Singapore Blawg

Top Gear

2009-06-07T00:49:00.000-07:00

Spanking new gear, same old Cubs bullshit.

A free gift that came with my package, one of those ionic titanium necklaces that's supposed to enhance athletic performance. More bullshit, in my opinion. It's called eight hours of sleep each night and training.

When I started playing ball in fourth grade, I was given a glove thin as a wafer, flat as a pancake and told to play third base. No, it wasn't the streets of the Dominican Republic -- I had a proper shirt, shoes and went to games in a school bus -- but didn't have any real gear to call my own. In middle school through early high school, it was the same thing -- standard issue equipment from a selection of Mizuno and Louisville Slugger bats to mitts. You picked one that fit, whether you're catching, playing the infield or patroling the outfield. At least I didn't have to pull a Shoeless Joe Jackson -- I had my own cleats. But they were soccer boots because that's what everyone wore for softball. We just weren't sophisticated enough to wear actual spikes.

Things looked up a little towards the end of high school. I actually had my own glove now, a 12.75-incher that worked for catching, even though my pitcher Shulin was a flamethrower (I played very well with fire). I developed the habit of wearing a batting glove under my mitt, but batted bare-handed Mark Grace-style -- I agree, the swing doesn't feel as sweet unless you had control of the grip -- and owned my personal pair instead of sharing like some of the girls did (fortunately, SARS and swine flu were not yet invented then). I now also had metal cleats, which I wore out a couple pairs each season. Still, some things never changed. Shared catcher's equipment. Chin zits? Shared sweat.

After high school and joining the Singapore Recreational Club for club-level softball (my ball club to this day), an identity began to develop. I begin to always carry two gloves, the tighter, compacter infielder's mitt and the roomier outfield leather. A sliding pad came on my much-maligned, injury-prone left knee. Always a wristband on my right forearm. But it was when games didn't carry as high a stake (national school championships, national club leagues, international tournaments) that I really came into my own as a ballplayer. On the recreational slowpitch diamonds of Chicago, you'll know me from a distance -- different-colored socks on each leg, Oakleys as long as you can see the sun, red adidas cleats, a personal Louisville Slugger bat (a lifelong Slugger user, I only recently stepped out of character to purchase a 2008 DeMarini Evo composite shaft). Playing first or second base on my co-ed teams and third base on my women's team, I became a much more physical player, diving into the red dirt, getting down, earning the nicknames of Spazz and Pigpen. But when you play against guys and you're a chick, you need to make a statement. You need to burn them by sailing that homer over their heads. You need to take someone out on the bases. You need to nail their line drives. And so, when the top prize was just bragging rights and a championship sweatshirt, I truly became a better reader of softball, and fine-tuned my game like never before (funnily enough, watching as many as I can of the Cubs' 162+ game schedule each year helped). Going down to the well tonight and trying to recapture the glory days? Guilty.

Today is Christmas Day, because I received a box from North Wichita, Kansas labeled BaseballSavings.com. Inside, a bounty of play ball pleasures -- a new Louisville Slugger Zephyr 12.5" infield glove and red adidas cleats. Shiny, lingering smell of leather, ready to smack some dirt and yellow softballs. Last weekend at the Old Rafflesians Association slow-pitch tourney, I was struck by how well-equipped the high school kids are these days -- they have a lot more stuff to enhance their performance (minus the 'roids) than we did. But still, it's still fun to get new gear, no matter how many years I'm past my prime. The fun of lacing up so the rawhide melds into your left palm perfectly, so the spikes dig into the ground just right moving across the infield or outfield. Feeling a little taller because the studs haven't been worn down, feeling like your range is a little longer because new gloves don't shortchange on you. Hey, this stuff is important when your breakthrough years are over, but at least there's still a lot of breaking in left to do. You can't replace cranky, creaky old catcher's knees or the impossibly foolish belief that the Cubs will win the World Series championship in your lifetime, but at least you'll never miss a grounder or trip on a base. That you can blame on equipment, that is.

All Sunshine All The Time

2009-06-03T23:42:00.001-07:00

Wings and fries -- two of the best inventions in the whole world. The fries were crisp outside and fluffy inside. Genius.

The Mexican burger had us at hola. Ay carumba!

I customized a burger to go with my Racing In The Street program -- half-pound of grade one Australian beef with a slice of portobello. Hello beautiful thing!

I'm a pizza nut with stringent requirements for my pizza. This crust? Lust.

Surprise! Owner Andrew brought out these freshly baked brownie squares drizzled with chocolate sauce on the house. The perfect treat.

I flip for burgers. I really do. I know you know I like a lot of different types of food. But I have a top shelf of what truly constitutes food I can't live without. Such as my mom's laksa (or pretty much anything that comes out of her kitchen), steak, pizza, cheese fries, ice cream, hot dogs. And burgers.

I always like to tell the story of how my first dinner at college was at the infamous Yesterdays (that doesn't exist anymore) down University Place in Evanston, Illinois. I got a honking massive half-pound burger buried under fries. I ate a third of it. Having lived in the city of cows for almost 13 years, I can now eat something like that, plus beer, plus cheese on the fries, plus dessert. No more growing pains.

