sung out

I was in between jobs in the late 90s when I saw the VHS copy of Allison Anders' film Grace Of My Heart which is said to be a thinly-based biopic of Carole King.  It was a commercial flop that I assumed went straight to video despite a wonderful original soundtrack written by Burt Bacharach and Elvis Costello.  

The talented Illeana Douglas plays aspiring singer/songrwriter Denise Waverly as the film follows her struggles in her turbulent personal and professional life.

The heart of the film is the hauntingly beautiful song "God Give Me Strength".  It's not cheese.  It's deeply sad, poignant, honest, raw and emotional, and has been the running soundtrack of my few days past.  

Do yourself a favour and listen, will ya?

Now I have nothing, so God give me strength,
'cause I'm weak in his ways,
and if I'm strong, I might still break.

And I don't have anything to share
that I won't throw away into the air.
That song is sung out.
This bell is rung out.

He was the light that I'd bless.
He took my last chance of happiness.
So God give me strength.

God, if he'd grant me his indulgence and decline,
I might as well wipe him from my memory.
Fracture the spell as he becomes my enemy.
And maybe I was washed out
like a lip print on his shirt.
See, I'm only human, I want him to hurt.
I want him, I want him to hurt.

Since I lost the power to pretend
that there could ever be a happy ending.
That song is sung out.
This bell is rung out.

He was the light that I'd bless.
He took my last chance of happiness.
So God give me strength.
God give me strength.

you asked for it, you got it...toyota

Dear @brownchickbythesea:

Thank you for your email.  Sorry I can't honour your sweet & endearing yet borderline creepy request that I take a photo of myself by my workstation.  hahaha (nervous laughter)
But see, my workstation when i write is my kitchen counter, inside my van by the school parking lot, by the pool at the community centre, on a bench in skating arenas or when I feel like a douchebag, I go to Starbucks with my MacBook. (i kid, i kid. i don't go to starbucks)
I don't know what you were expecting, but this is a photo of myself writing you now.
Fabulous rock and roll lifestyle as you can imagine, no??

Thanks for the follow, chica!
BC

PS. Special prize if you can guess where the post title is from.  Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller? (NO, it's not from Ferris Bueller's Day Off, genius!)

de-kinkified

I was lining up for lunch at Tim Hortons yesterday when I noticed an elderly woman, in her late 60s, sitting alone in a corner table seriously devouring a book more than the muffin in front of her.  She put down the book, took a sip of her coffee and wiped her mouth with a napkin.  She stared blankly towards my direction as if visualizing and digesting what she just read.  I peeked at what she was reading:  50 Shades of Grey.

I took a second look to make sure I was not imagining it.  This woman, who is somebody's grandmother, is reading about bondage, ass whopping and kinky sex between a dominant man and a submissive girl in view of a busy lunch crowd.  I mean,  honestly..

I suddenly realized how mainstream being edgy and wild has become nowadays.  Literary porn has apparently reached a wider demographic from what I'm seeing.

The 50 Shades of Grey phenomenon started with a subculture of bourgeois 40-something housewives reading this in their hoity-toity book clubs, and having giddy discussions about S & M and a confused innocent young girl getting her ass spanked by a 28 year old billionaire.

It became such a sensation and even caused wide-spread concern as to who shall play the lead characters in the film adaptation.  Mind you, the book is god-horribly written.  It displays the massive disconnect between what is recognized as literary writing and commercial success in publishing.

Yes, I've read the book.  I read all 3 of them.  And all I can say is that 50 Shades of Grey is a book that is ought to be read and USED in the privacy of your own little red room.  It is a pornographic and masturbatory aid for readers, primarily women who do not necessarily enjoy porn, but who can reap the benefits of reading about it, add a little umph to the bedroom.  It is definitely not a book you take to the train and read like a novel, or in grandmama's case, in full view of strangers in a busy coffee shop.

It's been said that when your shoe-shine man starts sharing stock tips, it's time to sell.  Is it not the same thing when you see a Grandmother reading about fetishes and kinky playrooms filled with red leather furniture, you have to admit that the sub-culture of erotica has lost some of its appeal?  When Grandma starts droning about exotic sex practices, exotic sex practices get de-kinkified.

