hamilton’s Mythology was Perseus vs. Medusa. “I liked the Perseus story,” I said, “But my favorite was the House of Atreus.” “That explains so much,” she said.

The House of Atreus was a spectacularly unlucky royal clan: bloodshed, murder, matricide, human sacrifice, hounding by The Furies, curses and eternal punishment. The cause of the family’s doom was their ancestor, Tantalus.

Tantalus was a favorite of the gods, but he turned against them for no particular reason. He invited them to a banquet at his palace, where he served them a meat stew made of his son Pelops. But his immortal guests knew what the dish was made of. They restored Pelops to life—a feat, as he had been chopped up and cooked—and condemned Tantalus to an eternity of torment. He was set in a pool in the underworld, in a state of perpetual hunger and thirst. Every time he stooped to have a drink of water, the water would drain away instantly. Around the pool were the low-hanging branches of trees heavily laden with fruit. Every time he reached for the fruit, the branches would move away. Tantalus was surrounded by food and drink, but he could never slake his hunger and thirst. I think the verb “to tantalize” comes from his name.

House Atreides in Frank Herbert’s science-fiction epic Dune was probably descended from the House of Atreus, hence their bad luck. The original Atreus, by the way, discovered that his brother was in love with his (Atreus’s) wife. So he had his brother’s children killed, cooked, and served to the unsuspecting brother. What a recipe to be handed down for generations.

Published in 1942, Mythology by Edith Hamilton is a retelling of myths and legends from ancient Greece, Rome, and Scandinavia. The creation myths, the heroic tales of Jason, Hercules and Theseus (the early superheroes), the Iliad, Odyssey, and Aeneid, the Norse sagas, they’re all here. These stories are not meant to convey moral lessons (The ancient gods behaved very badly, much worse than the humans) or to teach people how to live (I do know that eating people is wrong). They’re just great stories, and a solid foundation for appreciating literature. These myths were the subjects of classical art, opera, poetry, and theatre, and knowing them enriches one’s understanding of all these works. Those classical allusions in Shakespeare, James Joyce, and everyone else—they’re all here. Those women in helmets and long blonde braids in eight-hour Wagner operas—this is what they’re bellowing about. If you plan to take up reading, this is a good place to start.

Here’s one of my favorite stories of all time: Bullet In The Brain by Tobias Wolff.

If you prefer to hear it, here’s T. Coraghessan Boyle reading Bullet In The Brain, then discussing the story with the New Yorker’s fiction editor. This podcast is also on iTunes.

The new Tobias Wolff book is Our Story Begins: New and Selected Stories. I’ve looked in Powerbooks, Fully Booked, A Different Bookstore and National, and not only do they not have Our Story Begins, they do not have anything whatsoever by Tobias Wolff. If you spot Our Story Begins, or In Pharaoh’s Army, This Boy’s Life, In the Garden of the North American Martyrs or The Barracks Thief, could you alert me?

In the late 80s, my friends Otsu and Valmont went to school in Scotland. There they became friends with Colum, an Irish librarian. One evening they were all having dinner at Colum’s place when he announced that he had a surprise for them. He then produced a small, hard, hairy coconut. “Ta-daaa!”

Being true Pinoys, Otsu and Valmont smiled like contestants in the question-and-answer portion of a beauty contest. “Oh,” Otsu said, though her thought balloon read, “Luma na ang niyog, copra na yata yan.” “Ah,” said Valmont, who was really thinking, “Am I expected to dance the maglalatik?”

“I searched all over,” Colum announced, “Before I found one in an Indian grocery.” Being a nice white boy, he had assumed that we tropical islanders would plotz with joy at the sight of a coconut in the temperate zone. (See the swallow sketch in The Holy Grail.) “What do you think?”

Without losing the dazzling smile, Otsu said, “It’s a little. . .dry.” Valmont avoided eye contact with anyone or he would burst out laughing.

“How do you open it?” Colum asked. Otsu and Valmont were stumped, as neither of them had ever personally cracked open a coconut—it usually arrived at the table already opened and with a straw, or as fresh lumpia or a guinataan dish. “Um. . .we’ve never. . .” Otsu and Valmont told their lovely host, who had probably seen too many movies of island natives running up trees and bagging coconuts. “Should I tell him that the servants do it for us?” read Otsu’s thought balloon. “Should I tell him we have electricity back home?” Valmont wondered.

So Colum produced a hatchet and a hammer. “Omigod this is how people get murdered,” Otsu thought. “Help!” Valmont squealed silently, but still smiling like a beauty contestant who can’t understand the question. “We’re Pinoy,” Otsu said as she recounted the story. “If we keep smiling, they won’t kill us.”

While Colum attacked the coconut with carpentry tools, Otsu and Valmont maintained a safe distance. “Those shards can be painful,” Otsu pointed out. “Shrapnel,” Valmont added. After much effort the coconut was opened and Colum ate it.

Shanghai, originally uploaded by 160507.

I was hoping for a leisurely excursion—a speech here, a contract-signing there, handshakes and photo-ops, maybe a dinner—and then on to the real attractions of the trip: sightseeing and shopping in Shanghai. In short, one of those Junkets we keep hearing about.

