Gotta believe in magic

There were many, many moments in the nail-biting, pulse-pounding, heart-stopping Wimbledon final between Roger Federer and Andy Roddick when I genuinely feared my darling Roge wasn't going to make it. Roddick was playing some awesome, awesome tennis, and his booming serve seemed unstoppable, even for the Mighty Fed, who failed to break A-Rod throughout the entire match... until the very end.

In a tightly contested, interminable 5th set that finished at 16-14, Federer fended off the very focused, very ferocious Roddick, and more than anything, I felt sheer relief surge through me as the match was finally won. No question about it, Andy had played better tennis, but destiny seemed to insist on having its way. Tonight, Federer claimed 3 things: his 6th Wimbledon title, a record 15th Grand Slam championship, and a place in history as arguably the greatest who's played the sport. With this win, he will also be reclaiming the world #1 ranking from Rafael Nadal (sorry Tommy!). And though I was more emotional when Roger won the French Open last month, I feel even more proud of him now, especially since he overcame such a formidable opponent. At one point during the 2nd set, which Federer won in a tie break where he was down 5-1, a single word kept running through my head: MAGIC. There really is something about the way the man plays that almost appears otherworldly, and even when it looked like he was going to be thwarted by his favorite whipping boy (their head-to-head record now stands at 19-2), the Swiss Maestro managed to hang in there and in a matira-ang-matibay showdown, made the American blink first.

That being said, I would like to give mad, mad props to Roddick, who was simply smashing, not just in the final against Federer, but in his semis match against Andy Murray and quarterfinal against Lleyton Hewitt. I have never been a Roddick fan, but this is a new and improved A-Rod, no longer the cocksure hothead he was before. I was blown away by the spectacular skills he put on display at Wimbledon, and during the 5th set tonight I even actually found myself on the verge of relenting and saying "let him have it", he's worked so hard to get to where he is.

But my heart is too loyal to Roger, and I am ecstatic that he survived this closely contested, sensational slugfest. I don't know if this victory at Wimbledon was written in the stars, or the workings of that old Swiss magic. In any case, I'm glad I kept my faith in FedEx (though I came dangerously close to cardiac arrest), and I'm glad I witnessed one of the most amazing feats in tennis achieved by a living legend I love.

How the mighty have fallen

It's no shocker that Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is pumped with as much testosterone as a professional wrestler. After all, this is a movie directed by Michael Bay (who can't seem to make a movie without at least a dozen explosions per scene), featuring warring alien robots (who morph into sports cars and fighter jets and the odd kitchen appliance), macho military men (who brandish big guns and drive big tanks and blow up stuff on Michael Bay's cue), and Megan Fox (who shows off her ample assets to maximum effect from all possible angles).

But maybe partly because I had loved the first Transformers movie so much, this sequel was a bit of a relative disappointment. For one thing, it lacked the novelty of the previous film: the thrill of seeing the Autobots transform for the first time, recognizing familiar characters from the cartoon series, and generally feeling like a wide-eyed kid again. For another, everything in ROTF felt like a caricature: the alpha males in the army, Sam Witwicky's loopy (and hella annoying) mother, his nutty roommate, the token government suit who makes an ass of himself, even the ancient Decepticon-turned-Autobot Jetfire, depicted as a doddering old bucket of bolts. And was it just me, or was there one I'm-here-to-provide-comic-relief sidekick too many (did they really need the nutty roommate, the controversial twin Autobots Skids and Mudflap, AND John Turturro)? I should also mention that the romantic interludes between Shia LeBeouf and Megan Fox came off as contrived, in terms of both timing and temper. I seem to recall them having better chemistry in the first movie... or maybe Megan Fox really is just way too hot for SLB.

I'm not even going to go into the plot, which was equal parts convoluted and corny. But whereas the first Transformers film got by on characterization, ROTF fell flat in that department. The most believable and compelling character in the entire movie was Optimus Prime, and he's a CGI! As long as Optimus was in a scene, I was happy. I WASN'T happy about the other Autobots not getting enough screen time, with the exception of Bumblebee and the twins. Plus, they did include my favorite Deception Soundwave in this sequel, but he didn't really get to do-- and more critically, say-- much.

