Epic Final: I Love You More Today Than Yesterday

6 July 2008, Wimbledon. I should have seen this. I really should have. I don't know why I didn't. But I do know now why people say regret comes only in the end.

As such, I can only relive the high drama through prose.

Sublime Spaniard stretches the imagination

Dispatches: A Post-Wimbledon Dialogue

The Death of Wanting

This is sportswriting-cum-commentating at its most poetic. Nothing ensnares and enraptures as much as a beautifully spun yarn about a battle of mythic proportions (which actually took place just this weekend and is now entrenched in the annals of sports history).

Nothing.. Except maybe seeing the action play out in real life. Or, okay, on low-fi cable TV, as the case would have been.

Well, anyway. All hail Rafa, all hail The Fed! Long live the quintessential kings of tennis!


Photo courtesy of tennis.com

Marat Trounces Novak in Wimby 2008!

Rather than taking the 8:30pm flight home right after the match, Marat Safin, love of my life, handed Novak Djokovic his walking papers in round two at Wimbledon, shocking the World Number 3--and the world--with a 6-4, 7-6 (3), 6-2 victory.


I don't usually repost entire posts in this here blog, but Jessica Zafra couldn't have said it better when she wrote about Novak's non-upsetting upset by Super Safin.

Holy Eastern European swearwords, Marat Safin just mowed down number three seed Novak Djokovic in the second round at Wimbledon, 6-4, 7-6(3), 6-2! HAHAHAHAHAHA! alternating with tears. Yes Marat is mental and we love him. His pre-Wimbledon tune-up was mountain-climbing in the Himalayas. Yes he may lose in the next rounds to some guy ranked 400. No, we’re never going to change my cat Saffy Safin’s name no matter how bonkers her papy gets!

The old guy (28) and former number one looks across the net at the young guy (21) who’s gunning for number one and thinks, “So this is the hot guy on the tour.” And the young guy freezes. What Marat can do when his head is screwed on right, but never mind that.

No doubt about it, baby's bringing sexyback, yeah-uh. Although one can only wonder how long the party will last...

If you have Windows Media Player (dunno if this can be done with other players), you can click on the link below to see how it went down...

http://mfile.akamai.com/25457/wmv/wimbledonxp.download.akamai.com/25457/wimbledon/streaming/2008/shortclips/free_highlights_nb_10448968_25062008_500.wmv


Photo courtesy of wimbledon.org

Eureka Moment: Iron Is Actually Good For You

Aha! Now I know why I was so not bringin' it during training last Saturday. I needed some iron-pumping action, and how! And that's not just because I'm sort of anemic. Although now that I think about it, how in the world am I getting by without any ferrous reinforcement?

Needless to say, I totally bombed. Halfway through the second round doing pad work with one of the krus (that's Thai for "teacher"), I found, to my utter mortification, that I was operating at 25% capacity. In cellphone terms, I was low-bat. I immediately saw it even before the new trainer was saying, "Kaya pa ba? (Can you still do it?)" In my mind, I was missile-launching expletives at myself. WTF--I used to be able to do 6-8 rounds, straight up. The least number of rounds a student can do is three, with a two-minute break in between. So this one I totally didn't see coming. Just earlier, I had relatively breezed through a straight five-lap run of the tracks for warm-up. Okay, I know, that's not even half a 5K, but considering that I haven't been running in a couple of months, that's hunky-dory for me. Anyway, doing a 5K right before Muay Thai training is just not the smartest thing in my book. Add to that the realization that it is so not worth going through training when you cannot perform to full capacity. I swear, you'd just feel crappy.

An added caveat: This weekend was the first time I set foot in the gym since New Year's Day. Yep, I was that fanatical. During the countdown to 2008 party that Lejan and I went to (see here post), I was texting with the lone kru who was left to care for the training gym while all the other instructors were enjoying the holidays with their respective families far and away from the city. I was on a roll during the holidays, training for days at a time, and I was so gung-ho on making the most of the slackening preoccupation at work that I went ahead and scheduled a one-on-one for the next day.