Chicago is going through a burger craze right now, with one of the lifestyle reporters at the Chicago Tribune declaring himself burger bureau chief, making it his personal mission to hit every burger joint in town (and there are a lot) rating every single one of them. I have a few favorites -- Kuma's Corner (burgers inspired by heavy metal, the Slayer, mercy - piles of fries topped with half a pound of solid black angus, chili, cherry peppers, andouille, onions, jack cheese and anger), to name one -- and I won't eat that fancy stuff that's so trendy now. Also, burgers should never be less than half a pound of meat. I'm sorry, if you're wussing out on a burger, then you should be eating a salad instead.

In Singapore, it's not easy to find a good burger, because few hit the initial half-pound requirement. Also, consider this following equation for our weekly Beer Night outing:

Excellent beer + excellent food = Beer Night. Beer Night is not excellent beer + regular food. Beer Night is not regular beer + excellent food. We don't compromise. Each week, a new joint, dive or bar is proposed for exploration. Last night, Suan proposed Sunshine @ Carrie's, having heard raving things about the burgers there. Suan is a genius.

You probably don't expect the cafe to be located in a condo, by an Olympic-sized pool, and to be hanging out on patio furniture while waiting for your food. But you might not also expect that everything here is homemade, from the grade one Australian beef patties to the pizza crust. It's pretty easy to make a burger, but it's brain surgery executing a juicy, tender slab of meat that melts in the mouth (although I should have been asked how I'd have liked it done -- medium rare). We ordered a total of three burgers -- Mexican, Sunshine and my customized 200g with a grilled portobello and peppercorn sauce on the side. All flippin' fantastic -- it's very key that real burger buns are used, not some of the skimpy, wimpy, limp bread you see mocking good beef. The rucola pizza had a crust that made me wax nostalgic of what emerges from the best pie shops in Chicago. When you make a pizza crust comparable to pizza capital of the world (outside of Naples), you're a maestro. Crisp around the edges without feeling too heavy, it was a great host for the tomato slices, fresh rucola leaves topped off with mozzarella. Note to all restaurateurs: fresh ingredients make your cuisine taste really, really good. The sides of mesclun greens drizzled with balsamic vinaigrette were perfect.

Speaking of great hosts, we really appreciated that the owner Andrew stepped out from behind the grill to check on how we were doing, take a picture for his Facebook group and oh my god, serve us a platter of freshly made brownies with chocolate sauce. It wasn't just a piece of brownie for each of us. There was enough for three squares each. Too many places are run like a business. Last night, hanging out by the pool with a little lantern on our table, we felt like we were at a good friend's house, who wouldn't stop bringing cold beer and other treats from the kitchen. In fact, even though some portions of the order took 50 minutes to serve (we were given due warning), it didn't feel like it at all. And we were more than happy to wait.

Oh, I got so far ahead of myself I forgot to mention that the wings and fries appetizer combo we had, as well as the grilled portobello salad, were fantastic. The fries, although not hand-cut, were cooked just right - perfect crispness is not an easy feat. I didn't have any of the wings, but they disappeared fast. The salad will soothe any conscience for indulging in beer, pizza and burgers. We hung out into the night, but it was like sunshine all the time. Thanks, Drew, for a wonderful evening!

P/S Just $7.80 for a bottle of Little Creatures and no GST or service charge? SCORE! Just please be sure to be nice to your servers, who are really capable and a rare breed in Singapore.

Running For Our Lives On Them Backstreets

2009-05-24T03:04:00.000-07:00

"You can't just stop at Chhomrong."

"I wish I would stop sweating!!!"

Many of you have been following my self-inflicted "Tri-ing Hard" and "Chumps Like Us" training program to get back into better shape for everything -- softball, tennis, races, mountains, whatever. Today I made my 15k race debut, but that's not the main event though.

The race that should grace this post is Racing the Planet's Namibia 2009 ultra-marathon, in which competitors ran (and trekked, and climbed, and put one foot in front of another) 250km across an African desert in seven days. There were 213 competitors this year, and one of them is my good friend Belinda Holdsworth. I'm the reason why she signed up for this insanity -- a friend's husband and his brother, Philipp and Mark Mossiman, are doing this for the second year um, running, to raise money for Operation Smile. I forwarded their drive for donations email to my Annapurna trek team and said dismissively said, "Whatever, this can't even come close to what we went through!" As a joke, of course, but momentarily forgetting about Bel's sense of humor. A couple of days later, she responded: "I signed up. And we might not be friends after I'm done with this."

Bel began her racing career at about the same time as I did, and although we didn't know each other then, we had both run Chicago as our first marathons in 2006 (well, I only ran the route pacing Mofo for 18 miles). In just three years, she has completed many more marathons, Olympic distance triathlons, half-Ironmans and is working her way towards an Ironman this year. We met trekking the Himalayas last year and after lots of ascents side by side, or when the going got tough there was always one behind the other, great conversations and beer, we promised to run a marathon together this year and we're signed up for Chicago. Not bad, but I'm the chump here -- Bel is a sleek slicked machine, a brick house of grit. She'll say yes to any physical challenge. Her philosophy: "How hard can it be?"

