Juliet Labs Dew-Lhiett

And now for our semi-regular weird animal news:

A popular pair of swans in Boston's Public Garden in Massachusetts turns out to be a same-sex couple. The swans, named Romeo and Juliet after Shakespeare's star-crossed lovers, were found to be both female after a series of tests. The officials have already found out about the couple last year, when they both had a nest of eggs which didn't hatch, but opted not to make the announcement for fear of ruining people's ideal fairy tale:

The city's Parks and Recreation Department conducted the tests months ago, but didn't announce the results for fear of destroying the image of a Shakespearean love story unfolding each year in the Public Garden.

''Each year when the swans go in, the kids immediately come to us and say, 'Which one's Romeo, and which one's Juliet?' " parks spokeswoman Mary Hines said yesterday in response to a Globe inquiry. ''It's just like one of those fairy tales; why spoil it?"

So they're actually Juliet and Juliet. Cool. Di lang sinabi sa article kung may jologs version din ba ang lab story nila. Mas coolness yun di ba?

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xkg's Manila

I finally finished reading Manila, My Manila, Nick Joaquin’s supposedly "pop" history of the city which was conceptualized as something that would bring pride to the city’s inhabitants. "Ikaw na taga-Maynila, ikaw ay dakila” is how this city’s current mayor pushes local pride. Joaquin compares the Noble and Ever Loyal to Troy, that as Troy was seven different cities, one on top of the other, so is Manila.

But even with all the layers, the constant destruction and rebuilding, the city that Joaquin speaks of is not the one that I seek. His Manileño always equates the city’s happenings with the feast of this and that saint, he goes to the cabaret and the theater, he knows the battlecries of the streets—Yeba!—but he is not part of the streets. This is all fine and dandy, as I’ve learned a lot about my city which I now infernally impose on people, to their detriment, but to my amusement, of course. But the Manilenyo that I seek is the kanto-boy who asks “Sinong kaaway mo?” whose (kanto-)girl probably works in a tabacalera and jeers the gang(sta)-boy wannabes from Uste as all porma and no brawn.

A look at the table of contents reveals that the town that I seek, one of the arrabales outside the walls, should be found between Pampango colonies and Panday Pira, but it is not there, not even listed although repeatedly mentioned throughout the book. So I noted all the appearances of my town and pasted a post-it in the index. So those who seek it will find it, even if outside the margins.

Kantogirl lives

Well, barely living, but still here.

Wrote a rather long post but Blogger ate it, and I've no time to write it again. Mostly, these last few months, I've been quite busy--paper checking, paper writing, class dropping, hysterics blowing, eyebrows tweezing, chocnut chomping, ukay hunting, stunt doubling--hence the lack of posts.

Birthday's come and gone. Got some stories there, but for the moment, click here for photos. It's not yet complete because I'm tamad to upload, but soon.

Wittgenstein

Everybody seems to be quoting Wittgenstein these days, though I'm not really exactly sure why. So here is my obligatory Wittgenstein post:

What we can't speak about we must pass over in silence.

I found this scribbled in the margins of a very old notebook.

The Maroon Diaries

My throat hurts. I can feel each of the ten million bacteria copulating and multiplying by the second. This after I spent the entire weekend reading aloud a manual in my best imitation of a call center agent's voice with an Iowa accent. "Any questions?" Usually there was none; sixty pairs of eyes placed perfectly under well-waxed bangs and distressed mopheads stared at me. They nodded their heads, stabbed their Mongol No. 2 pencils into the wood and silently cursed me to just "turn to page 28 and begin."

Patience is not my strongest virtue. I fidget in my chair, fuzz with the forms, and when I can't take it anymore, I jump up and march between the rows. In two days and four sessions, I counted 46 pairs of Chuck Taylor sneakers, 13 Harry Potter backpacks, 6 Ipod minis, and one Assumptionista who resembled Pooh.

Given the chance to shake Pooh's hand, you'd take it gingerly, watch the blood in her wrist make its way back to her aorta and say "How do you do?" You resist the urge to feed her malunggay and ampalaya.

