top ten {FILMS} of ' 09

1. M O O N

2. ThE hEAdLESS WOMAN

3. SIN NOMBRE

4. THE HURT LOCKER

5. THE ROAD

6. A SINGLE MAN

7. A SERIOUS MAN

8. Fantastic Mr. Fox

9. Up

10. AN EDUCATION

Welcome Home

I'm writing this within the confines of my home back in Puerto Rico. If I look out my window to my right, I can see the ocean. That's very comforting to wake up to, let me tell you. I wish I had this sense of peace and tranquility back in NYC. But of course, I don't. However, I think I wouldn't feel this inner calm if I spent all year long living here in my native island. This composure that has swept over me is due to one thing, and one thing only: I'm on vacation. In these past 10 days, I couldn't stop day-dreaming about my incoming trips to the beach, the deliciously greasy Puerto Rican food I would eat, and the overall lethargic state I would heartily adopt during my stay here. How I got here was inconsequential to me, just as long as I had plenty of time and days to swim in the ocean, get a tan, eat and sleep. Like any marathon runner, I didn't care for the race itself - I just wanted to reach the finish line and feel satisfied. Oddly enough, what proved a mentally-taxing experience for me, was, indeed, the process of getting 'home for the holidays'...

I was working my late night shift on Monday evening, and so, since I usually leave work around 2am, I had decided not to go to sleep and instead pack my suitcase and watch TV before my 8am flight. Subways weren't running so frequently, so I hitched a cab and I arrived at JFK a bit earlier than planned - around five in the morning. When I got there, however, a line of people equivalent to one you'd see at "Disney World" greeted me - throngs of couples and families anxiously waiting to go past Customs and reach their terminal. The line moved rather briskly, but these two young boys a couple of feet in front of me made the wait seem eternal, as they would not stop crying their eyes out. Their Nuyorican mother, who accompanied them and was visibly resigned, kept asking them to stay close to her, but the two kids consistently kept roaming in-between people, with one of them in particular plummeting on the floor and crying loudly, tears streaming down his face. At five in the morning, this was one scenario I did not want to encounter. The people around me kept staring incredulously at the mother and her young boys, and one older woman even volunteered to help out the young mother and carry one of her bags to the front of the line. As people looked on, I kept my mouth shut because, at this given moment, I did not want to be associated with this loudmouthed Hispanic family. Harsh as that may sound, I felt sheepish having people of my cultural background behaving in such an unrestrained, obnoxious way. I was running on fumes, what with zero hours of sleep, and I didn't have the patience to withstand these children's tantrums...

I ably deflected them and passed Customs. When I reached my gate, I plopped down on a seat and drank yet another cup of coffee to keep my spirits up. As I surfed the Internet, however, my efforts to stay focused and do some work on my laptop were thwarted by a walking cliche of a man: a moustached, middle-aged Hispanic individual sitting a few seats nearby who couldn't stop guffawing with a pal of his. What the hell could be so funny at five in the freakin' morning?, I thought to myself. I tried to listen to music and focus on whatever I was reading on my computer, but "Mr. Bigote" - with his pearly white teeth beaming every time he howled - kept disconcerting me. The man's jovial mannerisms, coupled with the blaring PA announcements overhead of a woman speaking Spanish very loudly, made me wince over how exasperating my surroundings were. I felt like Alex from A Clockwork Orange: unable to close my eyelids while being subjected to unpleasant voices and people in front of me.

Finally at one point, the waiting passengers settled into groups and people started congregating in front of the gate, waiting to be called in to board the plane. I began to gather my belongings in hopes of reaching my seat on time, but at that moment, a Puerto Rican man in a wheelchair appeared next to me. He quickly started talking to me, and I politely replied back and conversed with him. He told me that he had missed his original flight to PR and didn't know if he was on the "stand-by" list for the current flight. After exchanging a few words, the man suddenly offered his cellphone to me and asked if I could contact his son. He was confused as to which flight he was boarding and couldn't accurately talk with any of the attendants around. As I talked to the son on the phone, I realized that his father, the older man, was very incapacitated to be handling all of this flight mix-up. Although I did not want to abandon the frail man, I was also not under the best mindset (cranky, sleep-deprived, etc...), and I needed to take care of my own travelling issues. While we waited for an attendant to show up at the gate, the old man revealed to me that the reason he was in a wheelchair was because he had suffered a stroke last May and had been hospitalized ever since. His son, who lives in Connecticut, had dropped him off at the airport and thought he'd easily catch the flight to PR, but the father's vulnerable mental state and frail health prevented him from fully making sense of his flight situation. As soon as I saw a flight attendant at the front desk, I approached her and reminded her of the wheelchair-bound man, reiterating the fact that he was unattended and needed assistance to get home. I then walked back towards the man and wished him luck with his holiday travels, hoping deep down that his son would return to the airport on time and help him out...

I boarded my flight and settled into my seat. Now I could doze off and spend the next three hours sleeping! Then, as soon as I closed my eyes, I heard a whimper. But definitely not a human whimper. I turned and looked around, but I couldn't see anything out of the ordinary....until the yelping started, and then I realized that people had actually brought small dogs into the plane! Several American tourists were laughing among themselves at the sheer absurdity of it, obviously surprised at such a scene. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore this kooky behavior as much as possible. It would only be a couple of hours before I arrived home and I wouldn't have to deal with all this craziness...

My mom picked me up at the airport in Isla Verde, and I immediately ranted about all of the situations I had encountered. As I mentioned each one, she chuckled to herself and shook her head, but it didn't faze her much. You're not used to all those things anymore, she told me, as if yelping dogs inside airplanes were a common airplane routine. I'm not sure whether the owners of the dogs were Hispanic, but still, on a general level...has it really come to this? Are people's (*but specifically in this case, Puerto Ricans') behavior when traveling that predictable already that even the zaniest act is deemed ordinary, or normal? Most people are eccentric when they travel, but I have always known my 'people' to be a rambunctious kind (much more so than others), and this experience traveling home to PR opened my eyes once again to these idiosyncrasies of ours, so much so that it caught me off-guard and in turn made me restrain myself from showing my own 'Puerto Rican-ness.' All these taxing scenarios have now become a misconstrued representation of a certain part of my culture. However, despite indeed being flawed projections of who my 'people' truly are, they also conversely evoke a sense of familiarity and nostalgia from my upbringing, and pinpoint to me the realization that home is always within reach.

