Up the Tower

Here’s a short piece that I recently wrote, closely inspired by my own previous visits to the Eiffel Tower. A visit to France, Paris in particular, is definitely a bucket-list worthy experience.🙂

IMPORTANT: Please give full credit to me should you wish to share this.

Up the Tower ©

by C Canda

—Begin—

Mademoiselle, would you like to buy the Eiffel Tower?”

I gasped softly, surprised at the voice that suddenly spoke to my right. It was dusk, the sun quickly setting. I was in Paris, walking briskly along the Pont d’Lena that led to the foot of the Eiffel Tower from the Jardins du Trocadero. It had been a fairly warm October day but the temperature quickly dropped to a windy cold by late afternoon.

Maganda, kamusta? Konichiwa? Buy Eiffel Tower?” the tall, dark young man smiled brightly at me, making a show of his language skills. He proffered his wares proudly, a bunch of miniature plastic towers looped across his arm, each lit up in a variety of colors. His perfect white teeth reflected the colors of the battery-operated towers.

Non,” I shook my head. “No, thank you,” I continued walking, as a breeze blew my hair off the side of my face. I adjusted my scarf and warmed my hands further inside my coat pockets.

“Ah, please, si’l vous plait, very cheap, one euro only for three,” the young salesman’s voice sounded a little more aggressive. I could feel his body heat as he walked alongside me, matching me step for step. From my peripheral vision, I noticed him motion to a cohort and, within a minute, there were four of them, crowding me as I attempted to walk on.

The stoplight at the short pedestrian crossing ahead unfortunately turned red. A parade of cars chose that moment to all drive by, giving me no choice but to wait and hope not to be thieved, or worse, attacked.

Non, non, I’m sorry I’ve got no cash. Maybe another time,” I declared loudly, gesturing “no”, and stepping away from the small band of laughing men. They were now talking in their native tongue, strange sounds to my ear.

I came behind a family of four, likely tourists from the cameras slung around their necks, Germans I think, from the little I heard them speak. They glanced at me as if questioning, are you alright? The father looked menacingly at the street peddlers, challenging them to come any closer to me and his family. I gave him a small smile, thanks. He nodded and pointed to the stoplight. It had turned green.

I quickly skipped ahead. I walked past the carousel and the creperie stand.

I approached the ticket booth and just about made the last scheduled trip up the tower. Behind the booth, I could see one of the groups prior just getting back down and off the elevator.

Bonjour, monsieur. Une billet, si’l vous plait,” I said carefully to the white haired man behind the glass. I have been taking French language classes before arriving in Paris a week ago, but I was still getting used to the proper enunciations and intonations.

The man glanced at the wall clock to the side, and slowly returned his gaze to me. His thin pale lips curled up in a slight snarl, and he said, “Seize euro”.

I pushed twenty euro into the narrow slot. He took it, keyed in a few strokes on his machine, and handed me my change and my ticket. “Turn right, and wait to be called,” the man said in heavily accented English, whilst pointing to the entryway.

Merci beaucoup, monsieur,” I answered, smiling slightly. It was hit or miss, I noticed, when dealing with the locals here. Some were naturally nice, some were just not. I suppose it is the same for any other city.

I took my place in the short queue and soon found myself shepherded into the giant metal elevator. There were only about a dozen people in my group that were mostly couples, I noted.

The view going up the top was beautiful. The sky was an exquisite blanket of pinks and purples, darker shades on the bottom as the night fell. The lights across the city were slowly turned on, each arrondissement lit following the next. The elevator halted to a stop on the first level viewing deck and the doors whooshed open. I heard excited chatter outside as earlier visitors walked around the souvenir shop and queued for the toilets.

All but my self and one other person stepped off. A microphoned voice announced the ascent to the topmost view deck.

I stayed in place by the elevator window. I glanced at the man opposite me. He was tall and broad shouldered, and he wore an expensive looking dark suit. His face was obscured by longish dark hair, his head down as he spoke intensely into his mobile phone. He looked up, just as the elevator opened again.

I stepped out into the now freezing Paris air. The night and the altitude caused a vast drop in temperature. There were only a handful of visitors left, I noticed, as I walked towards the west side of the deck, where the winds did not blow as hard.

It was relatively quiet where I stood, with only soft voices carrying over from people on the other side. I pushed my left coat sleeve up to check the time – five past seven. I had five minutes to spare.

