Fruit Flies
Wednesday, March 22, 2006 : 11:35 p.m.

I've started a Fruit Diet. I've been eating fruit for the past few days. The rule is that I can eat as much fruit as I want... but just fruit.

Today was my third day. I spent 25 minutes biting my nails, staring lovingly at the fat piece of steak sitting in the fridge, waiting to be cooked. But I was strong. Not once did my knees buckle in the face of Meat. I conquered my demons as I shut the fridge door victoriously.

If I'm not mistaken, Instant Noodles is a kind of fruit, right?

I'm not a planner; that's why I married a Planning Engineer
Monday, March 20, 2006 : 10:35 p.m.

If I were to recount to all of you out there... yes, all 5 of you... how I planned my wedding, wedding coordinators all over the world would send me an email, asking for an interview, and a full page of their brochure would be dedicated to me. They'd use me as their "How Not To Plan A Wedding" example. I would be a household name for all brides-to-be. (Brides Mother: "What do you mean you still haven't contacted the caterer?" Bride-To-Be (whining): "But I've got too much to do! It can wait." Bride's Mother: "Do you remember the story of... KALA???!!!" Bride (shuddering, collapsing in tears) "Ok! OKAY! I'll do it! Hand me the phone! And stop mentioning that name... I don't want you jinxing my wedding!")

I've become more responsible now, though. When I go to go the grocery store, I linger by the vegetable section and actually end up buying one or two of the critters (it's called "Balanced Diet"). When out in pubs, I make it a point to order Vodka Orange from time to time... you know, for Vitamin C. And I can now staple fix my curtains to its proper length using a needle and thread something really sharp. My mother would hardly recognise me. My, what a woman I've turned out to be!

But before... whew! I was a wreck. Now, I'm not going to disclose the full details of how exactly the wedding of the century was planned because I want people to respect me, dammit.

But the past has come back to haunt me. Today I was looking for a document on my computer and came across my wedding party invitation photo. My mother, frustrated that I hadn't arranged any family get-together after the ceremony, went ahead and booked a restaurant for family members only (Thanks Mommy!), probably to avoid being the gossip of all future family gatherings.

What Julien and I managed to book, though, was a party for our friends. We had envisioned everything: free flowing beer, oily chicken wings, great music, the works.

I, however, had failed to envision getting the word out to our friends. I was at work a few days before the wedding, taking a smoke break, when my officemate asked me if we were going to throw a wedding party, Julien and I. I assured her that of course I was going to "send out invitations". Then I excused myself, ran back to my desk, opened my email account, cc'd everyone on my address book, and typed out the address of the bar, the time, the date, etcetera. After writing the email I thought it would be nice to attach a photo of the couple, to personalize it a bit. But I had only one photo of Julien and myself on my computer. After biting my lip and debating with the devil on my left shoulder and the angel on my right, I thought "Fuck it, I'm not spending too much time on this, it's boring", attached the photo and hit Send.

So, in short, our wedding party invitation was sent via email, along with this photo:

But hey - the chicken wings were really good!

Daft Surf
Tuesday, March 14, 2006 : 07:07 p.m.

After watching a Nada Surf concert late last year I checked their website and found out that they were playing in a club in the US, in the city where my sister Doctor Doom lives. I gave her a call and told her to get tickets to watch them.

Doctor Doom : Nada Surf? Never heard.

Kala : The one who sang Popular... remember, in their video there's this angry man with thick glasses? He's half reciting and half singing the song.

Doctor Doom : Mmmm... Hmm, yeah, I think I'm starting to remember...

Kala : Don't forget! They're playing on the 14th, (insert name of club here, I forget the name)

Doctor Doom : (starting to get caught up in the excitement) Okay! I'm definitely going! I'll tell Richard. I hope I don't have duty that day!

Kala : Download some of their songs so you can sing along, too!

Doctor Doom : I will! Woohoo! Nada Surf!

After a few weeks she gave me a call.

Kala : Hey, did you ever get to download songs?

Doctor Doom : What songs... Oh, yeah! Of the band. I did! I liked them... they're good!

Kala : They are, aren't they?

Doctor Doom : I didn't know they were electronica, though.

Kala : ...

Kala : What band did you download?

Doctor Doom : Daft Punk!

Conclusion : Doctors are very busy people. No time for details.

There are cities underneath cities, cities beneath the sea
Friday, March 10, 2006 : 10:56 p.m.