That's sort of nice. I think.

Dance. it. Out!

[Note: Once again, I've been slacking on writing posts. Well, it's not that I've been putting off having to blog; it's just that there hasn't been anything worthwhile to write about. I prefer to blog on a sporadic basis about things that matter to me, rather than to bombard people with daily (or weekly) posts about trivial, rambling nonsense. I'm using this blog as a meditative tool to vent about my life but also to promote certain things within the city that make me happy. That entails my posts being sporadic but also having some substance to them - as opposed to them being very frequent and going on rants about "why I think winter is neat." But I digress...]

Jeez Louise...I've had a nightmarish ten days. I've been trying to juggle my 3 (!) jobs as best as possible for the past two weeks, but it's truly been getting to me. I really shouldn't be complaining about being busy with work, and I'm not. What I am frustrated with is the lack of consistency in my life. Sometimes I spend several consecutive days without much work, the weeks passing me by at a sluggish pace. Then in other instances, I barely find time to actually sit down and eat a home-cooked meal, instead relying on various snacks and leftovers to push me through the days...

I've recently felt a lot of pent-up frustrations deep inside and, for a couple of days, the feeling kept gnawing at me. I would be home doing laundry and the very act of carrying my heavy bag full of dirty clothes angered me a great deal. I've had tantrums boiling deep down, but I realized that letting them out would just come off as immature and fruitless. My lack of sleep - given my late-night job and my days spent doing work at home - has also been a factor in my bad mood. After a suffocating and hectic 10-day "job-balancing act," salvation came in the form of a concert last Tuesday - Norway's duo Royksopp, who played at Webster Hall. Before going in to the venue, me and my friend Jamie had a couple of drinks and talked about the best concerts we've been to in the past. A difficult question to answer, yes, but an interesting one to think about. What is it about a given show that truly makes it great? The band's performance? The mood you're in, or the company you're with?

Whereas I easily affirmed that the best concert I've gone to is Daft Punk at Coney Island ('07), Jamie had a harder time to come up with a solid reply. However, once the Royksopp show got underway, my "best of" list definitely shifted, and I can honestly say that this one was a spectacular concert. Like Daft Punk two years ago, this concert was the last show of their tour, and they did not disappoint. Once the encore came in, the duo kept at it for another good 30-40 minutes, and me and Jamie couldn't stop dancing. That night, all the inner rage I had felt in previous weeks dissipated as I moved rhythmically to Royksopp's beats. I emptied my mind out of all preoccupations and simply thought about nothing. I didn't care about the work that awaited me the following day, or about my lack of full-time employment in general. I cared even less about how silly I probably looked, waving my hands around as I gleefully jumped and gyrated all around. At that moment, for two hours straight, no problem or worry dampened my spirits. Jamie probably felt the same, as she also grooved like a madwoman throughout the show, but as for myself, I honestly cannot remember the last time I felt so blissfully happy or free. The feel-good rhythms of the DJ duo, coupled with the positive vibe of the crowd around us, made the experience a highly enjoyable one, and, like a soothing body massage, the dancing relaxed my whole being and relinquished all of the issues that were plaguing me.

Now I'm back to reality, of course. I still feel an overwhelming feeling of frustration that is difficult to ignore or fend off. However, at the Royksopp concert, I was made aware of something that, as cheesy as it sounds, I find very satisfying: the true power that dance can have on the human psyche/soul. Sometimes, all it takes for one to feel better about oneself is to "dance it out": to let go of decorum and constraint and simply let loose.

Here's a sampling of the excellent Royksopp concert, in order to give a hint of what the experience was like:

Care for this "Devil"

While a certain ultra-low budget horror film has been making quite an impact at the Box Office (with a sequel in place, and bringing certain filmmakers out of 'retirement'), another one has been quietly flying "under the radar" and should be getting much more traction and attention.

Ti West's House of the Devil is an excellent homage to 80's horror films, but more specifically, a 're-branding' of the aesthetic of these genre movies. Although the plot may seem conventional (teenage babysitter all alone in eerie mansion), West's use of ambience and characterizations make Devil into a unique gem of a horror film.

West unabashedly presents stylistic 80's flourishes (freeze-frames, a kitschy musical score) but never talks down to his audience like many "slasher films" of that decade tended to do. He orchestrates the horror through mounting tension and character dynamics until he unravels everything in a spectacular, horrific climax. After having been overwhelmed by despicable horror films that relish in one macabre sequence after another in a loud, obnoxious way (I'm looking at you, Jigsaw), it's refreshing to see one that takes its time in emphasizing the protagonist's creepy surroundings and actually caring for the actors' performances. In this case, West provides the film with cult actors Tom Noonan & Mary Woronov as the creepy couple living in the mansion, and they're pitch-perfect in the roles. Also look out for Dee Wallace (aka Elliot's mother in "E.T.") at the beginning of the film, as 'the Landlady'.

For all those in dire need of a good "horror film fix," swing by the Angelika (18 West Houston Street) to catch this nifty flick.

An Audience "Under the Influence"

I've been somewhat MIA for the past two weeks (occupied with my various jobs, applying to full-time ones...), but this weekend I knew I needed to write about a particular film screening I went to yesterday.

I got my "film snob" fix last night when I caught John Cassavetes' 1974 masterpiece A Woman Under the Influence at the MoMA. Many people may read this and think, "Okay, Jose, we get it. You go see artsy films in museums and fraternize with turtleneck-wearing, uber-intellectual filmgoers," but that's not really 100% true. Yes, I go see films at the MoMA a lot, but it's more due to the fact that I have a museum pass that gets me in for free, and in this specific case, they were screening a film that truly impacted me when I first saw it in college. I had rented a cheap, grainy version and watched it one weekend during my Freshmen year (and yes, this is how I spent most of my nights my first semester in college). I'm not ashamed to say that I cried a couple of times throughout the movie, and sat transfixed at the raw emotions and affecting performances that Cassavetes presented. After that night, I Netflixed all of his movies available on DVD and soon bought and read a biography of his (Marshall Fine's Accidental Genius, which I highly reccommend). To this day, A Woman Under the Influence has continued to enthrall me every time I see it, and so, when I saw that MoMA was not only screening it, but also having Gena Rowlands in person to introduce it, I immediately jumped on the chance and bought my ticket.