So I came, I saw, I kicked butt. Although it wasn't the easiest sesh I've had or anything, I was pretty pleased with myself. Nothing says "I'm getting game" more resonantly than doing it in the first day of the new year. Obviously, I thought it was a sign of things to come. Good things, of course, a year of all things fabulous for the Muay Thai nerd that is me, myself, and I.

But then work came flooding back into the mainstream consciousness like a superlolo blowing up on NY Eve--in the living room. While you're in it. Plus, the fam's painting the town red, and I need to keep them in check lest they be accosted by the cops for possession/abuse of acrylics.

And my own pending homeward bound in the coming days doesn't exactly leave me with boundless energy for other stuff that the cosmos might throw my way.

And so, when I spotted a window in my weekend schedule to finally put in some time again in the gym, I was so intent on going that I didn't bother stopping to ask myself the usual questions before heading off to training:

"Did I get enough sleep (and not just rest) in time for training?"
(Answer: I was thinking 6 hours of sleep should be good enough, just coz I have had way less.)

"Did I eat anything the day before that might contribute to an unnecessarily challenging and uncomfortable performance?"
(Answer: Nothing memorable. Meaning, nothing weird enough to derail me from performing as needed.)

"Did I have a relatively stress-free Friday to buffer the craziness of the week and allow for a smooth transition to training day?"
(Answer: Not exactly. From Sunday to Friday last week, average amount of sleep must have fallen below 5 hours.)

"Did I have my daily banana?"
(Answer: Unfortunately, I was fresh out.)

Maybe I should add in a couple of bullets in this here list, saying:

"Did I take the recommended daily 14.8mg of iron today? What about yesterday? What about the rest of the week?"

"Did I ingest less than 2 units of coffee before Wednesday?"

The number right there is an arbitrary figure; I'm trying to cut down on the once-daily cup of joe, on top of attempting the impossible--doing away with caffeine altogether on the uber-toxic days of Thursday and Friday.

And another good thing to consider, too--getting enough calcium for all that bone-crunching, hard hitting/kicking/kneeing/elbowing action. I know I avoid dairy products like the plague now (unless if it's cheesecake) but this serves as a serious mental note to head on out into a pharmacy on the way home and get a box of Anlene or Calci-Aid or something.

Brrrrrr. I shudder to think of all the crimes of negligence I've committed in the name of whatever. If I were my own mother, I'd be giving myself a spanking right now.

So I have had it--enough with the excuses! Who knew the Muay Thai diet could be so common-sense? Read on, for the equally dispossessed.

¡Qué Jessica!

I really don't wanna sound like a fangirl but I can't help it--I LOVE YOU, Jessica! And you love Marat Safin!

Before tongues start wagging, let me set the record straight. I love Ms. Zafra, but I'm in love with Marat. Me and him, it just totally makes sense. Like peanut butter and jelly, like yin and yang, like Dolce and Gabbana. Or something to that effect, hehe. Basta, it's Marat all the way and doncha forget it!

courtesy of www.maratsafin.com


But really, who knew the queen of varbarian pursuits would have anything in common with the queen of twisted irony? (Hey, was that a pleonasm? I can't say.)

She, whose books in school I would devour, which offered tremendous hope for the perennially oddball, unpopular types that people thought were never going to get with the fab.

She, whose biting candor and acerbic wit made chronicling of the seemingly mundane into an effortless art worthy of a subject slot in the curriculum for mass communications in peyups. (Deconstructing Pop Culture 101, anyone?)

She, the dominatrix from planet Twisted who looked at me with a withering eye across the room in Powerbooks Megamall one time when I was sheepishly asking the bookstore attendant, "Miss, I can't seem to find the sale section...?"

She, whose language and voice inspired and helped shape my own.

And we like the same things? Granted, maybe only a couple of things. But mind you, that's a hefty couple of somethings.

The other Jessica, of Dogeaters fame.

Epicureans, we are.

Two things already.

Tennis players. And tennis, of course.

"I love Marat, but he’s the great squandered genius of his time."

You said it, JZ.


You can check out more of Jessica Zafra's photos here.

Show Time: Fight Science 2008

Fellow fight nerds out there, heads up!

I know it's a little late in the game, so before I delay further, here's the schedule for the second season of Fight Science, premiering on the National Geographic Channel this weekend. Not sure which episodes get shown when, but at the very least, you can anticipate the time and days they're airing.

