Pride chicken, honor student

I know I'm going to get hate comments after this but I'm gonna say it anyway, the Pacquiao-Mosley fight is boring and predictable. Even days before, I couldn't bring myself to get excited unlike the previous fights, especially the earlier ones (Passing by Sarangani the other week I saw a Pacquiao-Mosley ad and just looked at it as if it was some blank plywood). Just before the delayed telecast started i dozed off and woke up by a jolt when my younger brother shouted Manny was down. But heck, I mean, c'mon guys, we don't just want Manny to win, we know he's gonna win. He's 32 and Mosley is 39. Mosley whose glory days in boxing are over; he's standing at the twilight of his boxing career, and he's not going to lose anything more if he bow down to this relatively young and persistent fighter who only wants to bring honor and glory to his third-world country whose semblance of unity can only be glimpsed at during his mighty fights; who wants to bring honor and glory like it was some long-forgotten Roman code that will lift his ailing kingdom to its heydays. It's not a question of brining honor, not even a gargantuan task of uniting a long-divided people, but this brazen act of gimmickry (what's up with those yellow gloves? shouldn't they be orange?). That stuff is said and done. It's the big-ticket fights that matter after all. It's entertainment (falling off, really?), it's a money-making machine. You watch Martin Scorsese's Raging Bull and there you have it, boxing summed up in its glory and ugliness. Crowds of people, some strangers huddle in covered courts, restaurants, cinemas, heck everywhere, yet they are united by this invisible thread of pride. Buf after it, what? Manny gets richer, he buys businesses, grows his empire and we go back to our same sorry lives, the ones we have before we sat, stuck and hypnotized in front of that screen watching our hero battle his opponents, fighting his way through, as if he was boxing out our own.

Okay, fine.

It’s still a little tough to think about it, and I dunno why I give a fuck anyway because I stopped giving a damn about this game, since like, high school, or probably the time when it really did hurt, the time I accidentally made my left arm a support stick when I tripped which left a bony protrusion in my wrist up to this day, or the fact that I stopped giving a damn about boring PBA games which I religiously followed, or that I haven’t really given a damn about NBA in the first place because I think it should be named Global BA or African-American BA, but damn, that loss hurt. It hurt because they were so close. It’s tough to think because though (from my point of view) the greens were relatively ahead in most of the three quarters, the opponent was just an inch away from them. 83-79. It's a kind of loss that makes me think of these stupid conspiracy theories, eherm, ticket sales, eherm, usual b-ball entertainment. With the last two points from freethrows from someone who hasn’t really been on the floor for like five times throughout the finals, but is reportedly good at freethrows, plus he’s Slovenian. The Celtics really played a good game, it was a good game for them overall. Even though the boorish Lakers fans overpowering the Staples Center (homecourt advantage) refuse to acknowledge. Teamwork was there, and Rondo was smoking, that orchestrator. It was just bad with the fouls, especially during the last quarter. While dominating the first half, I had it in me that sense of doom. It’s like, oh my god, there will be this abrupt decline, the opponent is gonna have their revenge after being pummeled with shots and great defense. And it did happen in 4Q. I’ve always rooted for the underdog, well not really, in this case. The Celtics still hold the most number of championships, but with the Kobe team clinching this one, it’s now 17-16. Maybe because I’ve never really liked the Kobe team, and I feel like I’ve had enough fucking overblown superstar hype with KB. That Magic Johnson relinquishing the greatest player title must have blown Kobe’s liver, I bet. MVP, though given the Game 7’s picture, not at all. They should’ve handed it to Gasol, but no, the overblown superstar will have his fifth. I dunno but its like a play/act, you know. Overblown superstar not really getting into his game in the first half, being walled up by these Celtics guys and all (Scalabrine looks freakishly like Glen Hansard), missing his shots, then suddenly, perhaps the Magic of Johnson, in a crucial jumper he regained his might, rebounding like crazy, clinching his freethrows and there you have it, hero saves the day, and has his moment standing on one side of the court chairs wailing his hands having his James Cameron moment. Oh gosh, there, I think I’ve said my piece and I congratulate the Lakers fans, and Phil Jackson, what a tremendous man. Kobe, someday I'm gonna love you man, but I hate, hate, hate you now. It’s still a little tough, but I’ve moving on to catch the World Cup fever. Go Argentine!