I arrived semi-early, about 45 minutes before the screening started, in order to stay in line and get a good seat. However, as people started congregating outside of the theater - and the line grew longer - people began clamoring to go inside. A MoMA security guard came over and was completely unaware of how the line had been formed, and he proceeded to start an entirely new line with the people at the tail end of the main line, thereby angering every single person (myself included) that had arrived early and had been waiting for over forty minutes. The minute the guard set up the new line, people started clamoring - "Where's your manager?! I need to speak to your manager NOW!...No, you weren't here before, we're not doing that!....", even to the point that an odd-looking British man yelled "You're a FOOL!" to the guard for disregarding our protests. As the yelling died down, we all made the most of it and incorporated ourselves into the new line, while I chuckled to myself at the sheer ludicrousness of what had just happened. This was, after all, a screening of a John Cassavetes film - one of the most obscure, artsy, marginal filmmakers that ever existed - and people were behaving as if they were at a town hall health care debate.

Finally, we were let inside, and after I chatted with the person next to me - also a big Cassavetes fan - the lights dimmed and in walked Gena Rowlands, with the entire audience giving her a standing ovation. She thanked everyone present for attending and introduced the film in an affectionate way, deeming her experience shooting the film "the most beautiful" in her career.

The movie deals with the disaffected marriage between Mabel (Rowlands) and Nick (Peter Falk), and how he struggles with her troubling behavior and tumultuous mental state. Cassavetes painstakingly scrutinizes their interactions in long, sometimes taxing scenarios, with the scenes themselves delving into an array of contrasting emotions. One minute, Mabel is having a laugh with Nick and his work buddies, and in one split second, she embarasses one of them and is crudely yelled at by Nick. What's always astounded me by Cassavetes' narratives is the realism he injected into his characters' expressions and idiosyncrasies. Although the actors' behavior all seem improvised, they mostly followed Cassavetes' thematic "blueprint," which blended his ideas with those that the actors contributed to the material. The social climate presented in the film has shifted greatly since the movie's release (i.e., the gender clashes between Mabel & Nick regarding her illness), but it nevertheless amazes me how well Rowlands' and Falk's performances have held up. The movie is raw and uncomfortable, but startlingly real in evoking restrained, hidden emotions.

For those interested in catching this newly restored landmark film in American independent cinema, head on over to the MoMA (11 West 53rd Street). It'll be screened there 'till Friday, October 30th.

college.

My Best Frenemies

Picture in your head a group of your closest friends. The ones that are indispensable, always hear you out - and also put you in your place when you get a "big head." You may have ten years invested in the friendship, or perhaps just ten months, but there's a palpable, close link between each other. It's not a rocky rapport or a fleeting bond, but something steady and enriching. These friends of yours, despite living far away from you, still remain in active contact with you and call you up to see how you are (regardless of whether it's your birthday or not...)

Now, of that cluster of great friends, how many of those did you really, really like when you first met them? How many of those buddies were somewhat obnoxious on the first impression? Did any unnerve you a bit when you started talking to them? If you've had the same experience as I have, then you've probably thought about these questions before. But don't get me wrong; I'm not complaining about the friends I have. I've actually been missing these people a great deal since I graduated college (when they all moved out to the West Coast), and so recently I've been thinking back to when I first crossed paths with them in such a misconstrued way...

In two separate situations, two girl friends of mine have told me that their initial impression of me was negative. Last year, my friend Becca revealed to me that, during a class we took together in college, she disliked me for actively participating in daily discussions. Although we sat next to one another, we never talked, and every day after class she'd complain about my "know-it-all" attitude to her housemate. Then, at one particular party, she came up to me and confronted me. We spent the night talking and dancing, and we quickly "clicked" and became friends, probably because she realized that her perception of me had been flawed.

Another girl friend, Mollie - with whom I lived with for an entire school year - told me soon after we moved in together that she straight up didn't like me when a mutual acquaintance of ours introduced us. She had mischaracterized my "jokester" nature and sociable demeanor as being self-involved and obnoxious. My personality has apparently been misinterpreted by a couple of my friends, but I have to admit that I have also formed incorrect opinions about most of them.

Case in point - on my first day of freshmen orientation in college, I had to attend a group meeting with fellow Communications majors. I didn't know anyone there, so everyone pretty much kept to themselves. Ten minutes into the meeting, a tall black-haired dude with black glasses walked in somewhat awkwardly and looked around for a seat. As everyone stared at him, he very ably made a wise-crack about him starting college on the wrong foot, and his affable nature clearly came through, making others laugh and smile. Yours truly, however, thought to himself, "Geez...who's this jackass? Who does he think he is, making everyone laugh like that?!"

That tall guy, Steve, ended up becoming one of my closest friends months after this initial encounter. He is very much one of those type of friends I categorized in the first paragraph above, yet my initial reaction to him was unabashedly narrow-minded and brash. So, much in the same way Becca and Mollie had misconceptions about me, I also had misconceptions about them (and Steve). These three people are some of the best individuals I know, but their upstanding true selves weren't enough to override my powerfully immediate "first impression" of them.

Why do we behave this way when we meet our "eventual friends" in situations like these? I think it's because their initial behavior and quirks resemble so much our own that we're instinctively wary of embracing their familiar personality, thereby putting our guard up as a defense mechanism. We're allured to, yet also somewhat threatened by, their innate quality - whether it's charming introversion or unabashed sociability - because they exude something identifiable to us. Either they remind us of ourselves ("Who do they think they are?! There cannot be someone else like me. I'm unique") or they show us the kind of person we aspire to be ("How do they pull that off?! What a guy/girl!"). That love/hate vibe we initially feel upon meeting our "eventual friends" becomes the link that cements the rapport. We immediately note their weaknesses because they're similar to ours, whereas their strengths make us want to get to know them better. The result therefore ends up being a satisfying one, if anything for the fact that people can start off disliking one another because of certain quirks or attitudes - and then have those same qualities be what endears them together...

Well...this is only on those lucky and very rare occasions. Usually people like this do end up being total dicks.

A "Fat" Slice of 1970's America

I always get excited when I "discover" an underrated or overlooked film, and today I saw a really good one - John Huston's Fat City, which is being screened at Film Forum. Released in 1972, it was considered to be a bona fide 'comeback' for Huston (a legendary director in his own right, what with The Maltese Falcon and The Asphalt Jungle, among others), and it was also warmly received at that year's Cannes Film Festival.