Manila/Singapore Time:

Jan27/Sun/1700
Feb07/Thu/1900
Feb08/Fri/0600
Feb14/Thu/1000
Feb15/Fri/0000
Feb15/Fri/0400

After this, my eyes almost popped a capillary or two from the strain of going through each page in the Philippine show sked site. Be my guest in scoping out the entire season run of this headbangin', super kickass series. (Pun entirely intended.)

Check out the National Geographic Channel, one of my favorite TV hangouts ever since I chanced upon JWP's documentary on a Muay Thai prizefighter's life in the 2006 run of the ShowReal Asia series. Yeah, I know, no schedule for this here show. (All I know is that it's showing tonight on NGC at 8pm, Philippine time.) I'm still bracing myself for the long haul sitting in front of the monitor, flipping through page upon page on the lookout for the time sked of said series. Maybe next week, if I get inspired enough to go through the whole ordeal yet again, who knows.

In the meantime, happy weekend, everyone!

Hungry? Or Just Really Bored, Lonely, or Tired?

Wow, free dietary consulting! I lurrrvvv the Internet. Props to the MuayThaiFan for the heads up on the Metabolic Typing Quiz, the results of which you will see below.

Says the Natural Health Coach:


I especially love the fact that I get FreeDays to gorge (okay, well, maybe not exactly "gorge") on any dessert of my choosing. As anyone who knows me can attest, I have a pretty big little sweet tooth. I may be all for healthy eating and what-not, and I do have days when I can go totally vegan or carb-free if there is particular need for it. But to be perfectly honest, I tend to bypass that inner voice when I spy something that piques my curiosity (which, as everyone knows, is what killed the cat). If it looks pretty, I might just inhale the whole thing right then and there, regardless of whether I'm actually hungry or not. Curiosity of the palate is all it takes, and I find that I'm always able to rationalize through the racket of warning bells going off in my head.


But self-serving rationalization isn't always the way to go. If you have goals, whether they be in health, work, love, whatever, there's no room for wishy-washiness. Easier said than anything else, as always, but does that mean it's right to just shrug it off, saying "Duh, there are other more important things I should be concerned with.."? Fact is, in this day and age of takeout pizza and couch potato careerism, your health is all you have (okay, aside from your brain, your spirit, yada-yada.. but that's beside the point). If you're not healthy right now (or at least don't feel in the pink of things), you're not likely to be able to do a lot of things that everyone normally takes for granted. And that's hard, when you really take stock of the multitude of things one can do when they're unshackled by health woes. There is really a different kind of freedom to be had from merely knowing this. But as with all major struggles for freedom throughout history, the campaign for healthy living doesn't come without a fight. There will be times when we waver in our resolve and that's okay. But abandoning the cause is just plain sad. When you wave that white flag on your health, you might as well do the chicken dance while you're at it coz that's probably what you think being fit is good for. And by the way, just because one is fit doesn't mean they're healthy. That's a whole different debate. What we're talking about is something more holistic. We're not talking about Miss Hawaiian Tropic standards here. Heaven help me if I think I can begin to fathom the workout and lifestyle quirks of sub-one percent of the world population. Of course, being ripped like them girls in the pageant wouldn't be the worst thing to happen in life. So what, you ask, is being healthy then? Well, that remains to be more relative, and hence complex, a question than it would seem. (Perhaps another post would do the topic justice.) But suffice it to say that being healthy is more than a state of mind; it's a way of life.

Nobody said anything we ever do for ourselves was gonna be easy. But everything boils down to a little decision-making. And you stick by what you've decided you want for yourself through thick and thin. And in this case, thin is definitely better than thick (at least for the majority of us who aren't blessed with a killer metabolism). Now if I had the discipline for it, I would love to go the skinny way even, if only so I'd be able to squeeze into my fave threads from 5 years back (hmm, on second thought, I think I was a little chunkier then than I am now). But I somehow doubt if I can manage decent kicks and knees or not be blown away by great gusts of wind when I attempt my next 5K if I pulled a Mary Kate. In any case, I think the world would be an even brighter place if we fed our heiresses enough so that their median life expectancy would be a little higher, and then we can expect lots more antics from this bunch in the years to come. I just wonder if Lance has any plans of helping his new flame's twin beef up, what with him being the poster boy for carb fiends everywhere and all.