With my heart pounding, I took out my new slim camera from my satchel and turned its setting to video.

I looped the thin camera strap around my neck and poised it in front of me. I checked my watch again – seven oh eight. Any minute now.

The excited voices from the other visitors faded into the background as suddenly, my surroundings became so bright it was startling. It felt like the most special of days, like new year’s eve, as all twenty thousand lightbulbs glittered on the tower’s exterior frame.

People cheered as the tower lit up in all its glory, as if announcing to the world, here I am! Look at me!

I continued to record my visit, commentating quietly and in awe, encircling the deck and even asking people to wave at my camera.

Those precious few minutes were undoubtedly special. It was a personal triumph like no other.

I had finally crossed off the last to-do on my bucket list.

—End—

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Trials, errors, and literary exploits

Yet again I have been remiss with this blog. My high hopes when I first started this endeavor have been shattered. I recall being so optimistic and even attempted to blog about one topic each day. Bah.

I’m afraid that I have been preoccupied by the usual stuff, aka life and all the shit attached to it. Anyway, I’m going to try a different, hopefully more productive, approach. I’ve made efforts to improve my writing skills (one can dream) and have begun composing short stories, inspired by some personal experiences and random ideas that constantly float in my mind.

IMPORTANT: This is original work, written by me. I share this shamelessly, so I hope to receive full credit if or when anyone finds my work interesting enough to share.🙂

Cemetery ©

by C Canda

—Begin—

I looked up at the grey sky and a tiny droplet falls on my forehead. It is so faint that it hardly dampens that small spot on my skin. I almost felt it.

The wind picked up and harshly blew my thin scarf to my back. I grabbed it and tucked it furiously into the neck of my coat. A lorry started up in the distance, its motor a violent growl slicing across the quiet. I held tightly to the small bouquet of small flowers that I got at the town market. “These are mostly dried up, could as well give these to the church,” the elderly lady at the flower stand had announced, tutting as she arranged the lot before her.

The walk up the hill was a harsh exercise on the limbs. The drab surroundings particularly aggravated the journey. To my right was a stretch of high, black metal gate, a mess of untended vines and weeds slinking up and pushing through its narrow bars, as if prisoners wishing for an escape. To my left, across the road, a row of plain, poorly constructed box houses, their uniform windows and doors like unseeing eyes, stoic faces. I pitied whoever had the poor fate to live in those homes, whether by choice or happenstance.

I trudged up the steepest part of the hill and the enormous main gate of the cemetery came to view. The gate is tall as three grown men stood on top of the other, black as the dead earth and the shadowed crypts within its premises. The words ‘Haverford Public Cemetery’ in diminutive, gold lettering spanned its center. I reached for the giant gold knob. The rusty hinges screeched in agony.

The main path of the cemetery was littered with dry leaves, clumped and moldy in some parts, testament to the lack of attention. Alongside the path crypts lay in various shapes and lengths, covered in crawling vines, some nearly hidden by overgrown weeds. A gust of wind blew through the grounds. It felt like a warning, a dare for me to journey on.

If I closed my eyes, I could still very much make it to my destination in the middle of the grounds. I could make it through the maze of old and newly built mausoleums, some large and grand with thick pillars and marbled insides, fancy, gilded family crests placed high and proud above its entrances. Some are simpler, unassuming, tombs built with the bare minimum only to house shells of former family members. As they should be, I think.

No one brings riches to the afterlife, this I know.

The cemetery is a sprawling park on Haverford hill. At the center of the grounds is a majestic fountain, twin cherubs stood in the middle, paint mostly chipped and weathered, ominous as they point visitors to the east, west, south, or north.

I veered left off the main path and worked my way towards the less grandiose section of the park. Here the graves lie in simpler estates – plainly imprinted tombstones, grey rectangular niches otherwise unmarked except for the small, uniform cross atop each.

I count and hesitate as I reach thirty one… thirty two… thirty three. I falter in my steps. Tears that will not fall feel heavy in my chest. I kneel and reach for the three small candles tucked in my coat pocket.

One by one I light them, saying a prayer as I do.

For Sarah, my wife…

For Amanda, my daughter…

And for myself.

