the oscars are exactly 60 minutes away. unfortunately, i shall be in class at that time and i will be missing 3 hours of the most awaited, most elitist, most important show of the year. sigh. i will, instead, be listening to a lecturer talking about career management. it sucks.
anyway, just to make it a little more fun for me, i'm gonna do a whole prediction thing. i'm gonna list down the 6 categories and give my opinion (rather, i'll just state) on who will win, and my who should win (my personal favorites).
i really don't know what good this will do, or what it will accomplish, except that it'll just be nice to feel as if i contributed more to this event since i can't bloody fucking watch it coz of fucking coma-inducing class.
Best Picture
Who Will Win- Million Dollar Baby (I really want to be proved wrong with the below choice)
Who Should Win- The Aviator (actually, it should be Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind u vile mo fo's.)
Best Director
Who Will Win: Martin Scorcese, The Aviator (mr.oh-so-fucking-old-&-smug Clint might pull off an upset here too)
Who Should Win: Martin Scorcese, The Aviator
Best Actor
Who Will Win: Jamie Foxx, Ray (duh!)
Who Should Win: Don Cheadle, Hotel Rwanda or Leonardo Di Caprio, The Aviator
Best Actress
Who Will Win: Hilary Swank, Million Dollar Baby (I want to hate her. But I can't coz I haven't seen her performance. And it's pretty amazing to have ONLY got good reviews from ALL the critics, so I'm gonna give credit where it's due)
Who Should Win: Kate Winslet, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (or the above, I really really don't mind)
Best Supporting Actor
Who Will Win: Morgan Freeman, Million Dollar Baby
Who Should Win: Clive Owen, Closer
Best Supporting Actress
Ok I'm gonna reserve my comments for this and I'm just gonna make a few comments about every performance in this category. I love all these performances. They were fucking brilliant. Laura Linney in Kinsey was amazing, she portrayed her character with oodles and oodles of intelligence with a little bit of horniness and a lot of repressed hurt masked in subtler overtones of angry repression. Cate Blanchett was brilliant in The Aviator. I've never seen K.Hepburn in action on screen but I could see that what Cate was doing was amazing, i.e. playing a character with seeming effortlessness (and so entertaining). Sophie Okonedo from Hotel Rwanda.. sigh.. i watched this movie and remember thinking why in hell had she been ignored from all the other awards... and i was fucking delighted when i heard she got nominated for this movie. Her performance is heart wrenching, strong and displays everything it should: love, desperation, selfishness. The above two, Linney and Blanchett are two of my favorite actresses, but if Okonedo wins, i will cry.. with joy. Last of all, Natalie Portman from Closer was hilariously good. This girl, the Star Wars girl, was very very very very convincing in this movie. I can't really describe her performance as anything but being the best (along with Owen) in the film and it certainly could be the best of the year. I love her line, 'slap me fucker' at the end of the movie. she says fucker soooo eloquently. i respect her. and she's totally and completely angelic-hot. she definitely is the Blower's Daughter (ha ha, jock-type inspired joke)
Ok, i'm late for class. Let me see if i can rank the above performances, however difficult that might seem.
1. Natalie Portman
2. Cate Blanchett
3. Sophie Okonedo
4. Laura Linney
5. the girl from Sideways
Ok.. ciao. Hopy my predictions are correct. I'm gonna die if Winslet wins.. i hope she looks as gorgeous as ever tonight.. sigh
Monday, February 28, 2005
Thursday, February 24, 2005
old people and the MRT
So myself and a friend were at the MRT the other day. That in itself is a big thing: we're snobs even though always running out of money (cabs, hello?). Well yeah, it was really crowded. Not normal crowded like during rush hour but like really really packed. We had to miss 3 trains before we finally got into one, crowded, sweaty, carriage, just to go one further stop to where life, we believe really originates, i.e. Orchard.
Yep, so after enduring roughly 5 minutes of breathing quite uncomfortably through the mouth, we got off (I'm sure some one got off at the rate bodies were pushing against each other) and we were quite surprised to see that the station at Orchard was quite deserted. Chingay (the parade of dreams) was going on, gay is right btw, and everyone, I mean everyone, boys, girls, sexually confused, de-sexed, un-sexed and trannies were out there, with goggled eyes, staring at the pretty decent and even sometimes magnificent floats depicting everything from local food to Sri-Lankan dee-lights. This seems like the ending to a story. It actually is. Coz what I want to tell you actually happened, usually happens on the train.
