- Kai, blog author
Under The Radar

me at my sickest and ungliest; the pills, the sparkling water (boooring), and the evil cookie.

Speaking of last night’s finale… wasn’t that the worst? I mean, it was the most boring, least entertaining, and most awkward finale ever! Apolo Anton Ohno’s Paso Doble on Dancing With The Stars was even miles better than Jordin, Blake and Chris Daughtry combined! I couldn’t believe it. And really, don’t you just know it’s a mess when a finalist of Jodin Sparks’ caliber sings a song from the dirty Christina Aguilera era? I mean, seriously. Of all the songs she could pick from the Aguilera songbook, she picks a song of which we’re all reminded of Christina at her skankiest. Sure enough, it was completely and utterly disastrous. Ok, I sound like Simon already, but you know what I’m saying.

Obviously, I’m disappointed. Nevertheless, Jordin wins with that cheesy ballad from the Idol song factory. I will be shocked if she’s not the one singing it again, with matching golden fireworks, in two hours time. Blake, on the other hand, will be successful just like make-up-wearing Chris Daughtry (what’s up with that? And he was strumming the guitar as if he’s John Mayer or something. Seriously, Chris. You only had like two of the easiest chords, who are you kidding?). With the success of white guys conquering the black mainstream radio (eg: Justin Timberlake, Robin Thicke), Blake will have the slightest problem of getting his own record deal. He just needs to be blonde again though, black hair makes him look fat.

“You deserve someone who loves and lives just as hard as you do” Eeep! Right on!

And since we’re already talking of finales… Tell me you didn’t skip Grey’s Anatomy‘s season ender. WHAT? You did? Did you go to Mars or something? Gee!! It was tearjerker at its best! Shonda Rhimes, you’re officially my hero. How do you come up with these depressing stuff? (Totally outdid the Denny drama from last year.) Seriously. I wouldn’t mind dying of a heart attack as a result of your creative geniuses. You’re awesome like that. But anyway, I’m not going to discuss it here, for I may spoil you unintentionally (as I tend to do, per Tala ) but please please please, GO SEE IT, so we could cry and squeal together!!!

It’s almost summer here, it’s getting really hot. Do you guys have plans? Beach, out of town, boyhunting? Good for you and your hormones! As for me, I just registered in that film class I told you about. Still waiting for a reply from those jobs I applied for. If I didn’t get a response by the time summer sem starts, I might as well just grab that job opportunity at Rue’s workplace. She works for the mentally disturbed, actually. And she thinks I would fit perfectly well. Gee, do I have the most amazing friends on Earth or what. )

The Ex is basically about a young couple from NYC that were forcibly moved to Ohio due to a newborn baby and unallowable unemployment in the big city. Braff is the hapless underdog as Tom, a husband who is obligated to work for his father-in-law and under the supervision of the abrasive Chip Sanders (Jason Bateman) who also happens to be his wife’s (Amanda Peet) ex-fling. The two eventually get into a contest, by all means, as Tom desperately tries to prove time and time again that Chip is nothing but an asshole who intentionally confined himself to a wheelchair to earn sympathy from the society and Tom’s wife.

Half past 2pm, the movie was over. It was as quick as an office cubicle sex without the guaranteed satisfaction afterwards. As hilarious as some (meaning, little) parts may have been, I still felt like this was just a blown-up version of an average sitcom episode. It had story, it didn’t have flow. The actors were fairly good, the direction was all over the place. It was almost annoying! But I love Zach Braff. And Jason Bateman. And Amanda Peet. And Amy Poehler. And Fred Armisen. And… you get the point. So I’m not even gonna go about it and warn you that there are worse ways of spending an hour and half of your respective Fridays.

We were casually wandering around, trying to look for another movie to sneak into (it’s an illegal habit, don’t try this at home) but everything had either Shrek The Third or Spiderman III. Screw these sequels!! How come Titanic never had one? We were worried that somebody would catch us so we went inside the nearest theater just so we could do so. Delta Farce was horrible. Whoever said that this deserved to be a motion picture must be decapitated ASAP. That introductory scene alone made me threw up in my mouth! I couldn’t stand DJ Qualls and Larry The Cable Guy‘s pathetic attempt into big-screen comedy that I had to pull Rue out of her seat before I involuntarily freak out (default mechanism).

We continued to scan the theaters until this suspecting housekeeper drove us to the far end of the hall… Fracture was to start at 2:45pm and I told her that this might be it. My short-term memory can only handle so much that I completely forgot who was starring in it. But who cares, I was becoming tired of playing hide-and-seek with the help that I’d just settle for anything. Even with Bai Ling. The theater was almost packed which was a good sign. And then my memory suddenly shrieked in joy upon the appearance of Ryan Gosling‘s name in the opening credits. I knew this was gonna be good!