I can see how most people enjoyed ROTF: it's mindless entertainment at its most explosive (literally-- I haven't seen so much shrapnel in one movie!). But you will have to excuse me if I don't join in the chorus of raving, or the clamoring for a third Transformers film. This one felt pretty much like a dead end to me.

Postscript: If you've seen ROTF, or haven't seen it but don't care about spoilers, check out this list of the movie's flaws in logic from film.com. It's not that I wanna nitpick. I just like my movies to make sense, even the mindless ones.

The day the music died

I went to bed last night minutes after learning of Farrah Fawcett's passing. I woke up this morning to a text message saying Michael Jackson had died. My instant reaction was of incredulity; we can't have lost 2 pop culture icons within a span of a couple of hours. It's probably just another text hoax, I dismissed. But something compelled me to switch on my clock radio, and the very first word I heard the DJ say was "coroner", followed by the words "Michael Jackson: dead at 50".

My sleep-deprived brain attempted to process this jarring news. The crotch-grabbing, moonwalking King of Pop was gone.

Perhaps it doesn't come as much of a surprise that Michael died at such a relatively young age. Given his questionable lifestyle and the turbulent twists and turns his life took, an early death was perhaps expected of the superstar. This was a man who skyrocketed to fame as a 6-year-old, and achieved more in a 4-decade career than any other recording artist in history. This was also a man who was obviously psychologically unstable and pathologically disturbed, and committed many bizarre acts-- and allegedly some very sick, criminal ones-- belying his superstar status.

Yet his death is no less shocking, nor less significant. Michael Jackson is dead. And while he may have been a laughingstock, he was also, inarguably, a legend. Say what you will about the man or monster he became, but no one can deny the sheer awesomeness of his talent and the staggering power of his music. His was a life smeared by scandal and touched by tragedy, but ultimately, the legacy Michael leaves lies in the songs that stirred generations, and the moves that made the world go wow.

Long live the King.

"Like a comet
Blazing 'cross the evening sky
Gone too soon

Like a rainbow
Fading in the twinkling of an eye
Gone too soon

Shiny and sparkly
And splendidly bright
Here one day
Gone one night...

...Born to amuse
To inspire, to delight
Here one day
Gone one night

Like a sunset
Dying with the rising of the moon
Gone too soon
Gone too soon."

-Michael Jackson, 1958-2009

My cup of tea

About a month ago, one of the managers in our office discovered a small place in Little Baguio called Serenitea. When she learned they deliver within the Greenhills area, she started passing a copy of their menu around the office, and some of our staff would place orders for their afternoon coffee (tea?) break. When I noticed more and more tall vacuum-sealed plastic cups popping up on desks, I got curious and asked that I be included in their next group order.

Serenitea offers a wide selection of teas, from freshly brewed teas to milk teas to tea lattes and curious concoctions like Yakult Green Tea (which is actually not bad, if like me, you grew up loving Yakult). For the cold teas, one has the option to add any of the following: pearls (black tapioca), black bricks (coffee jelly), lime jelly, crystals (nata de coco), pudding, and QQ (a combination of pearls and crystals). Serenitea also lets customers decide how much sugar to put in their drinks (100%, 75%, 50%, 25%, or no sugar at all), and as I like my tea on the bitter side, I always go for 50%. For my first Serenitea selection, I opted for the cold jasmine milk tea with pearls. The pearls were smaller than Zagu's or Quickly's, but of a good chewy consistency. But it was the tea I loved, with the jasmine flavor coming through, but blending really well with the milk. The next Serenitea afternoon in our office, I tried the cold hazelnut tea latte with the "black bricks", which was a refreshing fusion of tea and coffee flavors. So far I've also had the cold Black Dragon milk tea with pearls, the Yakult Green Tea with lime jelly, the cold Ceylon milk tea with pearls, and the hot Hokkaido milk tea, and all were pretty good, although my favorite so far is still the jasmine (I'm a sucker for jasmine!).