I admire every single competitor who signed up for the Namibia 2009 ultra-marathon, because it takes guts just to even consider this endeavor with any sort of pure seriousness. Although I haven't heard from her, I know as I'm writing this that Bel has completed the race. She would not and will not take no for an answer. Her feet had been split, her back chafed, her ankles swollen, her legs locked, her arms numb and soles ravaged but her spirit never once broke and her soul remained intact, even as she's succumbed to periods of hysterics and hysterionics. But don't let me do the talking -- in her daily blog, "This Is Crazy," she tells all by what she doesn't say. She doesn't own up to what it exactly takes to not cave in to pain and going against physical impossibility -- humans (that is, regular humans) are just not constructed to inflict this upon themselves. She doesn't admit to what's in her that propels her up each sand dune and to keep moving. I have trekked seven days with this girl and I know that nothing is more sacred to her than a shower, and the fact that she had to go without cleaning herself properly while running/trekking/suffering 250km is likely harder than the physical exertion itself. But this is what you should know: she never once shed a tear, even as the torrent of swear words expunged across the continent likely stunk more than camp each night. The only time she has gotten verklempt is at the thought of completion. Bel is a fighter, a champion and a true competitor. I will be very proud to run with her this fall. Although, ya know, she is a sub-3:55 marathoner and I would be happy to finish in 4:30. At least I know she'll be waiting with the beers.

Now, my piddly 15km debut at the Singapore PAssion Run this morning was exactly that -- piddly. I was extremely excited for the race. I probably didn't prepare for it as well as I should have in training, but I wasn't worried about it -- I am in sprint tri shape and I just biked across some mountains. Obviously, the question isn't whether or not I could finish, but how well I can (let's take "quickly" out of the equation). I even went as far as to play around with some radical tapering nutrition, carb draining between Monday and Wednesday, to starve and deprive my body of the energy it needed while continuing to work out, then re-loading to ensure every milligram of energy is absorbed.

According to my watch, I completed in about 1:27, with my splits being about 27, 30 and 30 each 5km. This was a great learning experience, as I move from being just a distance finisher to trying to improve on all aspects of racing. I had set a goal of completing under 1:30, which I did -- however, I've also completed the distance in training in 1:23, so I definitely could have done better. I'm happy to get this out of the way and set a standard for improving, but I wish I did not made the following mistakes:

- I only slept a total of 4.5 hours last night. I went to bed at 10pm for a 6pm wake-up call, but adrenaline woke me up at 1am and I couldn't get back to sleep until close to 4.30am. This is my problem -- I get overly excited about races and never enough rest the night before. I should have made sure rest was adequate all week. I've completed a sprint tri on just 2.5 hours of sleep, but that was my first one, which I didn't train for and it took me 2:00. Adrenaline and the beautiful city of Chicago kept me going though -- I never once felt it until I collapsed on my couch back home, two burgers and slabs of watermelon later. Heat, humidity and the individualistic atmosphere of races in Singapore didn't help much this morning, but then again, the distance wasn't long enough to need much value-added excitement.

- I charged out of the gate, which goes against my regular pattern. I should have aimed to complete the first 5k closer to 30:00, and then build up a steady stride. I was so eager to go quick that I lost my focus and burned up too much momentum. I usually go my last 5k pretty hard, but I found it tough to stay consistent. In fact, I was pacing a stronger runner for 7k, and lost him at about 12k. I took longer to get going after water stops...

- ... which brings me to my next point. A new challenge is learning how to respond to my body's needs for this distance. I can usually complete a 10k race without needing to stop for any water, because I'm very comfortable with that distance but the additional 5k threw me off a little. Also, I always had a tube of gel tentatively in my hand each time I approached a water station but didn't know if I should eat it... and I didn't. I probably should have -- I was getting pretty winded by the heat and humidity. I stopped at every station from 6k onwards and likely drank more than I should have. I know I should "listen to my body", but honestly, I'm not sure what my body wants for this distance. Training mindset and conditions today differed a lot, so I need to find the synch between the two. Coach Mick and others...?

Of course, as I do after every goddamned race in Singapore, I think to myself -- I am never running here again. It's just too hot. I took close to 45 minutes to completely cool down after -- I dripped the entire time. In fact, my entire kit was drenched by 3k into the race. But, of course, the only race I am never running here again is the marathon. Other distances keep me honest and would only make me better-equipped for more temperate conditions. Thank you for your support, encouragement and advice, as always -- next week is a bit of a break, then June 1 I officially begin training for the marquee Olympic distance triathlon and marathon events of the year. It will be a new challenge as I've never done an O.D. tri and full marathon within six weeks of each other, but it should be fun. Actually, it would be my first ever O.D. tri! In the meantime, I will continue to work towards getting leaner and more than ever, expect resistance training and conscientious recovery to be an important part of the program.