The story deals with two boxers - an alcoholic "has been" (Stacy Keach) and one who's just starting out (a very young Jeff Bridges) - as they cross paths and try to reach the same goal of success inside the ring. Whereas the elder boxer is desperately clinging to the shred of life he has left, the young one has his whole career in front of him but is not aware of the harsh obstacles that may loom ahead. Huston relishes on the consistent moments of silence between characters to reveal more about their inner frustrations and anger, and opts to hone in on absorbing character drama through Keach's interactions with "Oma," a boozy young woman who gets involved with him, excellently played by Susan Tyrrell. Her fluctuations between bouts of hysteria and silent, emotional breakdowns add a nice touch to the conflict, whereas Keach himself delivers a soulful performance as the aimless, tortured boxer.

Fat City will be playing at Film Forum (209 W. Houston St) through October 1st. Otherwise, you could watch it online (with limited commercial interruption) right here.

Zzzzzzzzz....Ouch!

Ever since I was little, I've had certain dreams that keep popping up in my sleep every so often. I think we've all experienced these in one form or another, and they reveal a lot of insights about who we are. Whether it's dreaming about going to school without any clothes on or having one's teeth fall off, these scenarios seem to come about due to the given circumstance we're experiencing at that moment in time. The "being at school stark naked" dream usually happens during our childhood or adolescence - alluding to youth angst - whereas the "losing one's teeth" dream usually implies a feeling of insecurity we might be harboring inside. It's interesting to me how we all come to share these somewhat universal dream scenarios. Of all the crazy, ludicrous things our subconscious can bring up when we're asleep, these particular "situations" keep recurring in our heads over the years. The dreams are zany and outrageous, yes, but they represent concrete preoccupations - things that impact or worry us on a habitual basis. Be it teen angst or low self-esteem, we're constantly struggling with these daily experiences, and they end up influencing what we think about when we sleep.

However...what explanation is there when our dreams aptly deal with situations or things we haven't experienced, or aren't familiar with?

I can remember when I was around five or six years old, I would dream of kissing a certain girl I liked from school. At that point in time, I had never been kissed before, yet the dreams perfectly encapsulated the full feeling and emotion of locking lips with someone. When I did have my first kiss, I realized that my childhood dreams had been completely "right on the money." How could this possibly be?! How did the dream so minutely capture the feeling and tone of that situation when in fact I hadn't experienced it yet?

Obviously as we grow older, our dreams turn more serious and mature in subject matter. Scenarios start revolving more around concrete ideas rather than silly actions...yet still - in whichever situation - every single "life rite" I dreamt about when I was younger, that I was not yet exposed to, ended up validating itself once I did go through it in real life. If we're able to concretely feel and undergo varying positive emotions (physical love? the exhilaration of skydiving, perhaps?) in our subconscious before we get to experience them in real life, then, can it also ring true for negative feelings?

For example - we've all had twisted nightmares in which we're being chased by some crazed lunatic or we fall off a ledge and plunge to our death. I myself have had numerous dreams where I'm stabbed or shot by a psychotic stranger. I always feel excruciating pain when I endure these dreams; I can barely breathe and I'm incapable of waking up. If I dream about falling from a tall building, I always get a hyperventilating feeling in my stomach and I force myself to open my eyes before my body hits the ground. Although these are extreme situations, my insecurities and fears (of the unknown, of loneliness) are brought forth and personified; they're issues I can grapple with and relate to because I struggle with them every day.

Still, if these dreary scenarios manifest themselves in my mind in almost the same way as my pleasant ones do, then by this correlation, am I supposed to infer that if I do get shot or thrown off a building in real life, it'll corroborate what I felt in my dreams? How can my dreams accurately make me feel a type of love (or pain) that I've never experienced before?

People can argue that we infer most of it from popular culture (what films/TV/literature tell us about how certain things feel like without us having to undergo them), yet there still is that very powerful, tactile and sensory connection in our subconscious that makes the "dream experience" a visceral one. It's one thing to watch a film or TV show about a guy getting shot, and somewhat come to terms with how that would feel....and it's another thing to actually feel like you're in that person's situation and undergo that feeling of having your arm be blown off or something. Your mind somehow decodes the essence of the experience and relays it inside a dream in a way that alludes to a given situation in your life.

Mind-boggling as it is, I just hope the weirdo who threatens me with a gun in my dreams never appears before me "in the flesh."

However, having my "secret affair with Natalie Portman" dream become a reality wouldn't be bad at all...

"Headless" & Brilliant

Last week I caught a film that completely blew me away - Lucrecia Martel's The Headless Woman (La Mujer Sin Cabeza) - and I wasn't planning on writing about it because its run was supposed to end today. However, I was pleasantly surprised to find out this morning that it's been held over through September 15th! Here's the official synopsis:

"A mysterious and intriguing tale of a woman who may have killed someone or something while driving on a dirt road. Dazed and confused, she tries to piece together what happened..."

The film is a brilliant visual masterpiece that needs the audiences' consistently active attention in order to fully understand and immerse oneself in all of its puzzling and intricate plot details. Director Martel ignores many conventional film norms and presents her story in a mesmerizing way - shooting most of the film in tight close-ups and eschewing the need for establishing shots - while framing her subjects in odd, off-balance compositions. Martel also never "spoon feeds" information to the viewer, instead relying on us to catch the details of the action and the subtleties between the characters on our own. She beautifully subverts conventions in narrative and turns what would ordinarily be a straightforward "mystery/thriller" into a deeper and more affecting experience.

The Headless Woman is playing at Film Forum (209 West Houston St.) until September 15th. The praise has been almost unanimous, so if you live in the city, you should opt out of dreck like this and go check out this unbelievable film.