Aristotle and the Gym Rat

Wow. I'm actually really, really bored.

Was supposed to go gyming tonight. Bad trip, it rained. Like hello, there was nothing in the forecast yesterday kaya. Not that I checked. But I feel I've been slighted.

Not that the rain would have actually licked my appetite for some boot camp therapy, at least not on days when I’m supercharged and I’d hie off to the gym whenever I was free. Nah, these days I let my lazy-ass self get the better of me. So now I have to make amends on some other day, tentatively maybe tomorrow.

Anyone who goes to the gym knows how hard it is to keep off the corporeal undesirables. I say keep off, coz maintenance is really the bitch of 'em all. So it's back to the usual excuse-ridden drawing board for me. Except that I already got it all figured out: how to get uber-sleek, like in the ads. Of course, let’s remain conscious of the fact that like the girl next to you, we're not talking about Rebecca Romijn-Stamos standards here.

Definitely, it's no walk in the park. But it ain't no rocket science either. Like anyone who's experienced the epiphany would tell you, it can sound utterly simple, to the point of incredulity:

Regular Exercise + Balanced Diet = Kickass Bod

Of course, it would depend on how you qualify kickass. For me, it's trying (this being the operative word) to look like the rockin’ chicks with the high-flying kicks in them Nike ads (Mia Sun, I'm still here in case one of your girls needs a body double, the 5"-frame notwithstanding).




For others, it's prolly trying to cop Kate Moss' drugged-up waifish look. Not that I have anything against the girl. In fact, I love her style, which to me is the basis for her redemption as an icon. She definitely has the bohemian vibe going, which is just as well. Better than going the whole slinky Lindsay Lohan/Hilary Duff “Is she or isn’t she?” way. I mean, waxing anorexic is so 1990's. Athletic chic is the new crazysexycool. Think Pussycat Dolls. Think Angelina Jolie. Think impossibly lean arms a la Madonna sculpted through hours of doing yoga. And she's, what, 55? Hell of a way to look on the years you're supposed to be having your mid-life crisis. But I digress.

So anyhoo. I did get down and dirty, and I was rewarded with seven whole days of early-morning highs when I would get up and just feel glorious in my own skin. I mean, for quite some time until a few weeks ago, friends would tell me I was really working it, and it felt great. But there was this week wherein I really did acknowledge it to myself. As in near-zero orange peel, if you can imagine that. And dude, that ain't no Minnie Mouse feat for someone who's been on the mooncake-chubby side for a good number of years. It was a revelation: I could hack it with the best of them. (Of course, in the grand scheme of things, one could only do so much.)

But well, it was prolly too much for me to handle. I think there's actually a principle out there not unlike the Law of Diminishing Returns that says I would actually have to fall prey again to my characteristic inconsistencies. And I know it's no biggie really, coz I'm still better off than I was a year ago. But I can say that there are more days when I skipped the gym and took a detour at the mall, lugging around a beat-up backpack filled with gym essentials (coz I decided at the last minute, "It's 2 hours to closing time, I think I'll go tomorrow instead" or "Maybe I'll see my crush and my half-moons are so totally showing and he's probably gonna be totally weirded out") than there are days that I actually worked out at the old sweatshop. Loser, di ba? In these instances, my mind gets flashes of my motto du jour, courtesy of--no less--Aristotle, THE man: Excellence is not an act but a habit. Hah. So much for Miss Excellence in Gym Attendance. I live for the spontaneous inconsistent. But at the same time, my inconsistencies are the bane of my existence.

So where do I go from here? To Intercon. Tomorrow at 3pm. Just in time for the Punchbag Aero class, which I've never been to previously. Coz I never get to the gym in time for the classes. But that's extra info than I actually care to divulge. I swear, my lapses into the irrelevant are starting to irritate me.