Ted Crawford (Anthony Hopkins) is an aged engineer who discovers his younger wife to be having an affair with a man her age. After their hotel lascivious rendezvous, Crawford makes his move by deliberately plotting his revenge of firing a bullet to her face. He gets detained, as hotshot prosecutor, Willy Beachum (Gosling) enters the picture. Beachum is on his way out of the district office to a high-paying job at the law firm, having possessed the best conviction crime rate. But his last assignment? To nullify Ted Crawford’s attempts of escaping his committed crime’s consequences. But Crawford’s meticulous smarts and impeccable attention to details is set up perfectly against Beachum’s youth, arrogance and obsession with success — a weak spot that the old guy is convinced he can break.

This cat-and-moust thriller may have all the obvious elements of a crime/suspense/drama feature; a gun, a trophy wife, an alleged love affair, and a hot prosecutor. While this may resemble storylines of scripted courtroom television, Fracture‘s dialogues are far more astute and amusing, towed with clever serial humor. The verbal wrestling between Hopkins and Gosling was unpredictably outstanding, combine that with Gosling’s youthful conceitedness (note: what a serious upgrade from The Notebook) and that good ol’ crinkly smirk that we normally expect from Anthony Hopkins. It was such a joy to watch. But what I really enjoyed most about it was the frequent tendency of rewinding scenes in the back of a viewer’s head, with innumerable questions hovering the process. Without a doubt, this movie counts as one of the few which leads you out of the theater still asking for more.

We got a good one, after all… for free, no less. I was done complaining. Our day was capped off by a mid-day dinner at Chili’s. I didn’t have a lot of cash, and so did Rue, but I knew I had enough in my pocket to at least be catered a decent meal. We were offered happy hour margaritas the very second we sat on our booth. It was evil and tempting and extremely cheap, but we were afraid we had to take the big meals for our starving machines over the colorful cocktails. We collected the check even before I finish my cajun pasta, it was reasonably cheap BUT… I miscalculated my money, all along thinking that I had $6 more than the actual amount I had in my purse. What was I to do?? Good thing Rue had some leftover $1 bills to compensate my irresponsible ass, or we’d have to flirt back to those dudes staring at us all the time we were there (and they’re not even that cute, and we’re not lowering our standards only because we’re broke). But we survived, laughed our way out of it. Note to selves: check wallets before entering bars and restaurants. Seriously! I was ready to wash the dishes.

My grades weren’t that bad, I mean considering that it’s been a while since I last stirred myself in school’s hustle-and-bustle. My GPA’s looking pretty rad at 3.3 (that’s like B+) and that’s an incredible upgrade from my 1.7s and 1.5s. I could even barely get a 75% in Algebra and now look who’s sporting a 99 in an exam?? Ahhh, the wonders of a boyfriend-less, post-smoking, party-retired environment.

I still refuse to admit that I’m obsessed with school. Yeah, I’ve been watching a lot of TV lately but the idea of watching basketball or tennis while doing some research or those math homeworks suddenly became customary, that it just felt extraordinarily boring sitting infront of the television without all those books scattered around me. I know, right? TOTALLY uncharacteristic. Just more than year ago, I was sitting on our old Dallas apartment, completely hesitant of the idea of going back to college. But now, I’m dreadfully waiting for my mother’s paycheck so I could already enroll for Humanities this summer. Seriously, I don’t know if it’s some spell that my professional mother put on me or I just gone geeky.

Right: Watching October Sky in my HDEV class. And yes, that’s Jake freakin’ Gyllenhaal.

Of course, there’s still that inner-bum in me that kind of wanted to dispatch the urge of continuing school. Afterall, it’s supposed to be summer, the perfect time to lay beside the pool, get a tan and lose some pounds. But I really had no assurance that that kind of summer lifestyle would work, after its letdown from a year ago. Then I saw that poster on the Performance Hall’s bulletin board as I headed out to get a frappucino. A 3-hour 3 days/week class that will give credit by watching movies. Movies? For core credits? Ha, just when I thought college was doomed to be only an uninteresting prerequisite for those who fear living underneath a bridge with only half a banana to fill one’s stomach with. I’m definitely enrolling! Especially when there’s free popcorn and fruities, although I’m not entirely sure about that.