Smiles? Not Part of Job Description

For the past two months or so, I've been working part-time evenings as a survey question writer for a media company. It's a sometimes taxing experience, but it's really decent pay and a comfortable working environment. Ninety-five percent of the people working there write questions for shows like The Daily Show and Letterman, whereas the remaining five percent are composed of writers working on Telemundo and Univisión programs. Us Spanish writers are a small bunch - about eight or so - but we get along really well and watch out for one another when we struggle with a particular show. Whereas we're a surprisingly tight-knit group, the other 95% give off a consistently alienating vibe. At first I thought the "issue" was just with me (i.e., "the New Kid"), but it turned out it's apparently with the entire Spanish Language Writer troupe. I've been racking my brain trying to figure out why this is so, but no answer has presented itself to me. When I started in June, I thought I'd be able to socialize freely with people, given the laid back environment there. However, every time I make a small gesture - a pleasant wave or a friendly nod - to anyone nearby, I just get a blank stare in return. If I smile at a girl passing me by, she'll almost definitely reciprocate with a deadpan look.

One evening that I had the night off, I went to see Contempt at Socrates Sculpture Park. As I waited for the movie to start, I noticed a bearded man sitting next to me, sharing a picnic with an attractive girl. I definitely recognized his face from somewhere, but I was drawing a blank as to his name, or where I knew him from. I went to work the following night and saw the bearded guy there. Perfect!, I thought to myself. A great way to 'break the ice' with him. He had decent taste in films, after all, so he showed promise as a guy to have a good conversation with. I saw him in the break room and awkwardly told him about our coincidental Contempt encounter. He in turn smiled and nodded politely...

Cut to a week later or so: Beardy is sitting behind me, focused on his work, as I eat a snack before I start to write my questions. At one point, I get up to walk around and he and I lock eyes - one of those moments where you're supposed to give a "hello" nod and acknowledge the other person - but he completely snubs me and just keeps on typing as if I weren't standing in front of him. Then, this past week, I saw him again in the break room and tried once more to make contact - waving modestly to say "hi" - but Beardy this time looked completely through me and kept on talking on his hands-free cellphone. He was on the phone, yes, but the guy still nevertheless could've acknowledged my gesture with a quick nod or smirk. Nope. He chose to disregard me altogether.

Needless to say, I don't care much for Beardy anymore.


I've realized the scenario pans out differently if an attractive Latina sits next to me. The other day, a pretty Puerto Rican co-worker of mine came in and said hola! to me as she sat down to start working. The hola! was clearly directed at me, but a dude sitting behind me got a good look at her and decided to cut in, saying, in awkward Americanese, "oh-lah! (hola)." She exchanged pleasantries with him while I tried to ignore him completely, but this one comment that came out of his mouth caught my attention and unnerved the hell out of me:

"You know, you Spanish-speaking writers need to socialize with the rest of the people more. You should all mingle more with us."

I bit my tongue and kept my mouth shut, but it wasn't easy. Why is there such a discrepancy between the different working groups? Is it a "culture clash" thing, in which both sides are reluctant to make the first move towards befriending/getting to know one another? Or is it simply a situation in which everyone just wants to be left alone - no interruptions or "small talk" - in order to do their work peacefully and go home?

If it's the former, then it's truly disappointing for me. People behave that way in middle school and in summer camp, but not when you're 21+ and living in a freewheeling and diverse city like New York. If it's the latter, then I can somewhat sympathize and understand their reasons. I'm also not keen on being overtly friendly with co-workers (or co-workers being overtly friendly with me), because it can be truly off-putting - but - that is not my intention. It's not like I want to become their BFF's or go out drinking with them. In effect, it's a question of common decency and good manners. Pure and simple. We're all working in the same space together, enduring long hours of survey-writing, and a nice gesture like a smile or a wave can help ease off the tension we might be feeling. Unless someone's clearly done you wrong, why carry on with such an attitude? Are people really that insecure with foreign-speaking individuals that they prefer to ignore them altogether?

Should I even bother to keep trying to be friendly? I've already made the "first step" numerous times, and it hasn't made a dent. One thing I do know for sure: if Beardy blatantly ignores me one more time, a cup of subpar coffee from the break room is going in his face. Oh-lah!

I've Got A Fever, And The Only Prescription Is More Good Movies

Last week, after leaving early from work, I decided to spend my afternoon at the movies. Not a lot interested me, but I had heard strong positive buzz about District 9 , which I was anxious to see. The trailer hadn't won me over, but the marketing for it had allured me quite a bit. I hadn't slept much the previous night (because of a 7:30am shift at the museum), but, thinking the movie was going to be a tense sci-fi story, I thought I would snap out of my drowsiness in no time and be gripped to my seat. As it turns out, I dozed off about ten times throughout the movie, and by the end I was struggling to keep my eyes open and enjoy the narrative.

I left the theater feeling confused and very disappointed. Why had the movie been such a let-down for me? Perhaps it was because I had been drowsy the entire day and wasn't in a particularly energetic mindset - or maybe, given the lack of sleep, I was just plain ol' cranky. Regardless of my bad mood, I felt District 9 was trying way too hard to be topical (what with the whole "apartheid" symbolism and everything), and the protagonist came off as irritating in his actions and behavior, with his character arc being very predictable. Overall, the film's message was laid on a bit too thick for my taste, and it didn't pan out to be the nuanced, thought-provoking film I thought it was.

I got home, plopped on the couch and relaxed for a while - but my moodiness persisted. Why had this movie put me in such a rut? I couldn't figure it out...

A week later - this past Monday - I had an almost identical experience. I barely slept on Sunday night (painful cramp + neighbors hammering on the wall next to my bedroom = bad morning), and so, after doing some work during the first half of the day, I decided to keep myself busy and go see Inglorious Basterds. Surprisingly on this ocassion, I was fully engaged throughout the entire film and enjoyed it very much (despite Tarantino's constant self-indulgence in his long-winded dialogues). So - two similar situations in which "lack of sleep" was at play, and yet, each had different outcomes. With District 9, I went back home angry and disappointed at my choice of movie...yet after Basterds, I felt an inner "high" that cheered me up for various hours.

Big deal, right? So WHAT if I liked one movie over the other? Some movies are good and others are bad...Yet, why does this happen? Why did District 9 provoke such hostility in me - as if I had just been spurned by a girl - and Basterds made me want to whistle as I rode the subway train? Watching movies can be, in and of itself, a full-on sensory experience that can brighten - or bring down - any given time of day. Much in the same way that eating a Spicy Tuna Roll cheers me up, so does watching Jack Nicholson chase down Shelley Duvall through a creepy snowbound hotel. Along these same lines - having to eat olives, to me, is akin to being forced to see an awful Pulp Fiction "rip-off" with two horrible actors as protagonists. Yuck.