Last night, a discussion on talk radio zeroed in on the dominant/submissive subculture that seems to be very visible now in Toronto.  A mother called in complaining about his 8 year old boy, asking about their lesbian-couple neighbours whom he saw walking in broad daylight, one with a leather collar on her neck, attached to a leash that the other one was pulling.  Did this just put a fork in your libido?

How much farther out there do you need to go to be out there?

Baby Christoph

Look at young Christoph Waltz!  Who knew Col Hans Landa (Inglorious Basterds) was this drop dead gorgeous in his youth?  Oh these Viennese thespians... (Captain Von Trapp, hello?)

                                              ......I hope this helps you get through the weekend!

empty chairs & empty tables

Death was some sort of a background music that threaded through my weekend.

It started on Friday morning when a friend and I had a psychological discussion about his fear of dying.  I have known about this for some time now but it was only during our talk that I understood how painfully consuming it could be for him.

Later that day I received the horrible news about the death of a friend back in Manila.  A gunman killed him outside his home.  It was painful and difficult to accept that I will never see him again.  I am still processing his death, crestfallen for the beautiful wife he left behind.

How can someone be so petrified of dying when it’s the death of people you love and care for that seems to be more frightening and agonizing?

My friend Mar and I saw Les Miserables on Saturday night.  I’ve read the book, seen 2 movie versions and experienced the musicale 3 times.  I know the story, the characters and Cameron Macintosh’s lyrics.  Almost everyone dies in the end.  No surprise there.

But when Eponine, the universal symbol of unrequited love, dies in Marius’ arms and in her last breath manages to utter that she is finally happy, sleeping in his arms at last.. How sad is that?  Is death a better alternative to a life of misery and despair? 

On Sunday night on Downton Abbey, Lady Sybil dies due to childbirth complications. I did not see that coming.  (Apologies for the spoiler to readers who have not started Season 3.) Why Downton creator Julian Fellows opted to kill off this beautiful character whose heart is full of love and kindness is a mystery to me.  And because I ridiculously involve myself with tv characters and plots, I grieved for her poor mother.

I was in 5^th grade when I was diagnosed with first stage Leukemia.  True story.  While my parents made heroic efforts to hide this from me, it was my sister, who casually told me while eating a bag of potato chips, that I was sick and was going to die soon. A normal 10 year old would most likely burst in tears and panic. I, however, did not get scared.  

I went to my room and I picked out my favorite dress. A lacey number with flowery prints.  I put it on, combed my hair and positioned myself on top of my bed.  I put my hands together over my belly and closed my eyes.  I pretended I was in a coffin and practiced being dead.

It seems macabre for a 10 year old.  I don’t know why I reacted the way I did.  I remember it with fondness, though, like a Wes Anderson movie.  But it is how I feel about death even to this day.  I am not terrified of it.  Maybe because deep down I believe in afterlife and I get to be the daughter of Remington Steele in my next life, the way I daydreamed as a kid every time I witnessed my parents fight.  Maybe death in my head was the portal to peace and happiness. Or  maybe because when I die I honestly think I’ll be able to fly, be a ghost and scare all those people who were mean to me.

Perhaps the way I am with relationships and airports is the same way I am with my own life.  I would rather be the one leaving.

my friend, Jose

“Capooool!!!”

Jose greets me with his beaming braces-filled toothy smile and glistening chinky eyes as I walk in the HSBC Recovery and Fraud department, plopping my purse and lunch bag on my desk, directly across from his.  It’s a Monday and I’m dreading another week of drudge and angry negligent clients.

“The hell are you happy about, asshole?” I growl at him.

His grin widens.  “Oooh.  Somebody did not get cock this weekend!” saying it like a whispered song and simultaneously points both his index fingers at me. 

This encapsulates my friendship with Jose.  It was the mid-90's.  We were both hired by the bank at the same time and assigned to the same post, which we both hated but valued it as an essential foot in the door.  We immediately realized we had the same penchant for dark, perverted humor and instantly became buddies.

In an organization that had stiff, conservative culture, we acted like kindergarten playmates, talking to each other with obscene language like fraternity brothers.  We were relentless with our banter.  As he endlessly teased me about my weight and my breasts, I repeatedly made racist comments about his Chinese heritage.   These vulgarities never fazed us though.  It was for comic effect, for our own demented kind of amusement.