Show me da Manny!

Okay, I think I have to cave in to the much-ballyhooed win (which fight isn’t anyway?) and throw my slight disdain towards his minor bullshit-ness over the window. When you’ve got fame and power at your disposal, why not bullshit around right? To rub the already clichéd term more, Manny is really something—he’s unlike any Filipino not just in strength but in the ubiquitous charm. He’s a slap in the face to Filipino bourgeoisie. To the poor, he’s an icon of triumph; a testament to that elusive luck, which we Filipinos have grabbed onto so tight we forgot to do anything else. He’s “the great hope” as TIME magazine would put it.

I can very much recall my very first participation to the communal Filipino act (by now it should be some sort of a Filipino tradition—a kind of phenomena that depletes traffic flow in the streets and diminishes crime rate to almost nil) of watching a Pacquiao fight two years ago with complete strangers. It was in a department store and there was some exhibit of which I was a part in. It was a Sunday, as usually the case, and there was a large-enough TV with the Pacquiao fight. As long as it was on, it did not take more than five minutes for the entire vicinity to be filled with excited onlookers (I sat down on the floor for convenience), as if the TV is some kind of medium channeling a modern-day deity. During the Pacquiao-Hatton fight, I watched it with a room full of my colleagues, around 30 people. So imagine the fucking noise it created when Hatton was pummeled to an unconscious state in the second round. Everyone looked as if they won the championship themselves, a beaming smile and pair of delightfully-lit eyes.

The media is overflowing with words and the TV is replete with footage of the said communal act. For really, it does move mountains and Manny can move the nation into such state which we are so quick to call as unity—we are so damned united. We feel our brothers same excitement. We feel truly proud. We feel we are living like patriotic Filipinos rooting for their hero. Dare I say that never have we felt a sense of Filipino pride so strongly than with Manny’s bouts, especially to those whose idea of the EDSA revolution is that of the history books. This sense of unity is commendable, the sense of pride inevitable. How can you not be? I am proud.

But see, while Manny’s victories we claim as ours, while we unite as a nation and feel an overwhelming sense of pride, what of after? For what? We go to our daily goings-on, be bums, be corporate and bureaucratic slaves, be pessimists, be optimists, be friends, be enemies until the next Pacquiao fight. We wait for that glimmer of hope, that façade of victory we always wanted to have a taste of—but unlike Manny we seem to have lost the willpower, alright, the “firepower” and we go back mired in empty promises of relief from misery. If Manny so reflects our country, then it would be that, this country has always struggled but success (power) has always remained to be in the hands of the few. So, after the fight, we go back to being a country in disarray, our goals and ideals in shambles, prone to crime and corruption, wallowing in poverty, with a continuing exodus of people abroad, we go back to bitching about the traffic, until the next Pacquiao fight finds us in each other’s company again.

Basket case

Perhaps, that's why we hate them (well at least for NBA haters) so much. Because they are actually good. Unfortunately, their bravado exceeds a hundred times than their court prowess. Ok, so they beat Spain, basketball world champs. So they were redeemed from the 2004 Athens loss. But is this victory actually a bacon brought about by the sincerest aspirations to excel in the sport? To show to the entire world, that even without drafts it can actually prove its worth?

American basketball is one big slam-dunkin' marketing strategy, stupid.

Glory

Despite the several ruckuses over the supposed fake, CG-ed fireworks during the opening, under-aged Chinese girls competing in the artistic gymnastics and even the shameless lip-synching, the games were fairly enjoyable and nothing quite short of remarkable. (I am enraged over the supposed lip-synching. The little girl who owned the voice was not only robbed of a worthy opportunity but she became a victim of a people beleaguered by an inferiority complex, a crush-US sentiment.)

I watched Wall-E during its opening night here last Wednesday so I stayed home over the weekends and yesterday (except Saturday evening) watching the games.