What amazes me most about Serenitea is that the sizes of their drinks are significantly larger than Quickly's, yet their prices are very reasonable. The average order costs about P85, and it's real value for money. Not to mention they deliver for free to my house! Serenitea is just one more reason for me to be glad I live in Greenhills... and a way to perk up dreary afternoons at work.

Bookworm's progress report #3, 2009

The year's almost half over, and I have only finished 6 books in as many months. I have a feeling 2009's going to go down as a very bad year for this bookworm (not to mention my blog post output for June is alarmingly low-- what the heck have I been doing?).

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There's something about the way Indian authors write that lends their words a lyrical, almost rhythmical quality. Their manipulation and mastery of the English language are uniquely beautiful, and it's why I enjoy reading novels by Indian writers even if, quite frankly, I'm not really all that interested in their culture. Kiran Desai is one such author. I liked her novel The Inheritance of Loss primarily for her distinctly Indian writing style, which effectively immersed me in the atmosphere and lifestyle of the small town at the foot of the Himalayas. Desai also had me seeing her characters with a clarity both natural and startling: the stubborn old judge who shuts out everyone, including the ghosts from his past; his young orphaned granddaughter, who in the process of discovering love discovers herself; their cranky cook, whose devotion to his master, mistress and above all his own son, is both comic and tragic; and the cook's son, who struggles to forge a new life for himself in America, even as his heart pines for home.

I may not have been able to fully appreciate the socio-cultural and socio-political underpinnings of Desai's story (set against a Gorkha uprising in northern India in the 80s), but as a tale about family and home and the ties that bind, I did find it engaging and moving. I particularly liked how Desai depicts the life of illegal immigrants in the US, which, while possibly exaggerated for maximum effect, struck me as very poignant and real, even more so than the descriptions of squalid living conditions in India. I'm just not sure if I would consider this novel worthy of the Man Booker Prize in terms of content, and even stylistically Desai is no Arundathi Roy (author of The God of Small Things, one of my favorite books of all time). However, I'd still call The Inheritance of Loss a good read, and certainly deserving of a place on this bookworm's shelf.

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There's something comforting about reading a favorite author, a familiarity with her style and language that makes the reading experience richer somehow. Whenever I pick up an E.L. Konigsburg book, I know I'm headed home. I love how I seem to get an intimate knowledge of even her new characters right from the get-go, how I recognize Konigsburg's "voice" in the narration of the story, how I get that bittersweet feeling of writer's awe/envy as I think to myself, "Now THIS is young adult literature!" In Konigsburg's latest, The Mysterious Edge of the Heroic World, she tackles multiple themes of friendship, family, art, the atrocities of the Holocaust, and the meaning of true heroism. 2 boys helping a retired opera singer pack up the belongings in her mansion stumble upon something that unspools an interwoven history marked by much sadness, but also tinged with beauty, and touched by love.

Konigsburg is excellent at creating young protagonists who are wise beyond their years, and Heroic World's Amedeo and William are no exception. The friendship that unfolds between the 2 is developed wonderfully, as only Konigsburg can: subtly, serenely, with a sense of wonder and warmth that makes it almost magical (and isn't friendship magical indeed?). In turn, the larger-than-life personality of Mrs. Zender, the diva formerly known as Aida Lily Tull, plays off the boys nicely, as she becomes a source of amusement and affection, and a quirky commonality for them. But the best part about Heroic World lies in the secrets the boys unearth, and without giving anything away, there is more than one potential tear-jerker part in this book. Closet sap that I am, I came dangerously close to tears myself.

I might be just totally biased in favor of Konigsburg, but I really enjoyed Heroic World, more than I did her The Outcasts of 19 Schuyler Place, which I read 2 years ago (incidentally, some characters from the latter were also in the former, following Konigsburg's penchant for overlapping storylines). Konigsburg's best work is still by far The View From Saturday (my favorite book of all time), but Heroic World has a lot of the soul that made Saturday so brilliantly beautiful. Not Newbery Medal material, this one, but it comes pretty darn close.