By the way, did you know my brother Dion surprised me with a visit home to cheer me on? He is a Spartan who rocks hard!

Jock Jam

2009-03-23T22:37:00.001-07:00

Gym rat working out... on the Blackberry machine.

The problem about being a regular Joe athlete is that your mind is often going in a million directions. You're always full of confidence and positivity because you know what you can achieve, but because you know you can complete a marathon in 5:13 without training very hard (meaning, just three long runs, none of which surpassed 15 miles or 25 kilometers), you always wonder about what could have been. I won't lie. I'm pretty cocky. I know how far I can hit a softball if it was a big fat meatball I was sitting on and I know I can return impossible tennis shots. I know a combination of my physical affinity and mental psyche can make me good at most sports (except for gymnastics, skating, synchronized swimming and anything that requires grace) if I wanted to try -- and most times I do, so I can beat my competition. All my life playing softball, I was taught to play hard, and I do.

But I know there are better athletes than me in my life, and I am in constant awe of their power and prowess. They have always been my inspiration, as have my larger-than-life heroes -- John McEnroe, Pete Sampras, Roger Federer, Kirk Gibson, Mark Grace, Ryne Sandberg, Kerry Wood, and so on. And when you're told your body fat percentage is 37.2 percent, it's like getting a 100mph fastball landing in your gut like sucker punch, before a Roddick serve lands in the middle of your skull. And I'm thinking, how much better could I have been in my 31 years of playing sports (I was put into a pool when I was barely a year old) if I had not been carrying a reserve tank I didn't need? Seven weeks ago, I began a self-imposed Tri-ing Hard program in which I targeted to lose, in three stages, five pounds, two pounds and two pounds. I started at 147.2 pounds and figured that once I hit 140, I would be less concerned about weight and more about body fat.

Three weeks into my program, I made good progress through a combination of training for my first race of the season, Tribob's Singapore Sprint Series on April 19, and a much improved nutrition program. Top on the list -- I restricted myself to no more than one beer a day, or a maximum of seven a week. I cut out as many processed foods as possible, minimized my saturated fat and unnecessary carbohydrates, and made sure I had at least five servings of fruit or vegetables a day. By the time I was measured at my first personal training session, I had already lost two pounds in about three weeks, but that's just part of the way.

When it comes to training, I don't compromise. I don't run shorter distances to cut corners -- in fact, I would make my distance for the day or even a little more, if I can. I do more reps in my resistance training than I have to, because, it won't hurt you, would it? In addition to tri training, I play softball and tennis and bike everywhere. It's fun, I love it. But when I began my regime at the Fitness Factory with Augustine Lee and Moses Ching, my training was taken to a whole new level. Put it this way -- when I started on March 2, I did 120 leg raises. This morning, March 24, I did 225. I'm not saying it was easy -- my last five in the my fifth rep of the day felt like someone was trying to rip my abs off me while digging through the beer belly. But the fact is that I did it, and once you're done, it feels like being drenched with ice cold draught Guinness after a marathon. Mmm.

Because I'm at a point where beyond the leg raises, I'm doing 125 leg curls (40 pounds), 130 chest presses (55 pounds), 125 weighted squats (20 pounds), 130 cable crosses (too challenging to notice the weight) and 130 bend rolls (25 pounds), I have also found myself accomplishing the following: running three miles in 25:00 (hitting a maximum speed of 9mph), running 7 miles in 1:05, a huge improvement in my swim, higher stamina on the bike, wider range at softball and tennis, and the ability to just keep going, going, going without feeling winded. More than that, the new surge in fitness and power is also pumping iron for my mind and spirit. Just like boxing, I feel pretty invincible and like I can Viva la Vida the world. I know what my limitations are, but still, for the first time in my life I'm thinking I could try to qualify for the Boston Marathon (3:45 and under, and whatever happened to my vow to only run one more marathon in this lifetime?). I'm beginning to get hung up on personal records, which is the nerdiest thing ever if you do endurance races. I've always said to Mofo and Jenny B and the rest of my softball girls that when we're 60, we should still be playing ball together and running races together. I think we're on our way.

And the weight? I am at 142.3 pounds, which means I have lost 5.2 pounds in seven weeks, which doesn't account for muscle toning weight I've maintained or put on. We've yet to re-measure the body fat percentage, but it better be down, goddamn it, or something's going to be at the receiving end of either my right cross or my right hook, my two best punches.

Play Classy For Me

2009-03-22T05:22:00.000-07:00

Magnum force.

It's hard to explain why the hell a Clint Eastwood film is so damned good. The guy started out as a squinty renegade cowboy without a name, the meanest badass in spurs then got even worse as Dirty Harry, blowing the heads off punks. Then, in Unforgiven, he suddenly absolved his soul of sins, though not his hands of blood. He couldn't be bad anymore, because all that justice had softened the heart, resolved the spirit and tamed the wild abandon. As his voice graveled down into a gruff rasp, everything else inside calmed down and made peace with karma. The movies became about fatherhood in all its personalities, redefining religion and devotion to the grit of fighting. There was still violence and death, but these were secondary -- part of the landscape of living as the foreground came into focus as a meditation of what makes a life, vis a vis what takes it away. Death speaks for life more than the art of living itself.