We all have our idiosyncratic passions in life. Sports fans camp out in tents outside of stadiums for days (and even weeks) just to get great seats to season games. This fervor is validated when their "interest" manifests itself before them in an emotional and spiritually-enriching way. If the fan's respective team plays spectacularly well, it reinforces the attitudes and reasons for why they follow this particular interest the way they do. However, if they play badly, the very opposite occurs: fans get belligerent and are quickly disheartened by everything they thought they stood for and believed in. Their zeal drifts off (albeit temporarily) and the cycle begins again as they try to regain that inner passion that they once felt.

Same thing happens with me with movies. One mediocre film can quickly ruin my day and vanish any sense of hope and optimism that I had for new, groundbreaking narratives. The feeling of emptiness that I get inside of me can only be gotten rid of by watching a good film that WILL once again reinforce that innate zest in me - the reason why I still keep caring...why I still "pony up" $12.50 every week to see a movie that I could very well download online for free - or could possibly be an atrocious piece of crap.

It's love, is what it is. We may get hurt 9 out of the 10 times we visit the movie theater - and feel heavily disappointed, rejected, cheated (sometimes even "used") - but it's all worth it, just to experience that one instance that comes along every once in a while that makes you a firm believer in your passion all over again.

Ctrl+Fbk+Del

Like many people, I have a volatile relationship with Facebook. Well, I'll be honest with you: I downright hate it. However, one cannot ignore the fact that it's a very helpful networking tool, and so, no matter how much I dislike it, I always end up caving in and accepting its validity. It is indeed an effective way of reaching out to potential friends (and employers), not to mention it's got unlimited photo-upload capabilities, which I enjoy.

When I'm not editing photos and posting them, though, I don't do much else on the site (save for the occasional "stalk"). I feel like there's not much to like about it, yet I've come to shamefully rely on its availability, so much so that every once in a while I have to suspend my account. Mainly it's because I hate myself for spending so much time on the site, simply doing nothing (i.e., stalking). Another reason is because I can't stand some people's meaningless statuses, and they force me to disconnect myself entirely from that world.

See, with a site like Facebook so available and useful to us, we tend to drop our guard and feel as though we need to share everything and anything with people, no matter how dull it is. We judge each other with a personal and watchful eye on how we express ourselves and react within the site. We communicate so ably and freely with people that every single gesture, statement and thought or idea that is stated on the site is heavily scrutinized and dissected:

"She removed her 'In a Relationship' status and is now 'Single'?! That bitch!"

"He removed his 'Single' status and is now 'In a Relationship'?! What a dick!"

"What does she mean by ' Cute pic ; ) ' ? I think she digs me, bro."

On Facebook, you usually have two types of people: (1) Your friends, and (2) everybody else. This latter category usually consists of individuals you've come across whom you've never had a substantive conversation with:

• People that lived on your floor freshman year of college
• People that talked to you at a party or bar and apparently did remember your name well
• Co-workers that try a little bit too hard to be your best friend
• Estranged family members (2nd cousins, Grandma's new boyfriend, and the like...)
• Your neighbor's sister's best friend's nephew

(The list goes on...)

Having people like this on my list made me feel awkward and insincere, so, about a year ago, I decided to be honest with myself and do something that I find completely acceptable, yet some deem improper: I began to delete them from my account. Yup. A healthy "FB House Cleaning." But don't misconstrue this - I didn't delete people that didn't have it coming to them. I've only removed a handful since last year, but the reason I've done so is because I don't qualify them as my "friends." They're more like far-away acquaintances; if there was a "My Acquaintances" list on the site, they'd surely be on it. Also, it's not because I don't want to hear from them ever again - it's because I feel cheap and disingenuous having them on my list when in fact I don't know who the heck they are. Some people enjoy having 2,000 "friends" on their network, but not me. What good is it to have a bunch of strangers on your list if you can't stand half of them - or can barely remember their full name?

The acquaintances I have "let go" from my list, I've done so in a painless, easy fashion. However, I've had a couple of actual friends of mine (or close acquaintances) whom I've had to delete in the past year. I had my fair reasons for doing so, but, to be honest...I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. The downside to deleting a friend or close acquaintance is that...they'll actually notice that you deleted them. (Yikes.) For instance, this guy I met in college - "Brad" - used to date a girl friend of mine. He was a nice guy, but I always thought he didn't like me very much. He would sporadically lash out at me for no apparent reason and our interactions were consistently odd. So, after a couple of months, I felt Brad didn't think too highly of me, and so I removed him from my list.

Cut to a couple of months later, when I received a message from him:

"have you been deleting me as a friend on facebook? hehe, it's cool if you have."

I shied away from answering him at that moment, but after more months passed, he asked me again, and I came out and told him why: because he had lashed out at me on several occasions and I just felt he wasn't interested in us having a rapport of any kind. Surprisingly, this turned out to be incredibly therapeutic - he acknowledged his past mistakes, I told him I had no qualms with him, and now we have a solid friendship.

In another instance, I had a relapse last summer with a girl friend, "Hannah." I had invited her to a concert - one that she was really eager to go to - and she abruptly cancelled on me just hours before the show. Her excuse was somewhat flimsy and lame, and at that specific moment I was miffed by the "brush-off" - so, in a fit of annoyance, I deleted her from my list. Maybe I overreacted, but I did so out of my own, hurt emotions. Whereas Brad had lashed out at me, Hannah had made me feel unappreciated as a friend - she did not give me the consideration I deserved in telling me of her cancellation in advance.

Once again - months later - I received this message from Hannah on my Inbox:

"omg jose, did you just 'limited profile' me on facebook???"

My reply was clear and concise:

"i didn't 'limited profile' you. actually, i deleted you."

I don't necessarily feel good about having acted this way. I, too, would be mad if I ever were in the position I put Hannah and Brad in. It's understandable. But I did it for a reason. I didn't undertake these actions out of spite or out of an ingrained "superiority complex." They had done unfriendly things, and I needed to assert myself with them - send a symbolic message. My actions may be deemed unusual, but think about it: if this exact situation unraveled in real life - and not through an online networking site - one would undertake a similar behavior: ignore their phone calls, blatantly brush them off at parties, etc...