Finally, signs of intelligent life. My college friend Noralen just called and insisted I have dinner with her at Gerry's Grill. Not my kind of cuisine, but that'll hafta do. If you can't go gyming, go eat. That's my ultimate motto. And I think the average Pinoy would agree with me that as far as words of wisdom go, I think I just became my own personal Aristotle.

My Kind of Twisted Sunshine

I found the ideal guy. Took me long enough, for sure. But I now know who he is. Thing is, he doesn't know I exist. Even worse, he probably never will.

I mean, what can you expect from someone like Marat Safin? And I'd be doggoned to let this fixation rule over my waking life like some loser stalker type. Or, for that matter, a giggly schoolgirl with a crush on some blond boybander (a lapse in judgment I can only attribute to the inevitable onslaught of raging teenage hormones).

But still, I know that if I adored tennis for the sake of the game, then I would come to know true love in the person of Marat Safin. After all, only a true lover of the sport would be able to fathom the depth of that pure, undulating genius. The perfectionism that drives him to such incoherent ebbs in an otherwise perfect career. No other player has been called the "purest physical talent in the history of the game," and this comes from a sports journalist-cum-raving-Marat-lover-slash-hater.

It's not only this, of course. I'm a newbie tennis fan, having been introduced to the sport by Jub, my uber tennis junkie of a housemate, last year. And when I first saw Marat play, it was understandably the physical presence that got stamped in my mind. He was so beautiful; he was just oozing with pure magnetic appeal, you know? But at the time I never ascribed something more fundamental to the impact that he channeled across that tired media known as the idiot box.

Simply put, he is poetry in motion, and then some. For a guy his size (he's 6'4"), it's almost unbelievable how his powerful form moves with such grace, making it look easy to sometimes "mess with the laws of physics." But even more than this, after reading countless interviews of his, I find the things that go on upstairs infinitely more fascinating than his brilliance as a player. Maybe it's because it all starts there. After all, genius stems from the brain, even if the field of intimate knowledge is in athletics. What I find exceedingly intriguing is his capacity for imperfection in his perfectionism, and the ensuing suffering he endures warring with his inner demons over things that an ordinary player would shrug off in trifling consideration. His pursuit of playing "perfect tennis" has led him to falter in the face of imminent victory. His one true enemy is his own self, and on court he berates himself for the tiniest, seemingly inconsequential errors he made, sometimes launching into dazzling displays of unbridled fury. For such a lyrical player in that his physicality is as precise as it is overpowering, he's not very consistent, and his losses could be debilitating in their protractedness. But the tennis world is not at a loss, coz when he's got his A-game on, then you would see something special happening to the game itself.

It's a given, Marat is a godsend to the world of tennis. But for me, he's more than that. He's my construct, the standard by which I think I'll measure future prospects against. No, seriously. If I can't have Marat ("Oh please, Lord, let him be my destiny".. *crossing fingers*) then I might as well have someone who approximates his fine attributes. ("Hah! Not so tall an order--no pun intended") Okay, so maybe I'm asking for too much here.. Okay, okay, so maybe I'm asking for the impossible: drop-dead gorgeous plus athletic skills plus brains/razor wit. Damn, and I haven't even gotten to character traits.

But racket-mangling and chronic model-dating aside, my kind of guy can be someone with quirks like the next guy. I say quirks, not fundamental infirmities such as being an asshole or a chauvinist pig. Hell no, not even if you had a face and body like Brad Pitt's. Now, if you were actually Brad Pitt, that's a whole different story and I should be getting your number... (Ahahaha...)

But Marat, he's the real deal. Because he actually gives new meaning to the word "inspiration." He raises the bar for being someone who doesn't compromise his own standards for himself, who actually acknowledges his human frailty and is even humbled by it, even at the height of his superstardom. He's got his own philosophy about things, and he can be very unequivocal about life and human nature and one's place in the cosmos. He says a lot of things, but he's not full of himself. He's a spiritual person, and he's Muslim, too! (could I love him even more than I do now?) He's as philosophically poetic--and dry-witted--as they come. And he reads Lenin. How sexy is that? Heck, what 26-year-old do you know reads Lenin when they could be partying out all night and blowing moolah on big, fast, expensive things and generally living life in the fast lane? Okay, so he may in fact be multi-tasking even as we speak. So damn what? He's beautiful, he's young, he's successful. He's also a tormented soul. Passionate, tempestuous, never in the middle. Never wanting to be mediocre. Just like how anyone should be, when you think about it.