If the attempt was successful, the result would be Pooh Number 2, who sat facing the wall, in the second desk in a row reserved for left handed people. This Pooh was still a bit translucent, with a warm glow that draws you to her side of the room. She also had more meat in her bones. Her shoulders rounded out the sleeves of her white shirt which welcomed you to Bel Air Summer Camp. The seams were blue, and it went with her Roxy surf shorts and olive Havaiianas. As I passed her in one of my rounds, she was shading the oblongs corresponding to the letters of her name. She was one of those Annas --Anna Margarita, Anna Dinnah, Anna Corinne. This Anna smoothed her hair which crested in the soft waves of her ponytail. Her left wrist supported a white strip of rubber. On one side it said "One Big Fight!" in all caps, the other had the letters "ADMU" in the appropriate school colors.

Given all this, one wondered what Anna, this Pooh Number 2, was doing here, in this room where the windows were boarded up with yesterday's newspaper, the weak daylight creeping in between the pages where there wasn't enough masking tape. To while away the time perhaps, or a choice made because there's a wide green expanse that makes a good field for playing football.

Whatever it was, you resist the urge to stare at this apparition in your roomful of brown Madonnas, and train your eyes on somebody else. This time, your gaze lands on a girl whose eyesbrows were at least 80s retro promising to compensate for the unfortunate name of Brooke Shields.

How's your gaydar?

Apparently, mine "definitely needs to be tested." At least, that's what the OkCupid! Gaydar Quiz said.

I scored a dismal 65%. This means that, overall, I guessed better than 43% of all test takers. I also got 13 of the 20 people correct and was better at recognizing girls than guys.

Right. As if that helps.

My So-Called Shopgirl's Life

Mediamelt updates us on the latest happenings in Steve Martin's fabulous career:

What happened / is happening to Steve Martin? One day he's all Parenthood, the next he's all Bringing Down the House. And let's not even mention the almost buried Pink Panther. Now he's all Shopgirl? An indie film, directed by a virtual nobody (yet), co-starring Claire Danes and Jason Schwartzman, based on his own book of the same name, with shades of Murray-in-Rushmore-like potential? Wha?

Well, I say you can't blame the guy. There's even talk that Shopgirl is getting early Oscar buzz. Maybe he's on his Tom Hanks phase, like you know, every movie is an Oscar material now.

What bothers me though is the announcement that Claire Danes is in, like, the movie version of Shopgirl, which is like, you know, my favorite read from last year. Okay, I liked Claire Danes during his Angela Chase era, but that's long long gone. And paired with Jason Schwartzman of Rushmore, I can see a very Wes Anderson-esque. Then add this little write up in which the Shopgirl movie is described as "Steve Martin's Rushmore." I'm also afraid that maybe Steve Martin overdosed on Sofia Coppola and it'll the like Bubble Boy Lost in the LA Freeway. So should I be, like, really bothered, like, you know?

Fiction by Albert E. Martinez

Lookie here! Nerve features "Goatboy," a short story by Albert E. Martinez.

If you read the author write up at the end of the story, you'll know that it's not *that* Albert. Not the National Hero and Swain. Pero aliw lang. If only. Hehe.

Talking Funny

A.O. Scott tells us that comedy is really just the many variations of one filthy joke told over and over again. The comedians try to outdo one another at telling the dirtiest, most extreme, most shocking and longest veresion.

Scott doesn't say what the joke is all about, except that the punchline is the title of the film, The Aristocrats, and that sometimes people have fainted at the end of the telling. The film itself is like a walk through comedy history, dissecting the same joke being told differently by generations and all sorts of comedians, including line drawned cartoon boys. The delivery and inflections change, but only this is assured: "The first is that what is funny cannot be explained, the second that it dies by repetition. Indeed, the more you hear the joke - and you hear it, in bits and pieces and all the way through, at least 60 or 70 times - the deeper you appreciate its peculiar fascination. And as various comedians reflect on its meaning and history...you come to understand the codes and customs of that peculiar guild that makes a living by trying to make the rest of us laugh."

Hell is Having Stubborn Teeth

Just got home from a dental appointment. This time to take out the real culprit of all my troubles, a sorely impacted first molar. Dentist S had a hard time taking it out because she said I have unusually large teeth roots--or whatever it is you call them. She had to give me four doses of anesthesia (I think): two each of the t(r)opical pineapple tasting one and the mean injected one. Lotsa metal instruments. Dentist used something called a #45 and #44. They looked like pliers, but they might as well use a gun on me.

It hurt like hell. I think it took all of 15 or 20 minutes, but it still was hell to me. Gaping hole still bleeds even if I've changed gauze pads like 5 times already.

I am now descending the tenth circle. No amount of ice cream can cure this.