Eastwood is 79 this year, and I get the feeling he makes every movie like it could be his last. And if so, beginning with Mystic River in 2003 to Gran Torino from last year, which I just saw today and am in denial and disbelief that it did not get a single major Oscar nomination, you might see his recent work as the labor of what love can do. (If you haven't see this film, watch it now -- the honest realization of comeuppance and salvation could take up to the last summer of your life, rather than a deer-in-headlights flashback through a childhood of circumstantial coincidence where you are blessed with a fairy-tale ending at age 20.) Fatherhood is more than the art of birth, it is the reincarnation of finding flesh and blood in the unification of disparate destinies. Religion is a bystander, because matters must be taken into your own hands. It's basically Dirty Harry asking God if he feels lucky, and the answer is no, God isn't winning the lottery any time soon.

But most of all, it is a grace and understatement of someone who knows enough to not be bothered or shackled by the big picture. An Eastwood film is simple in direction, mood and ambience, so much so that it could feel like a part of something in your life, if every feeling, conundrum, frailty and imperfection was just a smidge bigger than you can handle. It's so moving because you've felt that way before, but his often emotionally wrecking and wrenching conclusions stir quiet sobs, not Titanic bawling, because real life is too little for hot air melodrama. With the execption of Changeling, which was as good as The Bridges of Madison County ever could be -- the man is not flawless, after all -- each movie this decade has been a masterpiece in Shakespearan tragedy, everyday Twainsian ironic comedy, Conradian violent savagery and a depiction of the Steinbeckian responsibility of justice and truth. There is no romance -- that's too easy -- but there is love.

There is just no other filmmaker whose movie steals my heart like Clint does, putting it in safekeeping for 120 minutes before returning a much more robust, knowing and understanding human organ. By the way, my favorite Clint Eastwood movie of all is Million Dollar Baby. Boxing, loyalty and compassion. Principles I live by.

A Wii Bit Of Pain

2009-03-18T07:47:00.000-07:00

The usual suspects.

Because I am a Cubs fan, play softball, sign up for endurance races and can't say no to good pizza, beer and ice cream, pain is not a stranger to me, my anatomy, my heart and my psyche. Once when I was 12, my right hand was dangling off the top of a car when my friend Vanessa slammed the door shut, catching my ring finger. The pain was so immense and intense that it took me five seconds to scream. I never saw a doctor for it, but I must have at least hairline fractured it. The ring finger on my right hand will be forever crooked, making it very hard for an engagement ring to make its way on. Pain. I know you.

A few weeks ago, I was over at Wallie and Ben's and after a few rounds of Guinness and Texas Hold'em, the Wii machine was revved up. It was my third time playing this thing, and I wasn't hooked immediately like when my parents got us a Nintendo Entertainment System 16-Bit when was 13. A white box and nunchuks do not measure up to Mario and Luigi in their most basic pixelations. So I knew that it's quite possible to play Wii well belly up on a couch with just a flick of the wrist, but I couldn't do it. What's the fun in that? I had to be standing in front of the 32" flat screen TV flinging my right arm around from baseball to tennis to boxing. Completing forehands and backhands, full pitching motion like the bases were empty and busting balls with hooks and crosses. It was like I was playing Wimbledon, the World Series and the Main Event at the Bellagio. I was Joanne Sports Schmuck powered by beer so when I woke up Sunday morning, I had a sore right arm. I mean, it's a pretty good arm that's worked out nicely regularly, but Wii must have found some muscle threshold to trash.

I made it through three hours of softball practice that day and on Monday morning, it hurt worse but I braced it for the first of 30 personal sessions I'd received as an early birthday and Christmas gift from my fantastic parents. My arm raged on as my girth measurements were taken but you know what hurts more? Being told you have a body fat percentage of 37.2 percent. Really? I couldn't believe and I still refuse to accept it. I know I'm not stacked and my BMI makes me out to be the biggest loser but the last time I checked on an electronic scale, I was about 24 percent, just four percent from what a good athlete should be. Apparently, the calipers' pinch method is the most accurate measurement, short of being dunked into a density tank at a lab. I still don't buy it, but my trainer Augustine inked it onto my record, so it's now a true fact. Nothing was in as much pain than my jock ego right then, when the chart declared me obese. Seriously, no way. Unacceptable. But it is now my goal to beat those calipers at their foolish game and show them who's boss.

Pinch test. You're cruising for a bruising, motherfucker.

(Check back tomorrow for a three-weeks-later follow-up!)

Lost and Found

2009-03-08T07:09:00.000-07:00

"D'ya feel lucky, punk? Well, do ya?"