Admittedly, given his issues and intermittent madness, one can see he isn't the perfect specimen of male human existence. But for me, he's the standard, and I wouldn't want him any other way.

Friday Madness

It's Friday once again. Yay. So what's on the agenda for the weekend? Nada. Well, maybe the usual play-all-you-can badminton gig on Sunday. But Saturday was supposed to be reserved for watching the UAAP Cheerdance Competition. It's high time the UP Pep Squad licked the UST Salinggawi Dance Troupe and regained their former glory as the cream of the crop in collegiate cheering.

Alas, we ran out of tickets. So friggin' labo. Well, whatev. Haven't been to any of the UAAP cheering tourneys at all during my time in college, and so I guess it's safe to say I won't know what I'll be missing. So that's that. Guess I'll have to wing it then tomorrow, see whatever catches my fancy. Stef invited me to see The Motorcycle Diaries (starring the wickedly beautiful Gael García Bernal of Y Tu Mamá También fame) with her at Instituto Cervantes. I'd like to go, but Valero beckons, and with more pressing--and hence, less enticing--matters that need to be addressed. But since I operate on a mood basis, who knows? Especially if the damn rain continues to literally put a damper on things.

***

Blech. I can't stomach this stuff. Fibermate, it's called. I was browsing through one of the magazines my housemate regularly brings home and saw this ad for a new health product. Fibermate is a food supplement that contains psyllium, which is "universally recognized as a premier source of dietary fiber." The quite informative ad looked good and so last night, I dropped by Mercury Drugstore at Glorietta with Nor, my old Persian 10 collaborator, and bought a small packet, just for a preliminary taste test. Good thing I didn't buy another packet; it doesn't go down the pipes easily, I tell you. The thing costs 16.50 bucks, too! Quite overpriced for something that makes me wanna hurl.. It's not usually my style, but I'm gonna pull an Asiong Aksaya and drain my cup in the pantry sink right about now.

***

We still don't have TV at home. A little over a week ago, cable companies put their collective foot down and went on a metro-wide crackdown on illegal cable connections (dunno if those in the provinces were also affected, as I haven't been watching the news lately). As a result, not only were we unable to watch the US Open finals in which Kim Clijsters bested Mary Pierce in the singles championship match, but my housemates also missed their weekly dose of showbiz cheezmax, courtesy of Krissy and Boy. I can just imagine Jub gnashing his teeth and stamping his foot in incredulity when, instead of regular airplay, the now-all-too-familiar gray screen greeted him upon coming home. Now that would have been a true Kodak moment. If the name of the game was Facial Contortionism, he could well give Serena Williams (who, according to him, is "mukhang kalabaw") a run for her money. Of course, Jub himself could never hope to look like a kalabaw, not when he's the unofficial "wallpaper boy" (as opposed to being a calendar boy) of our colleagues over at the China office. But I digress.

As for me, I don't feel as strongly about our disenfranchisement. When I moved to our place, our cable TV had already been illegally connected, and so I was spared from having to consider the ethics of the whole thing. (Not that I would have been expected to, either.) Granted, it was nice to be watching my favorite shows and forever not having to worry about monthly payments, so it is a little bit sad, in a way. But on the whole, I could do a lot worse. If it weren't for Sex and the City reruns every Sunday night on Wowow and the occasional blockbuster premiere on HBO, I really couldn't have cared less.

I got used to not watching TV for extended periods of time in college since I lived in a dorm all throughout my stay in UP. There were TVs, of course, and sometimes I would sit with my dormmates and watch TV Patrol or some primetime show on Studio 23. But it wasn't a weird thing for me to not watch TV at all for a whole semester, or a significant portion of it, straight. But don't get me wrong, I haven't been channeling all the time that could have been used for boob tube viewing towards more intellectually enriching pursuits; there were a lot of other things that I found myself preoccupied with after school, like malling until SM North EDSA closed up for the day, going to org meetings and gimiks, making chika with my roommates and other dormmates till the wee hours, having movie marathons and late-night therapy sessions in Ayesa's room, stuff like that. Except for Meteor Garden in my final year in school (yes, yes, I admit to being a sorta quasi-fan of the hit show from Taiwan, so sue me.. I mean, come on, practically EVERYONE was into it then), there wasn't anything I found really worthwhile to follow.