Over lunch, we would openly talk about sex and unsuspecting co-workers we would gladly do it with.  It was a vile and immature game that never grew old with us.  Whatever disgusting topic we talked about, we always ended up bursting in uncontrollable laughter.  Our friends were privy to this crude behavior that was the ironic basis of our respect and fondness for each other.

“We should get drunk and get stoned at my house this weekend.”  He suggested one Friday. 

Neither of us had weed nor alcohol when I got to his place.  We both weren't potheads nor big drinkers, and I just assumed that he had the goods since he did the invite. Bastard. We ended up ordering pizza with Diet Coke, watching Pretty Woman on his laser disc player (!!). Some rock 'n roll night.

As we discussed Vivian’s black leatherette boots in the opening scene of the movie, our conversation somehow segued to countries Jose said he wanted to visit as a single man.  He began talking about his family, career plans he intended to pursue and a girl at work that he secretly liked but he was too shy to make the first move.  It was a great opening for a solid insult, but I kept my mouth shut and listened. 

I confided to him boyfriend problems I was embarrassed to tell my girlfriends.  We talked about marriage, our parents and our opposing views on religion.  We acted like co-dependent friends comforting each other as we revealed our fears and life concerns minus our usual profanities and put downs.  Oddly enough, without being drunk nor high, we let each other see our human side.

We were our usual crass selves as soon as we got back to work. Within months, we eventually moved to different departments, but we remained very good friends and kept out-smarting each other with our lewd jokes and insults when we saw each other at social events or even business meetings.

Jose eventually found the courage to ask the girl out and after a few years of dating, they were engaged.  And he and I found time to get together again and talk over dinner.

Bebsy:  You honestly think I’ll ever be married?

Jose:    I don't think I want to see you settled down. The world needs to 
experience you. If you do, tho, it has to be someone who makes you laugh, Bebs.  Make sure he has your sense of humor. Because his penis will eventually wilt and die.  And in the end, all you’ll have is humor.

Bebsy:  Well your penis is already wilted and dead.  And you're not funny.  You have to let Lyn go.

Jose:    You know what I really want to see?  You with children.  Oh God.  Those poor kids... I wonder how you'll be when you're 40?  You'll probably be all crafty and shit.

Bebsy:  Ugh.  I don’t want to reach 40.  That’s seriously old.  And I don’t think I’ll have kids. I'll be a God awful mother!

Jose:    Yah. Motherhood? Not for you, man.  And yes. I’d hate to be friggin' 40. 

I flew back to Manila for my birthday last March, 14 years after that conversation with Jose.  I had not been in touch with him since because of his refusal to join the Facebook bandwagon, but we knew how each other was doing through common friends. He would always say that he was happy to know I'm alive and well.

He missed my birthday celebration because of an out of town business trip but vowed that we would see each other this year as he was very keen on meeting the kind of children I’ve raised and needed to verify that my husband, is in fact, not a figment of my imagination. 

Jose died last week.  While driving home, he was shot in the chest by a business rival. Chinese mafia related.  He would’ve been 40 next year. 

I received the news through a friend 2 days ago.  I stared at my phone in shock and struggled to process her text message. As I write this, I still find it difficult to accept that I will no longer see him, waste time with crude, immature talk and prove to him that I actually turned out to be a not-so-bad mother.

Our friend Dax sent a message bearing the same news. It began with a greeting that was achingly familiar. “Capoool!!!”

rest in peace, my sweet.

I turned off my phone and wept.  

the true meaning of christmas, ya'll

Lucas (6) receives a $100 cheque from his Godfather for Christmas and shows it off to his sister Sofia (8).

Lucas:  (waves the cheque)I got a 100 dollars!  I got a 100 dollars! I got a 100 dollars!

Sofia:  (looks up from her book) Ahh Lucas, for your information, Christmas is about the love of your family and the love you share.  It's about being together during this season. Not the money you get from people.

Me:     (rolls eyes)

Lucas:  (looks at me and mouths..) What a loser!


She did not get that from me.  His reaction, however, is a totally different story.