— End —

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Walked in Amelie’s footsteps

Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain is the loveliest French film I’ve seen, which, well quite frankly, is the only one I ever watched from beginning to end without losing interest. I suppose it’s the unique, whimsical and charming manner in which Amelie was presented that won my and viewers’ hearts everywhere. Not to mention that it’s set in my favorite city in the whole world, so I guess I’m a bit biased…

So, without question, my cousin (a fellow fan girl) and I just had to try and see the notable spots featured in the film during our previous (and hopefully not last) visit to the city of lights.

We got off this Metro station, hoping to get into Montmarte (at least from what I remember). Had to walk quite a bit, ending up in Pigalle where we found the Mouling Rouge and found the Amelie cafe just a street behind it.

We got off this Metro station, hoping to get into Montmartre (at least from what I remember). Had to walk quite a bit, ending up in Pigalle where we found the Moulin Rouge, and then the Amelie cafe just a street behind it.

Note of advice: Never attempt to climb out of this Metro station . The winding stairwell was torture - it went on forever! For anyone coming here, I suggest getting off at another station (as an option), if not, then at least ride the elevator up to street level.

Note of advice: Never attempt to climb out of this Metro station . The winding stairwell was torture – it went on forever! For anyone coming here, I suggest riding the elevator up to street level.

Beautiful street view

Beautiful street view

The infamous Moulin Rouge in the raunchy Pigalle district. In the film, Nino worked in a sex shop in the same district.

The infamous Moulin Rouge in the raunchy Pigalle district. In the film, Nino worked in a sex shop in the same district.

A definite *whee* moment when we finally spotted the cafe! The famed cafe/resto where Amelie worked as a waitress

A definite *whee* moment when we finally spotted the cafe! The famed cafe/resto where Amelie worked as a waitress

Another *whee* moment, when we entered the cafe.. we made it! We weren't surprised that there were other tourists as well, fellow fan girls, who obviously shared our plans of living out Amelie's life :-)

Another *whee* moment, when we entered the cafe.. we made it!

The place was obviously Amelie-fied to suit the fancy of fans visiting the place.

The place was obviously Amelie-fied to suit the fancy of fans visiting the place.

Of course the garden gnome was here too

Of course the garden gnome was here too

A little shrine of sorts found in the back of the cafe towards the loo

A little shrine of sorts found in the back of the cafe towards the loo

Deux cafe et creme brulee, si'l vous plait...and a molten chocolate cake, too

Deux cafe et creme brulee, si’l vous plait…and a molten chocolate cake, too

Cafe menu

Cafe menu

Cafe menu

Cafe menu

One of the business found down the street outside the cafe

flower shop down the street outside the cafe

source: http://www.movie-locations.com/movies/a/amelie.html

Amélie film location: Crème brulée: Café les Deux Moulins, Montmartre, Paris
Source: http://www.movie-locations.com/movies/a/amelie.html

Amélie film location: the video store where Nino works: Palace Video, Boulevard de Clichy, Pigalle, ParisSource: http://www.movie-locations.com/movies/a/amelie.html

Amélie film location: the video store where Nino works: Palace Video, Boulevard de Clichy, Pigalle, Paris
Source: http://www.movie-locations.com/movies/a/amelie.html

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on plans, and the troubles with making them

As it is, I’ve already failed miserably on this 365-blog-a-day gig I’ve imposed on myself. Oh w-e-e-ll… At least, however, I think I’ve managed to salvage this little failure (yes, I’m consoling myself here..) by having posted sensible and somewhat like-worthy posts (thank you, kind fellow bloggers). I’ve decided to look back a bit on the past month and reflect on what’s transpired in my life, successful and failed plans included.

On blogging – Well, here I am, still raring to go despite the setback on not actually blogging daily. It really wasn’t as easy as I thought, especially during days when I felt so whipped from a day’s work that I just wanted to drop dead on my bed as soon as I got home. I must say though that this exercise of blogging, and just writing, has been quite therapeutic. It’s helped me organise the mostly jumbled thoughts in my mind, most of which runs in non-intersecting figures of 8’s that I have trouble catching up sometimes.

On writing – Speaking of writing, well I’m glad to say that I have begun my little book project, which I hope to finish sometime…soon. Yes, I’m writing a book, gendemmit, and I shall finish it!!! (deep breaths…)  I feel that I have to declare this to the world, or at least to the internet universe, so I’ve got some witnesses, and so I’ll feel guilty enough to force myself to studiously work on said project. Plot and little samples to be shared at a later date…Maybe.