This incidental deprivation, however, would only be relieved whenever I went home down south for my much-needed vacay. (That would be about three times a year then.) Of course, at home the idiot box would be on the whole day. My brothers managed to refine the art of hogging the TV all day long while attempting to blast away at alien creatures on the PC. In my parents' bedroom, the TV would be tuned in to the noontime shows and telenovelas. (And from time to time, tennis and boxing matches, but only when Mom would let Dad have his way.) On weeknights, I would find myself by my lonesome in the living room, watching MTV/Studio 23/the Lifestyle Network or some movie rerun on cable while the rest of the fam congregated upstairs for their daily fix of Korean rom-coms and--lemme not forget--those lovestruck Kristine Hermosa starrers. Seriously, I never understood their fascination for any of it. The endless whinings of Kristine-and-posse about not being able to be with the guys they know they're destined to be when clearly, if they weren't dead set on making their own lives miserable, they would have bagged the guys already and moved on to their happy-ever-afters. And vice-versa for the guys. Sheesh, I think I'm getting a headache here, just thinking about the roundaboutness of it all. And don't get me started on them Bea Alonzo-John Lloyd Cruz primetime tickets, puh-leez! I don't want my weekend to kick off with an untimely reminiscence of all things cringe-worthy about boob tubeage.

So much for all this. Well, gotta run.. Before I get thoroughly worked up here and pop a vein in the process. Happy weekend, everyone!

UP Fight!

In The Mood For...

Gaaad. It's gonna rain every day till Thursday in Makati. According to the four-day weather forecast courtesy of inq7.net, I won't be able to play Ultimate at San Lo yet again this week. Games are automatically cancelled in the event of rain coz although horsing around in the muck sounds very Dawson's Creek-y and evocative of the unbridled spirit of youth (which is very tempting, as lately I'm feeling very bridled and reined in--like a nag), it's also the time for catching all sorts of viruses and nasty what-have-yous. (In fact, I have a budding case of the sniffles coming on, which I really hate coz I tend to sneeze all over the place--with or without a cover-up.) Add to that the fact that it's hard to score glamour puss or pogi points while throwing and catching discs in such a compromising state. But of course, this is not why people take to the game like New Age converts. Aside from the "spirit of the game," that code of conduct which places the responsibility for fair play on the players themselves, playing Ultimate does what one sets out to do when trying out a new sport: it gives you a fun workout.

***

Speaking of workouts, I am in desperate need of boot camp therapy. My gym membership expired just last month, and now I'm in fitness limbo, so to speak. (I'm no gym addict, and I certainly don't look like one.) The Valero people and I have been planning to enrol in the new gym being set up in our office building, but after a little while, the idea got a little boring. Indeed, I think I'd rather enrol in a muay thai class over at Red Corner than rack up hours working the machines. It's partly coz I'm not a social gym-goer, if there ever was a term. But more than this, I guess it's really a case of the gym where I was a member rather than my actual workout predisposition. I think having a membership at Fitness First would be really cool but, aside from other considerations, the location is a bit of a stinker for me. All things considered, I would love to have a membership at Gold's Gym. So very accessible. And the classes are pretty wide-ranging. And lemme not forget to mention the nice "view" (yes, scoping out the scenery while working the treadmill is a sport unto its own), which is more than I can say for my former gym.

I remember in my last sem in college, my roommate Andy and I would compare notes on the exercises that we were taught in gym class every Tuesday and Friday. She used to love doing tube rows, for which her gym teacher commended her publicly one time. ("She does it well," said Caces, the infamous terror gym prof.) As for me, my favorite exercise was the back extension because it felt so relaxing. I don't get to do this now, though. Instead, the thing that I look forward to doing the most are the ab exercises. I hope I don't come off sounding like a gym nerd but really, once you get past the initial pain and shock (for some) that come with the first few times of doing it (of course, using proper form and technique), you'll eventually learn to appreciate doing crunches (no sit-ups!), leg raises, the whole bit.