Speaking of trains, it usually is a train of thought I have in trains when I see old people on trains.
Old people, our venerable aunties and uncles, are supposed to fall into 3 categories
a). the meek kind that hobbles around
b). the tough yet grandmotherly kind who allows you to snuggle into her folds of god-given comfort
and c). the mean, bitchy kind that will go straight to hell coz she ruined her son's, his wife's and her husband's life.
Unfortunately, the first two categorizations go straight to hell when it comes to squeezing into the train at rush hour.
Typical scenario:
Waiting for the train to rush into the station, the screen says the train is two minutes away which means it will be here in less than a minute. So we slowly inch forward towards the yellow line, safely behind it as the kindly announcers have already told us. And we wait patiently and cautiously so that the old lady behind us doesn't go flying into the face of the oncoming train with a clumsy adolescent flick of the wrist.
The train arrives with a whoosh and we resign ourselves to the effort in trying to get onto the damn thing. However, my plans to slowly but surely progress are halted by the bitch behind me, who, even though is around 125 years old has the strength of a damn rhinoceros in heat.
Unfortunately, or fortunately for my detractors (those who want Gautam to go straight into hell), it doesn't end there.
We feel compelled to give our seats to the elderly because they seem to deserve more comfort than we do. Usually I don't have a problem with doing that if they fall into the first category. However, these bitches, and they're mostly women, think that because they've been living longer than us, they've achieved a sense of Nirvana, which entitles them to a plastic seat on the damn thing they're traveling in, which btw, they shouldn't really need, as Nirvana brings with it a sense of content that transcends the primal urges to consume and visit relatives and with that a desire to transport oneself is isolated to a mental process that does not involve the MRT, obviously so, since it is very much a physical phenomenon: a result of the Modern Man's desire to consume.
Yeah, old people slip into all sorts of freaky bouts of bi-polar disease on the trains. The monsters usually don't give up until they get a bloody seat and then they close their eyes, serenely, as if they were the fucking Queen of England.
Yep, so after enduring roughly 5 minutes of breathing quite uncomfortably through the mouth, we got off (I'm sure some one got off at the rate bodies were pushing against each other) and we were quite surprised to see that the station at Orchard was quite deserted. Chingay (the parade of dreams) was going on, gay is right btw, and everyone, I mean everyone, boys, girls, sexually confused, de-sexed, un-sexed and trannies were out there, with goggled eyes, staring at the pretty decent and even sometimes magnificent floats depicting everything from local food to Sri-Lankan dee-lights. This seems like the ending to a story. It actually is. Coz what I want to tell you actually happened, usually happens on the train.
Speaking of trains, it usually is a train of thought I have in trains when I see old people on trains.
Old people, our venerable aunties and uncles, are supposed to fall into 3 categories
a). the meek kind that hobbles around
b). the tough yet grandmotherly kind who allows you to snuggle into her folds of god-given comfort
and c). the mean, bitchy kind that will go straight to hell coz she ruined her son's, his wife's and her husband's life.
Unfortunately, the first two categorizations go straight to hell when it comes to squeezing into the train at rush hour.
Typical scenario:
Waiting for the train to rush into the station, the screen says the train is two minutes away which means it will be here in less than a minute. So we slowly inch forward towards the yellow line, safely behind it as the kindly announcers have already told us. And we wait patiently and cautiously so that the old lady behind us doesn't go flying into the face of the oncoming train with a clumsy adolescent flick of the wrist.
The train arrives with a whoosh and we resign ourselves to the effort in trying to get onto the damn thing. However, my plans to slowly but surely progress are halted by the bitch behind me, who, even though is around 125 years old has the strength of a damn rhinoceros in heat.
Unfortunately, or fortunately for my detractors (those who want Gautam to go straight into hell), it doesn't end there.