For inspiration, I’m now reading Stephen King‘s auto-bio, entitled On Writing. I can relate with what he said in it, “…stopping a piece of work just because it’s hard, either emotionally or imaginatively, is a bad idea. Sometimes you have to go on when you don’t feel like it, and sometimes you’re doing good work when it feels like all you’re managing is to shovel shit from a sitting position.” Good stuff, I tell you.

On reading – I have faithfully pursued my resurrected passion-slash-favorite-hobby and I am glad. I plan to continue reading just about anything that suits my fancy and not just the supposed usual best-sellers. A quote I stumbled on by Haruki Murakami always reverberates in my mind whenever I decide on what to read next – “If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.” from Norwegian Wood. True, isn’t it?

On plans – I don’t want to make this into a ranting sort of piece, so I’ll just say this generally. Since the first day of the year, I have so far made one big, spells-my-future decision that I had to really ponder over during the holidays, but which ended up feeling like one big lemon in the first place. Not that I didn’t think it was the right choice, because it is, especially for where I am in my life right now. But it just felt like a waste of effort and unnecessary anxiety, having had to toss and turn over it. Then again, I guess that’s what makes for good but tough decisions, no? Either you live with it, or you don’t. I’m happy to say that I’m living with mine… and I’m okay.

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“How will I get out of this labyrinth!”

I’ve got two words for you.

John Green.

Have I mentioned that I love this author? That I’ve sworn by him ever since I read The Fault in our Stars? That I’ve unscrupulously convinced my mature friends to reach into their inner, young adult subconscious and start reading his books? That each of them who did swore to kill me after they cried buckets while reading TFIOS, and that they’ll never heed my recommendations again? (Bar the erotica I regularly throw their way, but that’s for another post…)

It may appear that I’m quite partial to young adult fiction, which honestly, okay, I am. But I would rather come clean with this, than pretend I’m a high-and-mighty intellectual who’s into philosophies, historical accounts, etc. I’m not. Sure I enjoy the occasional academic, literary read, but often I prefer something light, an easy yet sensible read, something which still evokes some existential insight in me. And I honestly think I’ve found all these in John Green’s books.

Since TFIOS, I’ve also read Will Grayson, Will Grayson, Paper Towns, and recently, Looking for Alaska. I’ve yet to complete An Abundance of Katherines but I’m getting to it. Each book is uniquely written. Each character is smart, and witty, and independent, and just too awesome for their age. I think each book’s characters are clearly and thoughtfully introduced to the reader, so that the reader fully understands the character’s motivations, why he/she is the way he/she is, and how he/she is essential to the whole story.

Can I say that I loved all of these books? That I cannot wait for more from him? Or even better that any one of these be optioned into a film adaptation?

Let me quickly touch on Looking for Alaska which I just finished reading. It tells the story of Miles Halter, nicknamed Pudge by his new roomie, The Colonel, at Culver Creek. He’s a new junior at this boarding school. He instantly makes friends with The Colonel’s other friends, Takumi, a Japanese-American who’s into rapping, and Alaska Young, this fearless, moody girl who’s got a bad smoking habit. They’re sort of outcasts, albeit intelligent ones, in that they neither want to or actually fit into the mold of a usual Culver Creek student – standard-issue rich kid with perfect clothes and hair, raised in similarly perfect homes. They’re all from dysfunctional, non-standard families, Pudge being the only one who actually more fits the Culver profile, but not his weird penchant for famous people’s last words.

Pudge is introduced to the prank-induced high school life, often headed by the spunky Alaska and co-prankster, the Colonel. To add depth to their story, the Old Man is introduced – their creaky old religion teacher who quickly proves to not be an easy A. He has them studying three religious traditions: Islam, Christianity, and Budhhism. This forces them to open their minds to search for life’s meaning and the best way going about being a person.

This class proves a pivotal element in the characters’ lives. They engage in individual research for their final paper which tells them to answer What is the most important question each human being must answer?

Pudge’s question is What happens to us when we die? The Colonels asks, Why do good people get rotten lots in life?, while Alaska wants to know, How do we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering? She paraphrases this from Simon Bolivar, lead character in the novel The General in His Labyrinth by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

Each of their questions are clear reflections of each character’s lives. Alaska’s untimely death begs Pudge and Colonel to find painful answers to their own questions, while desperately finding an answer to her question, as well as find reason for her apparent suicide.