Of course, this doesn't make me a total masochist. (The most obvious evidence of which is my lack of discipline in the dietary department--when I feel like gorging, well, there go n hours of my life, hello calories.) There are things that I hate in a workout, aside from spotters who just stand around and act oblivious to your call for needed assistance. Foremost among these is the tricep kickback.

Dang. Man, this exercise just cramps my style. I lose form whenever I do this coz I can't seem to hack the technique. (I firmly believe form should never be sacrificed in strength training.) Usually I do it standing and bent over, like what Sir Isidro taught us in gym class, coz I prefer not to have my arse jutting out like so. Fortunately, there are lots of other flab-busters that are equally effective. Unfortunately, these are all in theory as of the mo, as I have yet to seriously get my act together.

Anyway, I think I'll stick to team sports for now since these are more fun. Badminton is fun fun fun, and I really oughta make it a more regular thing in my weekly schedule. But more needs to be done. I'm trying to mobilize the Valero posse to come with me to San Lo for a game of disc with other people. So far, I was able to convince Zel to come WATCH. Okay, so maybe some things are best taken one step at a time. Vida was initially psyched coz of the cuties she hoped to find there. (Sorry to disappoint but cuteness is relative, so she really has to come see for herself.) Oh yeah, Omar might be interested in playing, too. So that's the lineup so far. Outside of Valero, there's Stef, Jonnalee, Lejan, and... well, lemme get back to you when the rains stop. Hopefully by then, everyone starts to come out of the woodwork and play.

Badminton Ain't For The Faint-Hearted

I heart Taufik Hidayat. Okay, okay, so considering that a coupla weeks ago, I had nary an idea of who he was, I can safely say that at the very least I really, really like him. Of course, not in the way that I really, really like David Beckham. And of course, a comparison to what I have for Marat Safin is out of the question. But Hidayat’s fancy wristwork and lightning agility, which have recently earned him the distinction of being the first shuttler to hold the Olympic and World Championship titles at the same time, have inspired in me delusions of athletic grandeur. Man, I wish I had an ounce of that guy’s talent. Following the plausible premise that we want that which we cannot have, which has that which we do not have (feeling lost? this would help explain why some of us tend to keep dreaming the Eternal Dream even when there's someone perfectly okay--then again, okay is perfectly relative--waiting for us when we wake up to sordid reality), I hereby conclude that I heart Taufik Hidayat.

Seriously now. I would love to improve my game and bring it to a level wherein the plays are characterized by dazzling legwork, sharp returns, and smashes that whizz past at breakneck speeds. I don't even care if I'd be the bumbling underdog; I just wanna play a mean game like that. (The term playing would presuppose being able to return the service and keep the ball in play long enough to not make you seem a total ditz opposite your opponent.)

I shared this with Jubert (my ESPN/Star Sports/Sports Plus buddy) and Zel (the closest thing I have to a badminton mentor). The last time we talked, I picked up a few pointers from Zel and came away wanting to immerse myself in formal lessons and grueling practice. On the court, everyone tries to steer clear of Zel coz when you're not careful enough, she can hurt you real bad. (I'm not just talking about bruised egos here.) Zel says she she's crap when she’s playing with her badminton club friends. I hate the implications of this. If she's crap, then that would make me pond scum. I can’t stand the thought of being pond scum.

Jubert, on the other hand, rarely subjects you to pain during play, although he's caught me by surprise once (I mean, the palpitation-inducing kind of surprise that could traumatize). When we're partners, we like to think we can get away with many things. But when the laissez-faire syndrome starts creeping in and we've messed up one shot too many, that's when the real fun begins, when the competition is neck-on-neck.

All this reliving of nifty play moments has got me all giddy for this Friday's game. Which reminds me. Gotta ring up Lejan to invite her. I sure miss that girl. Well, not Lejan the person per se (we see each other from time to time, after all), but Lejan the memory. Lejan the college partner-in-crime, from them Stat days of old. But that's another story to be told another time. Right now, I'm in the mood for a roar: Vamos!