Photo taken from the Gravenhurst website

Last weekend, in Lyon, we found ourselves lining up to watch a Gravenhurst concert, which was being held on a boat along the Rhône. I've never heard of the band before; we had called Lionel earlier that week to ask what he and his girlfriend Magali were doing that weekend, and they told us they were going to the concert.

One of the most influential - and memorable - albums in the life of Fangirl Kala a.k.a. "Me" is My Bloody Valentine's Loveless. I know this means that Gravenhurst will be an influential and memorable one as well, because during the concert I felt the way I always feel whenever I listen to MBV. A bit lightheaded, but heavy, heavy, heavy.

Of course, it was probably because the damn boat kept on swaying, but you know what I mean.

I really miss having friends, our Lyonnais friends, around. I love living in Aix, but I'd give almost anything to have them move down to the South. As you can see, I am a very selfish person, because I wouldn't dream of moving back to Lyon. Because I love sunshine too much.

I'm listening to the lastest album of The Strokes, and I can't decide what to make of it. One sure thing is that it's the complete opposite of their debut (why are their guitar solos suddenly so complicated?), but changing isn't necessarily a bad thing, is it? Julian Casablancas' voice sounds so... clear. And full. Nothing like the rawness of the first album. He still sounds bored, but there's a tinge of desperateness to his singing that I like. It sounds like he woke up knowing that there's a problem to solve, but like everyone, he just doesn't know where to start.

When the Smashing Pumpkin's Adore came out in 1998, I was beside myself in excitement ("almost drooling, like a dog", said my sister, Doctor Doom, in disgust). I was visiting Doctor Doom then, who was studying in UP Manila, so I dragged her to Robinson's Place and combed the music store for the tape (yeah, I'm cheap), and once I got my greedy hands on it I hopped into a taxi and listened to it on my Walkman all the way home. It was a letdown. After the magic of Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, it was anticlimactic.

I picked it up again two years later, and I think that's when the slowness of the songs became appealing. There's something in the album that makes you feel like you're falling into a hole, but it's okay, everything's okay.

But don't ask me about Machina. I don't have anything nice to say about it.

Maybe we're all living, talking, breathing Rock Band Discographies. Or at least, that's how I feel. My "albums" are my age brackets, and I'm the critic of each one. I feel like I'm changing course, more so now that I've been living in France. Making the decision to live in France was an adventure, my debut album. I whistled while packing. I had just signed up with the label 'Who Knows But Who Cares', and my album was going to make a fortune! That was my experimental record, where everything was fresh and new and giddy.

Now, though, my latest album is quite the opposite. Instead of giving the dirty finger or sticking out my tongue for magazine cover shoots (yes, I'm really going overboard with the whole band bit), I'm looking tired from all the touring (let it be known that my world tour was a success). But deep down I'm not tired. My song lyrics are all about the occasional bouts of homesickness, the stupidity of quitting smoking, and library book deadlines which I can never seem to meet. It doesn't mean that I'm a hundred percent bored, or desperate, or sad, or angsty. It's just that - like I said about the Pumpkins and Julian Casablancas - I don't know where to start; and though it's heavy and light at the same time, I know it's going to be okay.

Interesting, huh? Go get a copy! No pirating!

Back to the Gravenhurst concert...

Yves teased me about the probability of my not being able to see the group play, since we were almost by the bar, around 10 feet away from the stage. I showed him the boots I was wearing, equipped with heels, adding a measly 2 inches to my height, and told him that Julien would lift me up anyway, like he always does during concerts (mainly to shut me up when I start tugging at his shirt saying "I can't see! What's happening?!"). But Gravenhurst was so good that I abandoned my friends and squeezed my way to the front (an advantage of being un-tall ;-)) and stationed myself in front of the drummer.

What is it about drummers? They're dreamy. This is the Fangirl in me talking here. They're like dancers, in a constant state of epilepsy. I was mesmerized at how his arms didn't seem to be hitting his drum kit; at one point he was just a blur of hands and sticks, his eyes half-closed. A boat crossed the Rhône, whose waves launched us into minutes of crazy swaying until I got dizzy and had to close my eyes. But yeah... drummers. Dreamy.

Last week, on account of Makis' fascination with the Abyss after a TV documentary she happened to see, she invited me over to watch a replay. And she was right - it's beautiful down there. The animals are mind-boggling. The abyss is a treasure chest of the Weird and the Damned. We both agreed that if the sea were emptied of all its water, it would probably be the creepiest and most beautiful sight the eye could ever see. Just like the Gravenhurst song predicted: There are cities underneath cities. Cities beneath the sea.