And gosh, did I already say that Phelps was a swimming god, god! He bagged his 8^th gold medal during the 4x100 relay during the last day at the Olympic pool, making him the greatest Olympian by far, outshining Mark Spitz, the Olympic swimmer who reaped 7 gold medals in one Olympic Games in 1972. Though the last round was a dead giveaway, Australia almost stole that coveted medal by a margin. Phelps did really great on the butterfly round, his specialty actually. And gosh, did he cry when that Special Citation was given to him. Meanwhile, an unknown Tunisian with a the first name of the Al Qaeda leader, Oussama Mallouli swam the Men 1500 m grabbing the gold from previous title holder Grant Hackett of Australia.

In one of the most enjoyable bouts over the weekend, Rafael Nadal, with his trademark facial contortion when he serves, once again proved he’s the best in the world. Nadal, in three straight rounds, beat Federico Gonzales of Chile who struggled every set and round over the Spanish who was the favourite to win the gold. Elena Dementieva, who remained composed throughout the match, won for Russia the gold in the women singles division over fellow Russian Dinara Safina. Another Russian, Zvonareva bagged the bronze.

As a kid, I have always been amazed of the Olympics. I used to browse through a collection of Olympics encyclopaedia we used to own as an added treat to the voluminous Colliers which was pawned ages ago. The Olympics series was tattered, forgotten, lost.

Track and Field was one interesting category for me for instance not only because of the excitement on who’s going to be the recent fastest man/woman on the planet, it also offers an array of sports, some of them date back to ancient Athens like the discus throw. This year, the steeplechase category was added which is quite similar to the hurdles except that all athletes are required to jump over a long, single hurdle plus some water obstacles.

I think T&F is officially named now as athletics and boy are the Jamaicans on fire! Fastest man and woman on the planet are courtesy of them Usain Bolt (a very apt name indeed) now holds the world record of 9.69 seconds. Ethiopia, a famished country in Africa has gold and silver to the Men 1500 m. A relatively unknown country Cameroon also has gold in athletics.

The winning athletes are ecstatic during the victory ceremonies, some teary-eyed while their national anthems are being played, donning their precious medals and clutching their simple bouquets, waving to their fans and posing for the cameras. Glorious moments.

Meanwhile in the Philippines, Mindanao is confronted with beleaguered MILF troops who wreaked havoc over the past days on some areas leaving a number of civilians dead and hundreds of evacuees. Caught on tape is the President, furious at the unpreparedness of her staff on an abrupt press briefing. Despite some supposed teleprompter mishaps, she managed to say that amidst the atrocities, “we’re all in this together” in the quest for peace. The whole country now beholds.

Photos thru the 2008 Beijing Olympics site courtesy of: (1) Cameron Spencer/Getty Images; (2) Vladimir Rys/Bongarts/Getty Images; (3) Clive Brunskill/Getty Images

Gold

Last Sunday I almost tripped the hot soup I was transferring onto a bowl while watching the Argentina-Australia football (soccer) match. I think I must have shouted too. You can feel the anguish and anxiety in the Argentines’ kicks and butts and after 77 minutes of nil Argentina scored their single goal.

I remembered watching the World Cup with Italy-France battling in 2006 in a European owned bar in the city where my former German friend and colleague Peter treated me to endless booze. The crowd was roaring and the intensity of the game was just hot. Even though the Arg-Aus game was not even finals yet the intensity was just there. Hey, it’s the Olympics for Chrissakes.

After watching a grueling performance the other night, where I gaped in awe at the immense weight these women have to endure, I have now a strong sense of respect for the women weightlifters. Chen Yanqing of China is unbelievable. Unlike the Korean who looks almost like a man and who seems like she’s going to deliver a baby any minute, the Chinese’s composure was truly admirable. Even when she’s shouting and doing the final lift, it’s as if she’s walking the runway.

Michael Phelps is an unstoppable swimming god. To date, he is now the person in Olympic history who’s got most gold medals, and I surmise in any sporting event. Uh, he’s only 23, right?

The U.S. Dream Team is doing their basketball rampage. But after crushing Yao and China, they were given a run for their money with the match with Angola. I would like to see Argentina crush these bastards once again like they did in Athens. But the team looks formidable with the LeBron-Kobe tour-de-force.