I find it surprising that people take it so personally. It's not like I literally erased them from existence. What it all comes down to is this feeling of interconnectedness we share when we're on Facebook - freely reacting to (and with) a multitude of people at any time during the day - and the isolation and disconnect we feel when that link is shattered. Like online dating, Facebook is a fantasy world of sorts where we can re-make ourselves - downplay our shortcomings and embellish our strong suits. If a person leaves Facebook or deletes someone from his/her list, the "outlet" of communicating is made more visible and apparent. We thus realize not only the appeal of the site - to bring people together from different backgrounds - but also take closer note of people's existence and attitudes. Yes, these moments I had with Brad and Hannah were awkward and unfortunate, but they were essential in putting everything out in the open and addressing issues within the friendships. As of today, I have patched things up with both people and they're back on my FB list.

The impersonality and scrutiny within the site will undoubtedly continue, but we can embrace it and use it for positive change - to learn about people and "build up" on relations. After all, isn't that what social networking is all about?

Saturday of Summer

This past Saturday I finally went to the High Line, the integrated landscape park that runs along Gansevoort Street all the way to 34th Street. It was erected in the 1930's to support the freight trains that ran through that area. The day was hot, humid and very sunny, but the park was quite a sight to see - I even spotted Ed Helms passing me by! People sell fresh lemonade on wooden stands, they mingle and sit along the boardwalk, and/or make their own picnics and enjoy the afternoon there.

Afterward, I went to see (500) Days of Summer (which I was skeptical about in the first place, but I decided to give it a shot). Although I definitely think the film is overrated, it's still nevertheless very amusing and entertaining, and for once in a long time, the "romantic comedy" genre has been given a much-needed "reboot." The movie unfortunately perpetuates the quirky "hipster" style that we've seen ad-nauseam since Garden State, and it does have an air of pretentiousness (the blending of sketches & live action, the "hip" soundtrack), but director Marc Webb keeps things fresh and breezy, and effectively distances his film from the other, idiotic "rom-com" fare. It very much falls in accordance with genre conventions, but it's still clever and engaging within its own formula. One major reason I went to see it is because of the film's stars. Joseph Gordon-Leavitt is a very talented young man (have you seen Brick? You really should), and I'm completely infatuated with Zooey Deschanel. I wouldn't say she's a great actress, but she's a terrific singer. She and musician M. Ward have a folk/country/pop band - She & Him - and I was lucky to catch them playing at Terminal 5 last summer (7/26/08). Here's a taste of this amazing gal's talent:

"Got Away" for Good?

After the Eagles of Death Metal concert, I kept thinking about the young man who proposed to his girlfriend in front of everyone, but more specifically, I reflected upon the comments he made regarding their relationship. He said he came to the realization of undertaking the proposal because he had spent far too much time away from her and it had been too unbearable for him to go through again. Obviously, I don't know the context of their "situation", but many possibilities arose in my head. (1) Perhaps they had been dating for a while now, and a long vacation time away from her rattled him so much that he realized what his priorities were; or (2) perhaps they had just recently met, but their time together had been so potent and enriching that he decided to throw caution to the wind and pop the question. However, a third possibility also kept bouncing in my head, and it's one that I've been thinking of constantly for several days: the "The One that Got Away" possibility.

We've heard and seen this expression used before - in sappy "romantic-comedies" and lovey-dovey TV shows. A good-looking guy removes a photo of a girl from his wallet, and his best friend leans over and says, half-mockingly, "Ahh...the One that Got Away." In most of these cases, the guy ends up tracking the girl down, confronting her directly and professing his love to her, and she reciprocates by affirming she's always felt the same way about him. They hug, they kiss, rain starts pouring, they giggle, the credits roll...but that's Hollywood for ya'. If you really think about it, what does this term really mean? What's the real, contextual significance behind "The One that Got Away"? Is it just something we keep overusing because it is familiar and part of the common lexicon, or does it have a specific message behind it? Do we simply use it to refer to a guy/girl with whom we were unable to "hook up" with? Or does it signify something deeper than that?

The reason I'm positing these questions now, after I witnessed the couple at the concert share a "moment," is because I've been struggling with this predicament for a while now, with a specific girl from my past - "Reese." For the past year-and-a-half or so, I've been thinking about Reese a lot. Not only because I haven't seen her at all - and I've barely talked to her - but more so because she is, to put it succinctly, the one girl who's truly shaken me to the core. I've gone out with a couple of other girls since her, but they simply haven't been comparable to Reese's warmth, humor, and unique personality. It's crazy to think that a handful of brief, fleeting moments can impact one's love life so dramatically, but that is how I've come to perceive and think back on my moments with this girl.

As it happens, at first I wasn't so keen on wooing her, even though I knew that she was interested in me. I would ask my friends for advice, and most of them would egg me on and tell me she was an amazing catch. I knew this to be true, but, given the fact that I was graduating college in a few months - and she still had one more year to go - I kept looking ahead into the future and felt reluctant to "act on it," both because I was unsure of my true feelings for her and also, more critical for me at that point in time, because I didn't want to deal with the consequences of what a long-distance relationship would inevitably bring. As I struggled and thought it through, I would still nevertheless spend nights hanging out with her. Reese made me laugh like no other girl could, and I always felt comfortable and at ease when she was nearby. She would come over to my place and we'd watch a movie she had never seen before, and in other instances I'd swing by her place and she'd introduce me to a filmmaker I wasn't so familiar with. I soon started to perceive an easygoing, affectionate vibe between the both of us - a strong bond between two quirky/funny people who share similar taste in films. However, whereas I would regard these "movie meets" as just that, I started to realize that she enjoyed them a great deal and loved spending time together. One time at her place, as soon as the movie ended, I said a quick "goodbye" and darted out unusually fast. There was no motive behind that - I think I was running late somewhere - but she saw it as a snub of some sort. Afterward, she confronted me while we were talking online. Why did you run off so quickly?, she asked me. I had no real answer to give her, but from her reaction, I realized that I needed to behave better and enjoy the time I spent with her.