Currently listening to: Gravenhurst, Fires in Distant Buildings

Spiky Leafy Ends
Saturday, February 18, 2006 : 06:57 p.m.

My stomach isn't at its best state at the moment. But that's not the problem. The problem is that things don't seem to be heading towards the right direction. I'm always driving down a dark country road, no lightposts and lots of curves. And even though I have a map I could check, for example, I couldn't because, of course, the car's overhead light bulb needs to be changed. So, in short, that's the situation I'm in. Even the colours are off, dreamy, blurred. You know how strange the sunlight is during winter days? The sun always looks as if it's trying its best to reach the earth, but it can't, so instead the world is tinted a pale yellow, with a hint of pink. Jaundiced sunlight.

The novelty of filling my days is starting to get old. I'm frustrated in the strangest way. There's a certain offness to the way I look at things now. Plus I don't make much sense. I wish I could go out and buy a Better Mood.

Last night I dreamt of a country road, tall grass, walking barefoot, throwing sticks. I dreamt of a car sinking, saving the passengers. I dreamt of buses overturning, just as I was leaning my forehead against the glass to look at the landscape. Until now - a huge lunch, a tennis game later - I still feel the tightness in my chest as the car sank into the water, my fingers numb, trying to unclasp my seatbelt. I still remember how I surfaced from the water, gasping. I still remember being in the overturned bus, watching the ceiling rush up to me with a certain calm. That's it... There was a certain calmness about everything. As if I was trying too hard, but it didn't make a difference. Like winter sunlight.

Julien bought me a plant. Maybe in the hopes of cheering me up. And it did. It looks ferocious, has spiky leafy ends, and its little trunk looks almost like a banana tree's. We named him Bruno.

Park that car, drop that phone, sleep on the floor, dream about me
Saturday, January 28, 2006 : 01:08 p.m.

What a dilemma! I can't make up my mind whether to go to Milan or to Leuven, Belgium to watch Broken Social Scene...

Spent most of last night trying to find a reasonably-priced plane ticket to either Milan or Belgium. Since the concerts fall on a Monday and on a Tuesday, those low-cost airlines don't have any flights that fall on the 'good' days. I could take a train, but it would cost as much and will definitely be more hassle...

The problem lies on the fact that Julien has to get back to work the next day. We're dying to see them play live, though. Can you imagine seeing Broken Social Scene and Feist at the same time?! Damn, I only have a few more days to plan this.

A million thanks to my friend Jessi for sending me BSS and the latest Sigur Ros. Yes, I know I'm an idiot for not watching Sigur Ros when you told me I should.

Anyway, since I started out on music, here are some must-haves:

Broken Social Scene

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah

Arcade Fire

Boo!
Thursday, January 26, 2006 : 10:15 p.m.

Literally a few seconds ago I was asking Julien what he thought of my new bag, while he was working on his program. Once I managed to extract a half-hearted answer from him I plodded on and asked him if, in his opinion, it would snow tonight. He totally snapped at me, saying "Will you please let me work for one second???" as if he were... were... Einstein or some genius on the brink of a breakthrough. Mr. Juju, you just don't snap at me like that! I just need validation, both of my new bag and snow! You are a meanie and if ever you will read this in the future, you owe me an apology!!!

The Shop
Sunday, January 22, 2006 : 05:24 p.m.

During last Christmas' last-minute panic shopping, slightly disturbed but immensely amused by the sight of several people toting carrier bags emblazoned with the most common Filipino insult, I did a bit of sleuthing and came face-to-face with

Thank god for camera phones.

Just can't, people.
Sunday, January 8, 2006 : 05:50 p.m.

I cannot drive. There is a reason why I still do not have my license at 26. I know that all it takes is "practice", but practice is beyond me.

- I have no coordination.
- I easily get distracted.
- I don't care much for rearview mirrors.
- To tell my left from my right, I have to make a "holding a pen and writing" motion.

Fortune Telling
Wednesday, January 4, 2006 : 11:38 a.m.

Setting up a rendez-vous with a gynecologist isn't exactly in my list of "10 Things to Look Forward To". Even so, because I'm all adult and mature-like, I patiently go through the Pages Jaunes in vain search for a clinic I can go to.