See, what I love about John Green is how he’s able to ingeniously wrap relevant, thought-provoking subjects in seemingly light, exceptionally witty, sometimes embarrassing coming-of-age stories, but which later pack a punch, and make the reader sit back, and truly think about life and its intricacies.

Full respect for this author, I tell you.

And, as always, here are a few of my favorite quotes from the book:

“Jesus, I’m not going to be one of those people who sits around talking about what they’re gonna do. I’m just going to do it. Imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia.” – Alaska Young

“Suffering..Doing wrong and having wrong things happen to you. That’s the problem. Bolivar was talking about the pain, not about the living or dying. How do you get out of the labyrinth of suffering?” – Alaska Young

“And what is an instant death anyway? How long is an instant? Is it one second? Ten?” – Miles “Pudge” Halter

“If only we could see the endless string of consequences that result from our smallest actions. But we can’t know better until knowing better is useless.” – Miles “Pudge” Halter

“Everthing that comes together falls apart.” – on Zen, by the Old Man

“You’re two-thirds of the way there.” – Pudge to the Colonel

“Yeah, but I’m like three-fourths of the way to puking.” – Colonel to Pudge

For more on John Green and his work, visit his site – http://www.johngreenbooks.com

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Je suis un peu triste sur Les Miserables

First of all, I’d like to thank Google Translate for expressing in French my feelings over the latest film adaptation of Les Miserables, which I recently watched in the cinema.

“I am a little miserable over Les Miserables.”

Now, where to start… Oh my, my. I didn’t know it was going to be an all-out musical. Pardon my ignorance for that. However, as high as my expectations were for this film, I sort of felt… I don’t know, what’s the word for this, short-changed? Just not 100% sold? I mean, I enjoyed it essentially, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself from slightly cringing at some parts of the film. I’ve read the book and I’ve seen the previous movie with Liam Neeson playing Jean Valjean. Granted, I haven’t seen the play, which is in itself mostly a musical, that I know. Is it just me? I hope not.

Let me first discuss the parts I actually enjoyed. First, the production, the sets, etc – I give my respect to the director and producers for visually capturing 1800s France. I especially liked the opening scene where Jean Valjean is shown as Prisoner no. 24601, one of thousands who are good as dead with their prison sentences, and in this scene, is shown impossibly tugging on a ginormous ship on to its dock. I swear I did not recognise Hugh Jackman here, he truly looked every part the sullen, dirty, malnourished 18th century prisoner. His eyes effectively showed the emotions of an unfairly imprisoned man, done for only due to a measly piece of bread. I felt exhausted just watching him.

Second, the solo singing scenes of Jean Valjean, Fantine, Eponine, Gavroche – I l-o-o-o-v-e-d them! I was moved to tears when Fantine sang “I Dreamed a Dream”, with Anne Hathaway’s expressive doe eyes, tearfully calling for her daughter, saddened for the good life she never had, nor that which she’d be able to give her child. Now, I can normally hold my tears in the cinema (preferring the non judgemental privacy of my room for any film-related breakdowns), but here I was unconsciously reaching for my wadded up tissue and furiously dabbing at my eyes. Then there was that last scene where Marius and Cosette finally find Jean in his last moments alive. Again, Hugh Jackman’s performance sincerely affected me, his old, tired face a clear reflection of a man who lived a hard, full life, that he was ready to go, he was done with it all. Needless to say, my tear ducts were on overdrive at that point, and thankfully my friend had a whole pack of tissues on hand.

For Eponine’s scene, of course I had to (quietly) hum along as she sang “On My Own”… while walking in the rain. But, really, walking in the rain…? I liked this scene if only for the song, and because the actress was quite good, despite me not knowing who she was. And because, whilst singing in my mind, I was also thinking, “How the hell does she have a waist that tiny?”, which apparently a lot of other people noticed, too. Also, she’s epitomised the definition of “friend zone” as in, “Oh, so your crush called you dude? You’ve so been friend-zoned.” He he. But I digress…

I had to love little’s Gavroche’s cheeky song renditions too, as he smirked and charmingly smiled his way amongst the adult revolutionaries. I loved how his cute British accent showed still through his songs, it truly fit his character.

Of course, Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter must be given their due in this post. They probably played the best supporting-to-the-supporting actor and actress, in my eyes.