Whoa, Nellie… so much for the good ol’ times…
And as for my title… well, J-Rich is one of those midgets who pummeled my team’s ass. I was listening to a 50-cent song when I was desperately in need of a title, and that particular nickname (which is cute, by the way) just quickly inserted my head. Speaking of desperately in need of a title, this was the Mavs’ mantra coming from a disappointing loss to Miami last season. If you and I have been bantering about our daily dimes for more than a year now, you must know that I was like being paid to blog about it last year, constantly exchanging thoughts about the playoffs and Finals with Laureen (what the heck happened to our teams?) and the other guys. And God knows how emotionally draining it was, most importantly for Dirk, who was, needless to say, called out by, who else, Finals MVP himself, D-Wade, for his lack of leadership. I don’t think you can ever pull me into a situation where I will, even forcibly, agree with you, especially when Dirk’s the subject. That guy’s just too special to torture, maybe extremely bleak at this point, but I’ve watched this German long enough to figure out that he’s not the leader/motivator/preacher type of captain, and that’s just the way he’s always gonna be. And unfortunately, he will forever draw criticism for that kind of attitude, or lack thereof.

The Die Tryin’ part was obviously not what the Mavs did when they needed to the most. It hurts to see your favorite team, player, American Idol contestant lose. But it hurts out-of-this-world more if you see them get to the finish line way behind and exhausted even without exerting that much effort. I might be assuming here, but that’s what I saw, and it was effin’ frustrating! If the Mavericks come in 2008 with a championship-or-bust goal plastered on their foreheads (again), this is what they will be needing to do. Not just in the regular season, but in the playoffs, where every damn basket matters.

Are you surprised though? I’ve been venting and I haven’t really cursed? And for once, I’m being impressively objective? I have this new mission in life, which I plan on talking about in the future. Actually, that what was supposed to be my topic today, had this series been pushed to a Game 7. But since it’s dunzo, I think this gives me the opportunity to be an NBA fan. I’m a basetball fan, a Dallas Mavericks fan, but NBA? Meaning, rooting for the other Texas teams? Fairly questionable. I mean, I don’t adore any other team than my city’s own. But since they (ahem!) you-know, I may take this chance to actually try and enjoy it without being too emotionally entangled. And what better way to start than cheering for the team that shattered your favorite team’s hopes for the championship??

I enormously dislike that part of my name, but it’s in all my documents, which explains my mother’s urge to buy that thing when she came over to California for the first time. How ironic that I would see this, of all times and places, on my desk and dresser before and after the game? No, Mama. I will still not move with you and Papa to California. At least not in the Bay Area. Ok, that was just me, being a bitch. But in all seriousness, and this is rare, I would like to congratulate all my cousins, uncles, everyone else who also watches those Pacquiao matches, for this huge upset achieved by the Warriors. I’m pretty sure somebody’s already waiting to push those wacky smilies at me on Yahoo! Messenger that I will be so humiliated I can snack on that gallon of vanilla ice-cream in the fridge. But seriously. I’m gonna hate myself for saying this but, they kicked [major] butt, and the better team won. Yeah, I said it! They were better. Way better. Hence, this town’s basically off for one playoff-less summer…

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I was terribly sleepless the night before, skittering from one bedroom to another, finding that perfect ground for a couple of hours of bedrest. Then the morning after, I woke up feeling like some scattered ghost speared me right in the gut. I don’t know if it was a result of detecting my solace on a carpeted hardwood, with my butt-faced-up the entire night, or really, some ghastly disturbed spirit was pissed off. Creepy as it sounds, my whole day was haunted by a “bad feeling” or something, like something unpleasant was bound to happen.

Thankfully, the weather was with me in the morning. I wore this nice black cardigan over a white tank to match my ballet flats and black pearly beads. I was dressed to impress, as what Ms. Dulan always says to enlighten my Tuesdays and Thursdays with. Everything was going fine until I parked my ass on the students’ lounge, reading S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders. Seconds later, a canoodling couple sat on the couch next to mine, kissing as if they were covered by the darkness of a moviehouse, where they’re practically being the motion picture of some eleven other students who’re literally salivating on them (and I don’t know if that’s a good thing). I was frozen in disgust. Good thing a student in scrubs sat nearby and shared my puke-worthy saga. Five minutes later, the couple sprinted to the nearest Motel 6, as I saw one familiar face glueing her eyes in the bulletin board.