I do have one criteria to meet: my gynecologist must be female. Last year's trauma still continually haunts me: My gynecologist, a big, gruff, non-English speaking middle-aged man, showing me into the examination room, ordering me to strip. Which I do, and, to my horror, realise that the examination chair is facing a window, and from the window I can see a row of houses with thin, flimsy curtains. Aix-en-Provence, after all, isn't that big a town. "Your feet into the stirrups, madame," barks the unfriendly gynecologist. Which I follow, cringing. I mean, it only takes a pervert and a pair of binoculars...

So this year I carefully pick out a doctor's name (Françoise as opposed to François, or Marie-Pierre as opposed to plain Pierre- these things I tend to overlook), and set up an appointment.

Getting a rendez-vous with a gynecologist in France - or with any other type of doctor I imagine - requires patience and time. Lots of it. Appointments can be set a month or even two later, and curiously everyone accepts this fact. That's why I was elated when the snotty secretary set me up for an appointment for the next week.

Of course, the moment I step into my new female gyne office, I realise that my life is a series of amazing irony and terrible luck. In my greed to take an earlier appointment I had failed to check the arrival of my period. Usually I'm right on the dot, and this day, apparently, was the dot itself.

Embarrassed, I inform the doctor about it. She cheerfully brushes it off with a "Ce n'est pas grave, ça arrive de temps en temps", laughing heartily at her wit, while I haphazardly pull on my clothing.

The rest of the conversation goes something like this:

"So, can I just, you know, move the appointment sometime next week, perhaps?" I venture, sitting in her office while she writes off my usual pill prescription.

"Bien sur!" she booms. Then she adds: "But it's no hurry. I see, from where I am, that everything with you is fine."

Um, I'm not a doctor or anything, but I do know that doctors need to actually examine a patient before coming up with a statement like that. From where I am everything with you is fine??? It kind of scares me that she can come up with that theory from giving me a once-over when she should have been poking at my nether regions.

Then she hands me my pills prescription, along with a prescription for something to take for my cholesterol. I look at it blankly. To my knowledge, before giving out cholesterol prescriptions one has to go through some sort of examination. Blood tests, eye-poking, something, at a minimum. My gynecologist, though, "thinks" that I need to take something for my cholesterol. So there.

"That will be 45€", she says.

I hand over the money, gritting my teeth, thinking that she could have very well saved us both the time and effort by pointing a gun to my temple from the very moment I entered her office and demanding me to empty the contents of my wallet.

If she had had a diploma displayed somewhere in her office, I wouldn't have batted an eyelash if it stated she had a degree in Fortune Telling rather than Gynecology.

Plus on pédale moins fort, moins on avance plus vite.
Friday, December 30, 2005 : 09:07 p.m.

While everyone goes ahead rating the past year and planning for the next one, I am scotch-taping the bottom part of our windows to keep the cold wind out. My curtains are newly-washed. I feel like a hundred years old. White, white, everywhere, white. It happened after the holidays. My stomach, refusing to digest the mushrooms I cooked a few days ago. More days at home, woozy, feverish, knees jerking to my stomach in pain, retching over and over into the toilet bowl.

Where is my mom when I need her? Where are people, when I need them?

First, the sweater. Then, again, the sweater. Then the tying of the scarf. Then pull on my gloves. Then top it off with my coat. Then I take my keys. But. Off goes the coat. Off comes the gloves. Untying of the scarf. Slipping my mp3 player over my neck. Scarf on. Gloves on. Coat on. Run to the bus stop.

Naturally, the bus has left. Look at the bus schedule. Next bus is in 20 minutes. Walk downhill for 20 minutes in the cold.

Welcome to winter.

Have I progressed. What new things have I done. What have I learned. What have I dared to learn. Where have I been. What have I said. Have I dared to say enough. Last year, I wanted to minimize words, to maximize actions. Have I done that. Have I succeeded. Have I progressed. Have I progressed. Have I progressed.

So like I said: newly-washed curtains. They've always been too long; my curtains are 10 inches longer than they should be, and I'm not even kidding. And I'm not kidding, again, when I say that I've never done anything about it.

Until this afternoon, when I realized that hey, maybe it's time to progress.

So I fixed it to the right length.

Using a stapler.

*thundering applause*

Lists
Friday, December 9, 2005 : 06:26 p.m.

When we were young we really didn't write Christmas lists, because in a family with 5 hyperactive children and a mother harassed with the task of cooking and organizing a Christmas party, we were taught to just accept whatever Santa'd give us, because "Santa is a very very busy person and can't walk around looking for specific things in your lists! Plus he probably has to cook and organize a Christmas dinner! @^{#~^@##[# !!!"