We feel compelled to give our seats to the elderly because they seem to deserve more comfort than we do. Usually I don't have a problem with doing that if they fall into the first category. However, these bitches, and they're mostly women, think that because they've been living longer than us, they've achieved a sense of Nirvana, which entitles them to a plastic seat on the damn thing they're traveling in, which btw, they shouldn't really need, as Nirvana brings with it a sense of content that transcends the primal urges to consume and visit relatives and with that a desire to transport oneself is isolated to a mental process that does not involve the MRT, obviously so, since it is very much a physical phenomenon: a result of the Modern Man's desire to consume.
Yeah, old people slip into all sorts of freaky bouts of bi-polar disease on the trains. The monsters usually don't give up until they get a bloody seat and then they close their eyes, serenely, as if they were the fucking Queen of England.
So what do YOU think?
I'm going straight to hell aren't I?
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
fags!
cycles...
I put these foul things in my mouth and feel extraordinary bliss.. smoke trailing through my respiratory system, exquisitely assaulting my throat with layer upon layer of nicotine.
The remnants of a binge the previous night still litter my desk like poisonous snowfall, blowing about in circles as I exhale from yet another filter of indulgence..
I must quit. What with the escalating price of cigarettes and the priceless nature of my (compromised) health, I need to quit. My health has certainly taken a backseat over the past few years. I presume it's only waiting to lash back with some great, terminal shit.
Yeah so, anyway, I'm going to quit.
Let's see how that works out.
I put these foul things in my mouth and feel extraordinary bliss.. smoke trailing through my respiratory system, exquisitely assaulting my throat with layer upon layer of nicotine.
The remnants of a binge the previous night still litter my desk like poisonous snowfall, blowing about in circles as I exhale from yet another filter of indulgence..
I must quit. What with the escalating price of cigarettes and the priceless nature of my (compromised) health, I need to quit. My health has certainly taken a backseat over the past few years. I presume it's only waiting to lash back with some great, terminal shit.
Yeah so, anyway, I'm going to quit.
Let's see how that works out.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
11:55pm
5 minutes to the next day. A fresh start? Hardly..
My eyes feel parched, my lids leaden.
I should pray as my mum tells me too. Futile words she penned down on hopeful pages.
Things could be better, even if they are good.
Maybe I should pray for that, selfish as that might seem, but really, do I care?
Tomorrow never comes, that's why it's always like today.
Monday, February 14, 2005
mushy cereal
so here I am, up bright and early, (I refer to the state of daylight outside my room and not my 'sense of being' as that is severely compromised by my lack of sleep), eating my weet-bix and milk and thinking about the wonderful things in life.... err right..
I'm actually cursing the taste of such vile stuff and wondering to myself why I actually missed eating this stuff over the last week. Well considering that over the past week, I ran out of the cereal, had a bit of spoilt milk, spent way tooo much money and woke up on two consecutive afternoons with pretty bad hangovers and.. and had a bloody panic attack about some non-existent project which I thought I had to hand in today, I would think that getting up this early and eating a bowl of fibrous cereal for breakfast just before a class, that's three good things there already, is very commendable and therefore deserves to have a blog posting all of its own.
Hmm.. what a mouthful. Pun intended. Ha Ha. NOT. I'm taking very abrupt, very tiny bites of my cereal fervently hoping I am scooping up much more than I actually am. yum.
Alright then, what wonderful thing have I realized over my bowl of pensive cereal a.k.a horrendous poison? Well, nothing really. I've been too busy trying to get 'smelly cat, smelly cat' out of my head.
It's so awful. You know how something can get stuck in your head for ages....oh well, my post ends here, actually I want it to end here. Yep. Ok. Bye.
I'm actually cursing the taste of such vile stuff and wondering to myself why I actually missed eating this stuff over the last week. Well considering that over the past week, I ran out of the cereal, had a bit of spoilt milk, spent way tooo much money and woke up on two consecutive afternoons with pretty bad hangovers and.. and had a bloody panic attack about some non-existent project which I thought I had to hand in today, I would think that getting up this early and eating a bowl of fibrous cereal for breakfast just before a class, that's three good things there already, is very commendable and therefore deserves to have a blog posting all of its own.