Now, for the parts I didn’t particularly love… May I start by pointing out how annoying Javert was? I suppose in saying this that Russell Crowe played his part well, being the antagonist and all, but… here’s where I thought the film could’ve perhaps done without the sing-all-your-lines bit. I cringed at his singing scenes, and no thanks to him I was humming “Prisoner 24601” in my head, and then when he was hiding in that corner, singing out his thoughts, as he suddenly recognised Jean Valjean as he helped a poor man off the street…I wanted to tell him off, like “Stop singing already!!! Just say the words aloud!!!” Gah.

Let me make it clear that I’m no film critic, rather just an enthusiast. So if asked, did I like Les Miserables, the nth film version? Sure I did. Did I love it in its entirety? Hmm, maybe not entirely, but it’s still one of those dont-miss-it films of the decade, I should say.

 

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Who is Bona?

I have never been a fan of local theater. I’ve always equated plays staged by PETA (Philippine Educational Theater Association) as being overly dramatic, too historical and a little too subversive for my taste. A myopic point of view, probably because the only PETA plays I ever watched were those forced on me by school admin during my elementary and high school days.

However, last September I was pleasantly surprised, and seriously itching to buy tickets, as soon as I read about the renowned 80’s film classic, BONA, being adapted into a play and portrayed by my favorite contemporary Philippine comedian, Ms Eugene Domingo. Now I’m not ashamed of my fascination for local showbiz (despite its occasional tackiness), and I do love comedy, and I love Eugene even more as a comedian. I’ve been a fan since way before she struck gold with her starring role in the hit comedy flick, Kimmy Dora. So, it was no question that I was going to watch BONA, just because she was in it, and because I had a gut feeling it would become a big hit.

Some background from the PETA website (www.peta.com.ph) –

From the 1980’s Lino Brocka film starring Nora Aunor as the naïve, schoolgirl Bona and Philip Salvador as Gardo, the movie extra whom Bona worshipped out of fan obsession, PETA’s production presents a similar story with characters in the modern setting.

Portraying the title role, Eugene Domingo plays a spinster call center agent who becomes obsessed with a star-search wannabe actor essayed by Edgar Allan Guzman.

I’ve never seen the original film, but I do know that Lino Brocka is one of, if not the Philippine cinema’s best ever director, having spewed classics which current film makers only aspire to re-create. Neither am I a fan of Nora Aunor, but I do appreciate her dramatic prowess, etc.

BONA the play steered the story to a more modern setting, and nothing could be more current and realistic than having her character be a call center agent. She’s the eldest sibling who strives to be the strong rock in her small family – she sends her bright nephew to school because his happy-go-lucky mother could only set her sights so low, and isn’t really capable of being a responsible parent. In her mid thirties (I think), she struggles to balance her life and responsibilities, along with her own aspirations. Bona suddenly harbors a fixation on a reality show contestant, a younger man played by Edgar Allan Guzman, whose sob life story caught her heartstrings.

She goes all out with her fan girl-dom – she makes t-shirts with his name on it, she attends all his shows, she even distributes his favorite pastry at these shows (good lord…)! The play’s dialogue was, as expected, excellently witty and loosely peppered with sexual innuendos and swear words. Her fantasy comes true when, by some twisted fate, she ended up bringing home her idol after a night of drinking. With him being a down-and-out, and her being a natural problem-solver and nurturer, they ended up living together, at first under the pretense that she would help manage his flailing career. Their relationship later evolved to a cougar-ish physical affair, with her pulling all stops to help him, while he… well he ended up banging another woman, whom he claims he really loved.

Despite the comedic punches, effortlessly delivered by all actors (but especially by Bona and her gayer than gay best friend, I forget his name though), the play really hit home with questions on one’s priorities in life, like how far would you go for someone you love? Would you love a stranger more than you would your own flesh and blood? Can you tell love and obsession apart if it slapped you in the face? How much would you sacrifice yourself for the sake of another person? Are you ready to love another without being sure that person won’t cheat on you or bail on you? Is modern society really accepting of an older woman caring for a young man, and vice versa?

So yeah, needless to say I loved the play! It had me, my companions and the rest of the audience in stitches at all the right moments. It did so well that people clamored to extend the play’s run, even celebrities and veteran theater people endorsed it. I guess now I’ve got a lot more respect for PETA and its productions. I’ll have to try and catch some more of their work.

Here’s a clip of the actors performing before local press – 

Source: www.youtube.com/watch?v=XcSy7Fi3Dro

Credits to PETA for the play synopsis above. For more information, see http://www.petatheater.com.

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