Spring Break arrived, and I was terrified of having something so potentially great happen to me. However, one drunken night - as we texted each other while being miles and miles apart - we acknowledged the interest we had for one another. I was having a great vacation - immersed in sandy beaches, beautiful vistas and attractive girls in bikinis - and, yet, all I could think about was Reese. Even though we affirmed our mutual appreciation, I was still skeptical of what might come about - again, not because I didn't like her (I did, very much), but because, if I did agree to start seeing her, I wanted it to be as perfect as humanly possible. Once we were reunited back on campus, we kept up with our "movie meets" yet still maintained things at a platonic level. Then, one night, Reese and I watched a film at her place. As the movie went on, we became more at ease lying close to one another. At one point, she turned to look at me. She smiled and laughed. I leaned in and kissed her, and she kissed me back. I felt as if firecrackers had gone off inside of me. Never before had I experienced a kiss like this one. This feels good. This feels right!, I kept shouting over and over in my head at that moment. Everything made sense. It was an unabashedly romantic moment, but one made more uniquely poignant for the simplistic essence of it. It wasn't a bombastic display of love - the kind you see in musicals or romantic melodramas - but instead, a subdued and quaint moment: just me and her watching a film on her laptop, embracing each other and enjoying the silence, with the computer glare being the only thing illuminating us in the darkened room. I left her place grinning like an idiot and going through a flurry of powerful emotions. For the next couple of days, I thanked my friends profusely for having courted me through this. I felt like a better man because of them, and I felt like a better person because of my "moment" with Reese.

With most wonderful dreams, there's usually a downside or "reality check." Mine came when I started to dwell too much in the unrealistic notion that we'd be together in a seamless way, without any difficulties, and it started to dawn on me that this great bond that I had just discovered would be disrupted in a matter of months. I started to question my potential within the "connection" I had made with Reese, and before I knew it, I had convinced myself that I needed to be single (or alone) in order to evade the pain that was inevitably going to land on me. Reese herself was mulling over similar things, and during one online conversation, she told me that she thought it'd be best if we remained just friends. Instead of arguing against it and saying what I truly felt, that I had never met anyone like her and would not take "no" for an answer, I did a really stupid thing: I agreed with her.

I should've fought for her. I realize that now. Was she expecting me to take charge and denounce what she had just told me? Tough to tell. But, that's what pains me most of all when I think about it nowadays - that I took the news lying down and didn't tell her how much she meant to me.

I immediately perceived the shift in our interaction after we parted ways. She kept emphasizing that she didn't want things to change, but she started calling me less often to meet up and hang out. She stopped wanting to watch films together, and instead would only call me up when she needed someone to have lunch with. As my last semester came to an end, my friendship with Reese became almost nonexistent; tattered and consistently awkward. A whole new batch of emotions flooded me: why had it come to this? When had it 'gone off the rails'? I was furious. Furious because I let our bond dissipate very easily, but also furious (and heart-broken) that she had also not fought harder to maintain what we had built up. At one point, I decided to let go altogether, and in doing so I brushed away all of our moments. What I had hoped to evade since the beginning (the second-guessing and eventual heartbreak post-college) still nevertheless ended up finding me and hitting me hard. I constantly kept analyzing it in my head, like a bad team strategy after a failed game, but no new answers popped up, and so, in effect, I ended up putting the matter to sleep for good.

Until now.

As I was mulling over writing about this topic, I mentioned it to a friend of mine who lives in LA. When I told her the post would be about "the One that Got Away," she quickly replied, "Oh, yeah...I've got one of those." We've all been in this situation, in one way or another. To some, it merely signifies a "lost tryst" of some kind, whereas others fall in a latter category - the one I'm realizing I'm also a part of - a missed opportunity at love. Now, after all this self-reflection, I can honestly say that Reese is very much "the One that Got Away" for me. But - does it end here? Do I have to keep alluding to Reese in that way? More importantly - do I have a choice on the matter? Perhaps the Eagles of Death Metal kid was in my situation, and he had cut ties with the girl but couldn't deal with it and so sought her out...His story obviously has a happy ending, so, to that effect, could all of our "Ones that got away" situations be resolved? It seems like it's up to us - to be like the Death Metal kid and take the risk.

Apart from our own romantic preoccupations, one also has to consider the "grand scheme" of it all. Are my parents soul-mates, or did they end up marrying each other because their "Ones that got away" truly disappeared out of their lives? Food for thought.

I don't really know where Reese is nowadays. Probably back in her hometown, probably in love with someone. All I know is that, personally, I cannot take the risk again and confront her about this. All I can do (which is what I'm doing now, as we speak), is reflect on the one true girl who really made me feel alive. She may read this - she may not - but it's out there, and all of it is 100% genuine from the heart. I love her for liking me so much when I was too blind to realize it, and I'm grateful for having fond memories to look back on. Whatever happens, this is me coming to terms with it, and, at the very least, I can take solace in this often-used expression whenever my subconscious starts to reminisce about the past...

Love and Death Metal

First blog post!

Last Thursday, I went to see Eagles of Death Metal at Webster Hall. The venue was considerably packed, mostly with people my age or older. As the lights dimmed and the band took to the stage, Kool & the Gang's "Ladies' Night" played through the speakers - the Eagles were definitely setting up a particular mood. What followed after was 100 minutes of hardcore rock - with a side of "frisky." Lead singer Jesse "The Devil" Hughes charmed the hell out of the audience, consistently blowing kisses to the girls in front of him and proclaiming his love and affection to everyone present. With his gyrating hips and quirky dance moves, he was a total "character" and made the overall experience a richer one.

An hour or so into the show, when it came time to do an encore, Mr. Hughes came out onstage and brought along with him a young man. The kid was probably around my age, and was definitely not part of the band. Hughes let the young man speak for himself, so he did, and he in turn asked his girlfriend to come out on stage. When she did, and saw the chaotic crowd before her, she kind of realized what was about to happen. Everyone went wild as the young man told his girlfriend that he had recently been separated from her for far too long, and he did not want that to happen again. He then got down on one knee and proposed, and she very happily accepted - as Mr. Hughes stood to the side, grinning from ear to ear, with his young son next to him. I'm not sure whether Mr. Hughes is still married or not, but one could tell he was unabashedly excited about what he had just seen before him. Although I've read that his politics are more center-right, his enthusiasm for his line of work - and the way he gushed about the "newly-engaged" couple - makes him seem more like a 21st-century hippie more than anything else. It was a genuine and heartfelt ending to an otherwise raucous night, and it made me take notice of the "high" that one gets when groups of people come together to enjoy a given experience. We were there for the music, and, in turn, that young man felt the need to share his love for his gal with all of us in the crowd. That's pretty neat.