Hmm.. what a mouthful. Pun intended. Ha Ha. NOT. I'm taking very abrupt, very tiny bites of my cereal fervently hoping I am scooping up much more than I actually am. yum.
Alright then, what wonderful thing have I realized over my bowl of pensive cereal a.k.a horrendous poison? Well, nothing really. I've been too busy trying to get 'smelly cat, smelly cat' out of my head.
It's so awful. You know how something can get stuck in your head for ages....oh well, my post ends here, actually I want it to end here. Yep. Ok. Bye.
Friday, February 11, 2005
black
We see so many versions of relationships everyday. Familial, sexual, friendly (asexual) etc. They seem 'normal' in the sense that they have the same tendencies to break apart every once in awhile but do we actually see the bond between them? We see the laughter, the smiles, even the killer look of hatred as evidence of love but what understanding do we have of that feeling these people have within them, inexpressible, mismatched and disguised emotions that never seem to make their full impact on each other, much less the outside world?
Well, what I saw today was extraordinary. It was unsettling and beautiful at the same time. Two people, one oblivious to sight and sound and the other oblivious to memories coming together to really expose that raw bond that exists within us with the people we would kill for. Every nuance, every little heart wrenching plea for help, for relief of touch made me shiver with fear and delight and eventually tears.
Bonding is a dangerous thing. I can say from a safe-enough distance that I would want to love someone like that one day, but what will I do when I cannot handle my partner in sickness like in health? What if he can't? Could we be forced to do the right thing? Do we have to?
Black is very idyllic, which is ironic considering that these are two people suffering from a great mutual need for each other, even if they don't know it themselves. Selfnessless is as rare as it's antonym is common. But what we see onscreen is how things should be and there's no two ways about it.
And do catch the film. It's a class act. Indian cinema has just placed it's icing on the cake.
Well, what I saw today was extraordinary. It was unsettling and beautiful at the same time. Two people, one oblivious to sight and sound and the other oblivious to memories coming together to really expose that raw bond that exists within us with the people we would kill for. Every nuance, every little heart wrenching plea for help, for relief of touch made me shiver with fear and delight and eventually tears.
Bonding is a dangerous thing. I can say from a safe-enough distance that I would want to love someone like that one day, but what will I do when I cannot handle my partner in sickness like in health? What if he can't? Could we be forced to do the right thing? Do we have to?
Black is very idyllic, which is ironic considering that these are two people suffering from a great mutual need for each other, even if they don't know it themselves. Selfnessless is as rare as it's antonym is common. But what we see onscreen is how things should be and there's no two ways about it.
And do catch the film. It's a class act. Indian cinema has just placed it's icing on the cake.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
recurring dream
I've had this nightmare over and over again.
I'm floating about in the deepest, darkest depths of space. It is space because in the distance I see the twinkling of the stars as though I was watching from my balcony itself. I'm feeling this sense of desperation. I think, apparently, I've been abandoned by my space crew. God know's what the fuck I was doing on a space mission anyway.
All of a sudden, the blackness fades away and gallons and gallons of yellow take its place. I know, out of sheer intuition, that I'm in a Mary Poppins painting and I'm terribly happy. However, I'm rushed into a field of daffodils where Mr. Daffodil himself is singing to me. However, Wordsworth does not take on the faded portrait look I've seen a million times. Instead, it's the frighteningly vivid face of my late father. My heart pounds itself into my stomach with such a force that I'm back in space again.
But it's not space, definitely not. I float and I plod along. I hear a familiar noise amplified a million times. The giver of life, suddenly seems to take it away. Loud and disturbingly efficient I view my heart, so large and hideous, beating out life into me. It stops and I wither away.
It really was a nightmare. However, the recurrence of it turned it into a dream. It used to elicit screams, insomnia and once even urination from me and the details stayed with me for days after. I used to lie in bed, almost paralyzed, trying to make sense of it. However, over the years, the vividity has been dulled and I can't remember it that well anymore. So here it is, immortalized and slightly compromised with a touch, just a wee touch, of refinement. After all, it just a dream, right? Right?
I'm floating about in the deepest, darkest depths of space. It is space because in the distance I see the twinkling of the stars as though I was watching from my balcony itself. I'm feeling this sense of desperation. I think, apparently, I've been abandoned by my space crew. God know's what the fuck I was doing on a space mission anyway.
