JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

You and your pets are invited to the grand launch of Pupil’s second album Wildlife tomorrow, November 9, from 8pm onwards at Eastwood City Central Plaza. You’re encouraged to wear red, black, and white; pet outfits optional. The album is now in stores.

Watch James Gray’s terrific new film We Own The Night (motto of the New York Police Department) starring Joaquin Phoenix, Mark Wahlberg, and Robert Duvall, and discuss: Why do most of today’s good movies look like they were made thirty years ago? Did American cinema peak in the 1970s?

In totally unrelated news, a priest has been arrested for stalking and harassing Conan O’Brien, the talk show host and father of my eldest cat, Koosi O’Brien. Apparently the priest had been following Conan’s career since they were at Harvard. In his letters he made reference to the Virginia Tech shooter and to the gangster Frank Costello, who was shot in the Manhattan building where Conan lives. The priest is said to have been turned on to religion by Fellini’s La Dolce Vita. Which tells us that maybe something’s not quite right there. But I would understand people who get the calling after seeing La Strada.

A gruesome little item from Popbitch: “We heard an amazing story from an aging playboy this week. Some years ago, this upper-crust chap was chatting up a buff black man in a bar and the conversation turned to their occupations. The American said he was an undertaker. And that it was to his funeral home that Marilyn Monroe was brought on her death. He went on to confess that all the local undertakers then took turns to have sex with her corpse. (FYI: The undertaker claimed the practice was rife in funeral parlours.)”

Poor Marilyn. Screwed over in life, screwed over in death. My friend pointed out that it took a while before the body was discovered, so try not to imagine the state it was in. One hears all sorts of stories about mortuaries, and I don’t mean the Six Feet Under (I never watched it) variety. They’re mostly untrue and defame an honorable profession, but here in the P.I. we guard our dead through every stage of the process.

I just got a text message from film director Elwood Perez, who wishes it known that news of his death have been greatly exaggerated. In a newspaper today, he is referred to as “the late Elwood Perez.” I think the author may have confused him with his close friend and colleague Joey Gosiengfiao, who died last year. Perez and Gosiengfiao are the campmeisters of 1970s Filipino cinema.

What’s interesting is that Elwood has been having visitations from dead people for over a year. In April last year, Zed and I ran into him at the mall, and he told us that various dead persons, including Rolando Tinio and some entertainment reporters, had been appearing in his dreams. And then last Saturday I got this text message from Elwood (the longest SMS I’ve ever received):

“Include this in your prayers: That spirits of the dead stay away from me. If a few nights ago, Joey Gosiengfiao told me in my dreams that he still ought to direct, how can you explain that I woke up this morning realizing that the person who paid me a visit last night was food critic Doreen Fernandez, who knew me but was never close to me. There must have been a connection: Last night I was profuse with praise for the orphaned host—a Perez, but Tito’s first cousin, not mine—for the sumptuous dinner that was served rather late, after a late evening mass for her late father and brother who died years ago before her mother, two sisters and only niece perished in a fire that gutted their house. Needless to say I overstuffed myself with big helpings of roast, stuffed turkey, wild rice risotto, vegan spaghetti, melt-in-your-mouth lengua in cream sauce, praline and chocolate cake and Godiva chocolate cookies and red wine. I went to bed bundat na bundat.”

And now he’s referred to in the papers as “The Late”. Spooky.

My diagnosis: If you’re a filmmaker and you stop making movies, your life turns into a horror movie. Aiiiieeeee.

This is a little late, I wasn’t paying attention. It turns out that the explosion that hit Glorietta 2 mall last Friday may not have been a bomb blast, but a combination of diesel gas fumes and methane from sewage ignited by electrical switches. Read The Washington Post, then Carlos Celdran’s tirade on the shit that urban developers pass off as progress.

Shit literally blew up. It wasn’t terrorists, it was crap. The mall was full of shit. GMA-7’s “Glorietta Ground Zero” was a pile of caca. All those paeans to urban development: they were talking shit.

So shit is a metaphor for shit. Horrendous enough that 11 people are dead and over 100 injured, but the absurdity.

The mall may have committed a suicide bombing.

Ricky, there’s your South Park episode.

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?

Death is not an end but the beginning. . .of a new round of ridicule and mockery on mydeathspace.com. The site contains news of recent deaths, with links to the myspace pages of the deceased. Now friends and total strangers can sit in judgment on the departed. How can anyone rest in peace?

“When a person dies, his or her MySpace page and its assortment of photos, blog entries, songs, videos and other digital ephemera becomes a de facto shrine to the deceased — teenage life’s trivialities, dilemmas and existential crises packaged and displayed as a neat narrative. That narrative may continue well beyond death if victims have left their message boards open to the public, as friends, family members and even strangers add comments to the page. . .For some, it’s a form of reality-based entertainment, of the most morbid variety. MyDeathSpace’s avid fan base scours the news for recent tragedies and keeps the site current by submitting deaths for consideration.”