I approached her, as if I was heading to the vendo station, just to check if she was who I think she was. Damn, it was Dariam Acevedo! Ok, you don’t really know her, do you? Well, she’s actually one of the senior longhorns in the volleyball team last season. And she was my favorite! So of course, I became all excited. Afraid of grossing her out with my fangirly enthusiasm, I greeted her with a subtle, “Dariam? Hey, I’m Kai. I’m a student here, nice to meet you.” And she went, “Hi Kai. You’ve got a pretty cool school.” I was about to laugh, ’cause rhymes are just plainly funny (aren’t they?) but of course, I didn’t want to embarrass her right infront of my eyes. So I just went, “Oh yeah, of course. Hey, I just wanted to say, I am such a big fan of yours and Texas Volleyball. I hope you stick around!” still containing the fangirly squee. She was cordial enough to say, “Thanks.” although I pretty much knew she was leaving for Puerto Rico anytime soon. But anyway, that’s some encounter I truly enjoyed with a relatively unknown. I didn’t bother asking for a picture because a) she seemed pre-occupied while I was talking to her, b) it’s harrassing to find out that she’s STILL taller than me, and c) I’m not really sure if she was the Dariam Acevedo I assumed her to be. You know, this state is so huge, it’s not so unusual to find a look-a-like in one random corner. Ok, that was completely pointless. Moving on…

I got into my Algebra class, half-excited as to how I did on the recent exam. Got my paper… 73. I passed. Barely. And a “C-” is just downright unacceptable. Especially when I’m gunning to be an astronaut. My professor was slightly bothered herself since I’ve never gotten a C in a chapter test before, which sorta helps me calm my nerves in the remaining two weeks of the semester, right? I must have been overdosing on Rafa‘s sex appeal, that I disregarded the horrors of factoring polynomials and all that shit.

After class, I decided to apply for a job at Barnes and Noble (man, is this some confirmation that I’ve turned into a geek freak? I hope not) so I asked my brother if he could drive me there, like he had a choice. It was raining, the roads were slippery, and our wheels weren’t in the perfect shape. My under-experienced driver then rejuvenated that “bad feeling” I had earlier that day. BOOM. Our hood hit the back of this Saturn SUV, as the ass of our car was bumped by another vehicle. Some domino effect caused by break failure and glassy highways. I was horrified. The girl from the Saturn jumps out of her car with her potty mouth declaring the panic word “fuck” as she looks at her car’s butt. I was waiting for this girl to snap ’cause this gut has been hurting all day that I just couldn’t wait to grapple some catty little bitch. But she was nice, even asking my little brother if he was hurt or something. Then the other girl from the other car entered the picture, confessing that this was her first time in an accident. Dude, we all just came out of Northlake, my brother’s clearly younger than you two, of course, it’s all your first times. But impressively though, nobody panicked, with the exception of me (and I wasn’t any of the drivers) even when the police guy came over to help. Our hood was crushed, but thankfully, nobody got hurt, and my brother’s not going to jail. *knocks on wood* He’s legal, licensed and sober. Of course, he’s not going to jail. Oh well, that’s just me over-analyzing things, as always. Now if only the insurance company can help us recover the beauty of our poor little Honda…

Not done… there’s more! My job booty call with Barnes and Noble was obviously canceled because of the accident. Is that some sign of postponed geek transformation? So we went straight home, and worried about something else. The weather’s intensity suddenly boosted as winds swayed from one end to another emulating the motion of gymnastic ribbons. Our house was literally shaking each time thunder jangles the grounds that you can chillingly hear the chandelier’s bulbs go haywire. We monitored the news all night (meaning, right after American Idol) in accordance to situations like this. But let me tell you, in my years in Texas, or in all of America, I have never experienced a national catastrophe yet. God knows how I’m thankful each day, but you can only imagine how petrified I am everytime that always-composed weather analyst warns us, “Be alert, folks. Once we find the right signal, we advise that you lock yourself in a secluded room on the lowest floor of your house, and bring pillows and blankets to cover your heads (while you swat in total tremor).” I did not sleep until 3am, in complete assurance that no more tornado watch is ahead, ’cause I was pretty sure my parents and my brother will not even notice a twister in 20 seconds when they’re deep asleep. Thank God our area wasn’t cruelly affected. The roof is still sitting atop of our house, the courtyard still perfectly intact, and our hair still not Sanjaya’d.

To top it all off, my google account was suddenly alien to Blogger, and to Gmail that they wouldn’t let me log in! I don’t know if some bastard messed up with me again, or if Blogger and Gmail have just gotten enough of me. But for whatever its worth, I’m writing this one-day circus in notepad and will hopefully be able to post once the crapped out account figures itself out…

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But obviously, the account wasn’t retrieved, although I had my address back, like it really compensates the loss of our good ol’ memories. But that’s just life. You get some, you lose some. Nevertheless, thanks for keeping up with me, and I promise you, no more future entries about Sanjaya. Cross my fingers, hope my pinkie toe die. And I know I have been MIA on your blogs lately, but I swear to make it up. It’s the college thing, you know. Cramming and ass-kicking primetime. So anyway, I am drowsy as heck and I just can’t wait to pray. (You read that right, pray… I’ll explain later.) I’ll head out now, and you guys be safe. God Bless!