I just watched "Mystic River" for the fourth time, a film by Clint Eastwood that clocks in at two hours and 17 minutes. Over two evenings in the last week, I spent about three hours and 15 minutes watching the first four episodes of "Lost."

I had misgivings watching the show even though I tried hard to like it, so that I could maybe be socialized into that water-cooler circle of avid discussions about last night's episode. Even as a countless number of people told me to keep watching, that it keeps getting better, that I was going to keep going through the episodes faster and faster. Well, the first thought that comes to me is this: the first seven minutes of "Mystic River" sent a deadly chill through my soul that was harder and more urgent than any of the purported scary moments and frights in "Lost." Eastwood didn't need any special effects, plane crash or a woman jabbering in French on some unknown signal. He put a boy alone in a darkened frame, lying prone and shaking in sawdust as a skewed figure loomed above him. Before that, the boy was driven away in a black Cadillac and stared out the back window. It was a story so real and the sensation of the unknown so dreadful and the direction so graceful and gentle, an extreme to the moment in the film, that made you feel coweringly disturbed. Before you knew it, Eastwood had entered your consciousness in all its realms -- spiritual, psychological, emotional and logical -- and instilled a responsibility to his movie, because you recognize the blind passion and the sometimes futile attempts to negate the unprompted effects of moral negligence.

"Lost," on the other hand, felt to me like a collective of every narrative device ever employed in an M. Night Shymalan movie. Sure, many of the plot twists were akin to the genius of "The Sixth Sense," and there is a little of "Unbreakable" from the impossibility of surviving a crash caused by a plane torn apart in mid-air. Unknown entities shuffling through long rainforest brush, we've seen aliens do that in "Signs." People banding together when forced into a state of separatism, just like "The Village." Weird, unfathomable happenstance, "Lady In The Water." That end of the world feeling -- "The Happening?" Unfortunately for Shyamalan, his moviemaking magic ended with "The Sixth Sense" and every subsequent movie was a poor attempt to cash in on the Big Irony that earned him an Oscar nomination. It feels forced, a frustrated auteur trying to get smarter with each movie he makes but the burden of his own intelligence must be crippling -- it just falters into lameness weaker than a thug staring at the wrong end of Dirty Harry's .44 Magnum.

There's nothing new on "Lost" thus far in four episodes. The teleplay is atrocious -- when one of the survivors tries to convince his disgruntled sister that a lady in depression needed to be helped, she retorts without looking up from her crossword, "What's a four-letter word for 'I just don't care'?" I've never seen "Survivor" either, but I have to believe that was as cringeworthy as some of the things contestants on that show are made to do. "Lost" seems to me like an hour each week of being told how to feel and react to the events unfolding. Cue orchestral maneuvers which crescendo and alert you to start feeling creeped out and cue Matthew Fox looking cute and hot and squinty so you can focus on a nice hero. "Lost" is an amazing television enterprise, getting it right at a time when broadcast production is in about as much trouble as the music industry -- it has managed to get people tuning in every week and on to its Web site inbetween episdoes for the last five years. In TV, all you need to do is shepherd the viewers from one commercial break to the other and have them hang off a cliff like Stallone so the advertisers can pay for million-dollar episodes to be produced in Hawaii. It's much more challenging than I'm making it out to be, and cable produces much more provocative programming. But the "Lost" formula is great: a large cast of characters with convoluted secrets that you could spend a l-o-t o-f t-i-m-e r-e-v-e-a-l-i-ng t-o s-t-r-e-t-c-h t-h-e n-u-m-b-e-r o-f a-i-r t-i-m-e y-o-u- c-a-n s-e-l-l. Some day, all this would make a really good theme park, or at the very least, a Wii game.

I suppose as the mystery thickens in "Lost," there must be plenty of puzzles to ponder over which I'm quite sure I'll never be able to get, because I'm just no good at things like that. That's why people log on to ABC's Web site and work on this stuff as ads scroll on. But in these times, it's all about cutting back so 30 seconds of a shot of Sean Penn's tattooed back with tight, tensed muscles thinly veiled by a singlet showed me a much fuller and complex character than the three plus hours and multitudes of people on "Lost." The convulsion of grief upon learning of his daughter's death carried by the organ death march of a first communion hymn is stirring and frightening at the same time, especially when passion is a religion. The entire film is a street opera where ballets of betrayal are fought in Boston backwater alleys and the roots of Shakespearan tragedy creep along each scene like a cancerous virus, from the screen to you. The two women in the film are the schizophrenic psychoses of Lady MacBeth -- the lunacy of guilt and the madness that underlies a lack of remorse. As in the greatest literature from the Victorian Age, tragic events are set in motion because of the occurrence of what is usually seen as pure and life-affirming: love. And they don't stop, because there is no commercial break in life. This isn't a word game or a brain teaser. The film gets darker and bleaker and I got more afraid accordingly, because I just can't find the answers by flipping to the back of the book.