All of a sudden, the blackness fades away and gallons and gallons of yellow take its place. I know, out of sheer intuition, that I'm in a Mary Poppins painting and I'm terribly happy. However, I'm rushed into a field of daffodils where Mr. Daffodil himself is singing to me. However, Wordsworth does not take on the faded portrait look I've seen a million times. Instead, it's the frighteningly vivid face of my late father. My heart pounds itself into my stomach with such a force that I'm back in space again.
But it's not space, definitely not. I float and I plod along. I hear a familiar noise amplified a million times. The giver of life, suddenly seems to take it away. Loud and disturbingly efficient I view my heart, so large and hideous, beating out life into me. It stops and I wither away.
It really was a nightmare. However, the recurrence of it turned it into a dream. It used to elicit screams, insomnia and once even urination from me and the details stayed with me for days after. I used to lie in bed, almost paralyzed, trying to make sense of it. However, over the years, the vividity has been dulled and I can't remember it that well anymore. So here it is, immortalized and slightly compromised with a touch, just a wee touch, of refinement. After all, it just a dream, right? Right?
Downward Spiral: An Obligatory Post
My downward spiral never came. I'm glad. I am also confused as to why it did not come. In some morbid I was actually looking forward to it. I just wanted to see if I could have felt any worse than I did.
Why did I think I was losing control? Actually, come to think of it, I might be in the midst of completely losing it. I mean, there is such a thing as denial right? And usually, the destructive state of denial usually does occur when you are in the thick of things, because, voila your not in an objective position anymore. Whatever.
Well, to be honest, I conjure up a lot of drama around my 'problems' just to make myself more interesting. I don't know why I do it but how much can I justify to myself that I am an equal? I am as interesting, as smart, as talented, as fucked up as anyone else. But I can't do it anymore because in this case, the veneer I have been nurturing for such a long time has slowly worn down to the magnificent amount of evidence in front of me.
The emotion of an absolute sense of incompetence is not new to me. I've felt it, tasted it almost, for aeons now. But it has caught up with me and why should I not go completely crazy over it? Why should I turn to introspection and correct myself when I know that my resolutions lose their enthusiasm as soon as I face up the disappointing challenge that life is? I just want to go nuts... exhilarating madness.
It's very easy for me to blame a load of people for making me this way, but what good will that bring about? So many questions, and yet too many answers.
Close friends, tighter circles bring me some respite, but why do I feel senseless joy and utter sincerity around these people when I see the eyes of judgment lurking on their faces? That's where the crushing incompetency lies. I yearn to be perfect in their eyes, the same way, they are perfect to me. I hate only when you hate.
It all just hopelessly boils down to great expecations and I can't handle it.
Why did I think I was losing control? Actually, come to think of it, I might be in the midst of completely losing it. I mean, there is such a thing as denial right? And usually, the destructive state of denial usually does occur when you are in the thick of things, because, voila your not in an objective position anymore. Whatever.
Well, to be honest, I conjure up a lot of drama around my 'problems' just to make myself more interesting. I don't know why I do it but how much can I justify to myself that I am an equal? I am as interesting, as smart, as talented, as fucked up as anyone else. But I can't do it anymore because in this case, the veneer I have been nurturing for such a long time has slowly worn down to the magnificent amount of evidence in front of me.
The emotion of an absolute sense of incompetence is not new to me. I've felt it, tasted it almost, for aeons now. But it has caught up with me and why should I not go completely crazy over it? Why should I turn to introspection and correct myself when I know that my resolutions lose their enthusiasm as soon as I face up the disappointing challenge that life is? I just want to go nuts... exhilarating madness.
It's very easy for me to blame a load of people for making me this way, but what good will that bring about? So many questions, and yet too many answers.
Close friends, tighter circles bring me some respite, but why do I feel senseless joy and utter sincerity around these people when I see the eyes of judgment lurking on their faces? That's where the crushing incompetency lies. I yearn to be perfect in their eyes, the same way, they are perfect to me. I hate only when you hate.
It all just hopelessly boils down to great expecations and I can't handle it.
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