Since I've been in France, for the past 3 Christmases, Julien has asked me for my Christmas list. And my list has been the same, every year.

Kala's Christmas List 2005:
1. Dog (any colour, preferably labrador)
2. Cat (any colour, preferably with stripes)

Julien confronted me about my list this year, exasperated, saying that if I really wanted a pet I should just go ahead and get one and not give a damn about his opinion.

And I suppose I could. Except that it would mean that I would have sole responsibility over Dali (the future name of my dog... as in Labrador Dali) or Euclid (the future name of my cat and current name of my imaginary one). And what if I'd like to not take my dog out for a walk? What if I'm feeling lazy? Hmm? Would it mean that Julien would just sit there and continue what he's doing, because it's my dog?

There should be equal rights!

The problem I have is that I don't have a garden, and we live on the first floor. If I had a dog, I'd have to change from my pajamas to socially-acceptable clothes to bring him out to pee. And if I had a cat, I couldn't just toss him out the window, regardless of their amazing ability to land on four legs (proven by numerous experiments).

This leads, of course, to my immaturity, and my fear of responsibility.

So I decided that the only way to get what I want is by changing strategy.

Kala's Christmas List 2005:
1. House (with GARDEN!!!)

And maybe, just maybe, he'll get me a dog this year.

Some people ride the wave
Sunday, December 4, 2005 : 11:16 a.m.

My alarm clock is set to 6:25 am every day. A back-up alarm for Julien, since his phone's alarm clock has a Decision function installed: It decides whether it feels like ringing or not.

At around 10 am to 11 am I finally manage to struggle into a vertical position, though somewhat slumped, and make my way towards the computer. I don't eat breakfast, because Breakfast is for Champions, and since I am the one hobbling behind the rest of the runners I have no need for it. I've been a night person ever since University: I'm used to watching dawn break, I'm used to watching shadows change, I'm used to energy bars slowing down at 12 am, only to pick up again at 2 am. I especially love Friday nights, because I know that the next morning my alarm clock will not ring, and I look forward to waking up with someone beside me. Getting up from bed is much easier when there are two of you.

I don't own a television set (TV is evil), but the last movie I saw that I really, really liked was a film called Match Point, directed by Woody Allen, which makes you think hard whether you'd prefer being lucky over good.

Hmm.

I'm not a fan of food. When I was younger I was allergic to almost everything, but even though that's been taken care of, I'm still wary when trying new stuff: for me, Chinese food is the way to go. What I can't stand, though, is tarama, which is a Greek appetizer dip made of fish eggs. And it's pink. Pink!

After seeing the Nada Surf concert a few weeks back I've been listening to their latest cd incessantly (The Weight Is A Gift). Also been listening to Buena Vista Social Club, because I'd love to go to Cuba one day (which is good cause I don't need a visa for Cuba).

When I used to smoke (dear god... happy days...) I never really felt bored, because smoking always gave me the impression that I was actually "doing" something. Boredom now leads me to open Flash and go through Actionscript (cause I'm a geek like that). Or make websites. Or postcards. Postcards that I write and address to friends, but never send.

...Which leads me to one of the things about myself that I despise the most : I write, and never send. I start, and never finish. I hit the ball, but never follow-through. Yet this only happens with "personal" projects: my own site, for example, or my own paintings. There is something terribly wrong with this picture. I should push myself to please myself more often.

My best childhood memory was creating a city made out of broken clay pots and stones with my cousins, strategically placing our green toy soldiers in and around the city, then running around it, pretending we were airplane bombers, throwing stones at the soldiers until we completely annihilated the area. And finding the whole game funny. I think I have a destructive nature.

I have had numerous jobs since graduating college, and all were arts/graphics/web related. Let's say I was always an overworked underpaid overachiever. Exciting news is that it's almost Christmas. And that I finally bought a new winter coat (extra small! extra small!)

When I was young I wanted to be an archaeologist. I remember driving home from the cinema after my Father took me to see Indiana Jones. I remember sticking my head out of the window, trying to figure out the best way to beg my mother to buy me a whip and a hat...

I also remember feeling that I could make dreams come true, that I could unearth secrets, that I would discover things which were hidden under layers of dust. I remember thinking that the Universe was nothing but a puzzle, and that I could solve it, if only I had more time, and if only I could skip a day of school....

...and regarding the chicken or the egg coming first, they were both zapped into earth by the aliens at the same time. I mean, really. You didn't know?

(Voila Makis! Finally answered your tag! Whew.)