I'm not saying "Lost" is a bad program or that it's stupid to watch it. It's just not for me. The fourth episode revived my faith because it finally unlocked the secret to my heart -- it tugged at a few strings when Locke could walk, because it was his "destiny." When all else fails, sentimentalism is always effective, as evidenced in pet food commercials. I'll likely keep the second DVD of season 1 in my HomePal queue to see what else is revealed about the other characters, but I think I need to bump "Mean Streets", "Ran" and "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" up before it.

Pizzapalooza: Singapore - Skinny Pizza, Obesely Delectable

2009-03-06T00:02:00.000-08:00

The first pizza to reign over our table was this salami and pesto number. Good pizza crust and arugula can always spill all over my table, and I'll lick it all up.

Beauty is crust-deep, so obviously Chicago deep dish is very good-looking pizza. But these pizzas could be America's Next Top Model, particularly with voluptous slices of portobellos marinated in truffle oil.

This is the masterpiece. Seafood pizza with squid ink crust. Genius.

A perfect pizza buddy -- that's me! Or fresh French cider.

I recently ate 11 slices of pizza in two meals over two days, so I know what I'm talking about when it comes to baked dough, cheese, tomato sauce and toppings.

Not many places would welcome four sweaty softball girls who had just played tennis for two hours in 100 percent humidity at 9.30pm, when they were getting ready to close at 10pm. Not many places refill your glasses with water without you asking for it. But when you sink into one of Skinny Pizza's mod turqoise chairs amid a retro-country decor as hipper-than-thou (but not intrusive) ambient electronica wafts over your head, you get a very happy feeling that the service here is the real deal. The exquisite, divine, gut-warming and soul-shaking culinary experience at Skinny Pizza was not a result of hunger that caused stomach tremors registering 10 on the Richter scale. It would be too simple. Just like simply slapping on fresh ingredients on thin crust dough and sticking it into a brick oven was too easy (although, I must say, can also create amazing pizza). This crust is paper-thin and crispy, and each pie (man, can you even bring yourself to call this pizza a pie?) weighs in at 12" of goodness. It's DIY slicing with a slicer on each table, or if you're hoarding one on your own (highly recommended), feel free to rip 'er up off the wooden board on which it's served. We ordered the Wild Truffled Mushroom, Seafood and Salami and Pesto, and Janet got the mushroom soup to start, a full-bodied creamed portobello concoction that looked magical.

Now, about the pizza. I can't say enough about how generous they were with the ingredients. On the mushroom, slabs of portobellos marinated in truffle oil ordained the crust, sprinkled with fresh grated parmesan and heaped with so much arugula it's spilling over, and we're eating it off the table. These two toppings are replicated on the other two pizzas, and I assume it is the the case with the others we haven't tried. I'm not usually a fan of pesto but this one was not overbearing with basil and the cream on this crust was as delectably lickable as Nutella on toast. And the seafood -- oh my god, the seafood! The squid ink crust is genius, and the heaps of shrimp and calamari on top could induce an spontaneous round of "Under The Sea," and what a nice touch to give it all a tang with tomato salsa. Because this crust is so crispy, it tends to fall apart at the slightest mishandling, which is quite possible as you maul it greedily. But never fear, no one will hold it against you for sweeping all the pieces off the table and into your mouth. At least, no one wrote me a summons for that crime of inadequate etiquette.

By the way, if you're feeling too angelic about eating Skinny Pizza, which has to be the best guilt-free dietary indulgence ever, the truffle fries will help feed your rebel soul, as will the list of desserts: pandan lamington, triple chocolate brownie, pistachio lemon cheesecake, warm chocolate toffee cake, strawberry cheesecake. We didn't have any, but we'll make sure to make room the next time. I enjoyed my pizza with the recommended French cider, which was pleasant, but at only 2% alcohol level, I shotgunned it within five minutes.When we left, we decided that playing tennis at Suntec, as opposed to Kallang, our other venue, would always be our first choice for a court location. Just so we can eat at Skinny Pizza after. When a pizza rules your life like this and later, your sweet dreams, you know it's something beyond special. Dough it to me one more time.

Lost In Translation

2009-03-04T04:58:00.000-08:00

David Lynch at the Music Box Theatre, he wore black tweed.

When I was 13, Laura Palmer entered my life through a 25" Toshiba analog TV. She stayed for about a year, in which beginning from the episode after the pilot aired, I recorded it every Sunday night at 8pm, re-watched it the next evening and maybe a few more times during the week before I could get into it again the following week. I would transcribe the screenplay as I watched, pausing and rewinding to catch the dialogue, pausing and rewinding. If I had to do it alone, I probably would have lost some steam, but my good pal Shivani was just as addicted and we drank "damn good coffee" because Special Agent Dale Cooper did, we always got "damn good pie" because that's what the Double R Diner served and we got our own Dianes, that microcassette tape recorder Cooper spoke into with enigmatic-as-Manny-Ramirez meditations. Mine was called James, my favorite character played by James Marshall, and Shiv's was Bobby, her favorite dude played by Dana Ashbrook. We read the spin-off books, we tried to solve the murder before David Lynch even knew which character to give the honor to and we listened to the soundtrack by Angelo Badalamenti relentlessly, almost wearing out the tape -- possibly the only time I've listened to this much music without words of my own accord.