Unfortunately for me, it turned out to be Work.

The flight was delayed twice—for half an hour in Manila, then another half-hour due to the air traffic over Shanghai Pudong airport. At 1650H we emerged in the brand-new terminal 2 at Pudong—a vast, marmoreal building that had officially begun operations just that morning. Fifteen minutes later, having cleared Immigration, we stood by the carousel awaiting our luggage. The Undersecretary was wheeling a humongous square suitcase.

“What have you got in there, an altar?” laughed the Secretary of Tourism, Joseph Durano. The Secretary is a very neat young man with extremely clear skin. He looks like he graduated from college yesterday.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” replied the Undersecretary of Tourism, Eduardo Jarque. The Undersecretary is a career official who joined the Department thirty years ago, when it was first organized. “Seriously, it’s more practical. With a small suitcase, the sleeve of your barong gets segmented into four.” The humongous suitcase turned out to be an excellent idea: the Tourism officials were expected at a reception at the JC Mandarin at 1830H. There was simply no time for ironing.

Emotional Weather Report, today in the Philippine Star.

Aquarium, Tai King shop, originally uploaded by 160507.

There was some confusion as to the location of the Shanghai Museum of Sex and Sex Health. One guidebook gave an address in the city; another said it had been moved to the suburbs. Then a reliable authority said it was back in Shanghai, and was accessible through the Bund Underground Tourist Tunnel. He had recently escorted visitors from Manila to the museum and they were delighted to find the perfect pasalubong in the museum gift shop: vibrating cockrings.

En route to the museum, I thought of a little experiment. I texted three friends—one hetero female, one hetero male, and one gay male—the same message: “Do you want a vibrating cockring from the Shanghai Sex Museum?” In aid of research I should point out that women comprise approximately 5 percent of my immediate circle of friends, men 10 percent (none of them below the age of 40), and gay men 85 percent. (Sometimes days pass before I speak to a heterosexual.)

My three friends replied almost instantly. (Note: I hang out with people who text in complete sentences. That is why we get along.)

Woman: Thanks for the wonderful offer, but as there is no man on the horizon, that would be like a barn without a horse.
Man: Kind of you. . .but no thanks. . .
Gay guy: Yes!!!

This is why gay men are happier than the rest of us. Said gift item was so popular, the museum shop ran out of supplies before we got there.

How to prevent people leaving.JPG, originally uploaded by 160507.

It’s been a while since I’ve had one of these complaint epics, so while it was happening half of me was homicidally annoyed while the other half was oddly amused and nostalgic. 

I sent a text message to my contact saying I was on my way to the airport. It remained in the outbox. I sent it again. Still no go. Then the screen of my phone hanged. The battery indicator was at 75 percent. The phone wouldn’t reset, so I removed the battery then put it back in. When I turned the phone back on, the batter level was zero! For the first time in history, my trusty phone had died on me. I imagined my contact trying to reach me, and everyone leaving before I got there.

We arrived at the airport exactly as the delegation was going through the first security check. Passport and ticket safely in hand, I made it to the plane without further incident.

The flight was delayed for half an hour. I didn’t notice, having fallen asleep within minutes of taking my seat (It’s a gift). I woke up for lunch, then went back to sleep and regained consciousness when we were supposed to be landing. The plane circled the airport for the next half-hour—air traffic was heavy at the new Pudong airport terminal which had opened just that morning.

So we arrived in Shanghai at 1650, not 1550. We were expected at a reception at 1830. I figured one hour, 40 minutes gave me enough time to get to the hotel, check in, get changed, and walk to the reception a block away. I did not know about Shanghai traffic. It was like Manila at 6pm, except that it was cold and the roads are vast. For two hours we were wedged between trucks, buses, and cars going to the city. We passed an industrial area, gray and desolate. By the time the lights of Shanghai poked me in the eye, it was 1830.

We were booked at Baolong, a boutique hotel on Nanyang Road. I think it’s supposed to look like a traditional Chinese home; I couldn’t ask the front desk clerks because we had no common language. Next baffler: finding my room. The key said 8526, but the elevator only went up to the fifth floor. Turns out everyone’s room number started in 8; my actual room was 526.

I had no time to even look at my room; I threw on a coat and hurried to the dinner. Two hours later I realized one of my earrings was gone. A favorite, too—a ball of wire I’d found in a Seoul night market. It may have blown away in a strong wind, or gotten snagged on my muffler. Either way it was gone forever.

Round midnight I got back to the hotel and took a shower. The bathroom floor flooded. Afterwards I opened the laptop our host had lent me so I could check my email. Couldn’t connect to the Internet. Figured I could at least charge my iPod (my treacherous phone was already charging), so I plugged it into the USB port. The iPod’s screen promptly hanged. Clearly my gadgets were staging a rebellion. It wouldn’t unlock, refused to reset, and the light wouldn’t go out. I went to bed worried that I’d wiped out my entire music library, but in the morning when the battery had drained the iPod was fine.

That was my first night in Shanghai. Oh and as I was writing that last sentence, Murphy sent me a PS: the pen leaked on my hand. Aaargh.