Georgia, who’s being bombed by Russia now, is in 10^th place, and a relatively unknown country called Azerbaijan is in the 14^th overall rank. So are other –tan countries like Tajikistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan who also have their medals to boot. China has the most number of gold medals, with 17 but US has the most number of medals.

The Filipino athletes who competed already failed to clinch a medal. Hidilyn Diaz, the 17 year old Filipina weightlifter is promising though.

Meanwhile, in the Philippines, the entire nation will behold the oral arguments on the MOA on Ancestral Domain tomorrow.

Photo credit: Beijing 2008 website

CR's balls

This is why Christiano Ronaldo is soooooo good. He knows how to play with his balls. (I can see what's on your mind now... hahaha.) Though its more poles than goals, those feet are some kinda action. (It isn't obvious that the one who made this vid is obsessed with his moves huh.) Because he's such a fuckin' braggart, the Gillette Best Young Player went to Lukas Podolski. But whatever, he's still good with the balls. Hehe.

beating the crap out

Wazzup dawgs? In the movie Harsh Times, the reference dawg has been so overused that I'd swear in every script-page there are about at least 10 of it. The characters punctuate their every sentence with it. They breathe, eat, and kill with the word. It gets nauseating at times. The lingo is excused with the fact that the film's setting is in the locales of Southern California, which is, often times depicted in television and movies, as the 'dawg' haven. This is where crack is staple as food. This is where you never dismiss kids as cutesy-cutesy or they'll beat up your sorry ass. The film Havoc, written by Stephen Gaghan, and Anne Hathaway's springboard into the 'bold' unknown, also comes into mind when talking about kids gone haywire. The first thing that came to mind having mentioned it, is Bijou Phillips getting sandwiched by sex-starved, crack-snorting Latinos. It was kind of disturbing that if the filmmakers intent was to show that disturbance, they achieved it in that scene. Larry Clark also tackles profusely on the subject with films like Kids, Bully and recently Wassup Rockers. Though I am yet to see Kids and Rockers, they pretty much border on the same subject matter. You will never imagine the kids' penchant for violence until you've seen them beat up, smoke and fuck the way adults do. Good grief.


While Clark's films may never achieve the mainstream Hollywood, a recent film on the subject matter which was just released the other week did. It's called Alpha Dog directed by Nick Cassavetes, and also known as Justin Timberlake's venture into acting. The film is based on a homicide case in SoCal. The unfortunate homeboy Zach is played by Anton Yelchin who looks like Elijah Wood minus five years. You get a scene of Sharon Stone slapping the hell out of his son or Bruce Willis trying to curb his murderer of a son, and it makes you think that these kids' parents are either unsuspecting, pathetic, tolerating or hysterical. It leaves you no room to see the characters as other than what the filmmakers what them to be, too.

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Aside from Alpha Dog, I watched two other period films: The Painted Veil (with my favorite actress Naomi Watts in it), an adaptation of W. Somerset Maugham's novel about 1920s China and the Westerners venture into the Far East, and The Good German, a Steven Soderbergh project, which I think is far too ambitious. I can't even remember the details because the film's story and characters are seemingly lost in Tobey Maguire's humping. I can't think of nothing but Spiderman when I see him, not even traces of Pleasantville, Wonder Boys and The Cider House Rules.

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Roger Federer is a fuckin' tennis god. I'm beginning to think he's drinking some kind of supernatural energy drink. When the two-hour Australian Open Champs (male single division) in Melbourne came to an end, with 7-6; 6-4; 6-4, he just waved at the screaming crowd, walked over to his bench, and smiled profusely at the camera like he's into some presscon and not a tennis game. While on the other side, Fernando Gonzales looked like he's been to a decathlon. He was obviously tired and burned out. Throughout the entire game, he looks like a friggin' gladiator ready to slay a lion. Lesson for him: never throw your racket in the midst of failed attempt to beat the crap out of your opponent. Especially if the racket gets broken. It's a bad omen.



photocourtesy of australianopen.com