The fact that we took time out from coasting down hills on a skateboard -- two girls, four wheels -- and playing Around The World and getting into trouble at school for this TV show is pretty significant. It never truly left. In college, I rented the entire show -- only one precious season -- and re-watched it, and gained a whole new appreciation for David Lynch's genius. Sizing down the grandiose of film onto television is a pretty challenging endeavor, and Lynch was always magnificent in ambition and never colored inside the lines. I did this exercise a couple more times in the last decade and on a bitterly cold January night at 11pm, Beth and I stood in a line that snaked down Wayne outside the Music Box for the Chicago premiere of Inland Empire. It was a moment of revelation and recognition when we managed to get in and when the man himself came out to introduce the movie. Three weeks later, Beth would bring the entire season on a DVD-ROM to Singapore and we watched a few episodes when we were done eating for Chinese New Year.

I used to have a few TV shows I absolutely had to watch when growing up. Twin Peaks was one, as were The X-Files, Quantum Leap, Who's The Boss, Mad About You and Perfect Strangers (I remember thinking, this city they live in looks nice, and that baseball park looks really old). Then, all the good shows seemed to disappear. Sitcoms had the same lines, just different family structures and theme songs. Dramas got boring, particularly if they got cloned from one city to another or one police squad to another. Possibly the only show I watched regularly in a long, long time was Sex and the City, and although I had cable, it was primarily for Cubs broadcasts and ESPN. On broadcast TV, I only watched Saturday Night Live, Jeopardy! and TODAY (but that's primarily for work). Lots of my friends watch TV and they'd say, watch this, watch that, it's good, we're hooked. But nothing could sustain my interest for more than 15 minutes, no matter how critically approved. I would rather watch L.A. Confidential for the 35th time or read. At least I was thinking.

So when everyone told me I had to -- HAD TO -- watch Lost, because I loved Twin Peaks and horror flicks, I thought maybe they were on to something. Maybe it's because I missed the very first showing, but when I tuned in to the second part of the pilot on September 29, 2004, I switched to the Cubs game after the first commercial break came on. We lost to the Reds 4-3 that evening, ya know, one of those games where we got beat bringing a 2-2 tie into the 12th when Austin Kearns -- Austin Kearns, for god's sake -- hit a two-run homer off Jon Leicester. If you remember, it's that season when we buried ourselves into oblivion starting September for the rest of the Dusty Baker tenure. So I probably should have stuck with Lost rather than watch a lost season, but at least that TV broadcast stirred up some emotion in me. I never watched Lost again.

But here I am, home on a Wednesday evening that Beer Night with my high school softball friends has off, finally watching the first season of Lost. I'm not sure why I rented it. I think I was partly curious about the phenomenon and partly thinking that I need to translate all the literature I've read about it into an actual objective viewing experience (I actually know more about the show than a non-viewer should, from constant coverage in that bible of pop culture, Entertainment Weekly). I mean, every goddamnend Thursday I have to scroll through a million Facebook status updates about the show. So I'm hitting play right now, popping grapes into my mouth, resisting a beer, and...

Tune in next time for the heart-stopping, nerve-wrecking conclusion of my expedition onto the island!

Let's Go To The Movies

2009-02-22T06:27:00.000-08:00

The best movie I watched this Oscar season. Sublime and hard-hitting, the Ram got me caught in an emotional jam.

One of the best modern-day film noirs set in the best city for dark corners and sly shadows.

I have been going to the movies for as long as I can remember. When I was three, my parents took me with them to see matinees of "The Ten Commandments" and "Ben-Hur." (I think they found it quite effective in putting a toddler to sleep for four hours -- I do remember the parting of the Red Sea, though not the chariot race.) When I was a little bit older, they took me to see contemporary releases like "Mr. Mom," "Tootsie" and "Best Friends."

The turning point was when my mom took me to see "Yentl" and "Annie" on our Friday afternoon dates. After school, she would take me to a steak lunch and then to a movie downtown on Fridays -- times I truly treasure. When we watched "Yentl" (I know, some of you... many of you will laugh), she told me that Barbra Streisand was a remarkable woman who directed, wrote and starred in the film, about another woman who took destiny into her own yarmulke. My mom asked, "Would you want to grow up and be that kind of a woman?" I said yes, I would. During "Annie," my mom leaned over when Ann Reinking made her entrance as Grace Reinking and whispered, "Here's a lady working for a powerful man, and sometimes he listens to her. Women can make a difference as well." I thought, I would like to grow up and be that kind of a woman. Through two movies that have become an evergreen constant in my life ("Annie" more than "Yentl," thank goodness -- I'm also grateful that I can sing all the songs in "Annie" verbatim, but not those in "Yentl"), I learned an important lesson from my mom. (Last Friday, I took her on a dinner and movie date and we watched "Slumdog Millionaire" -- she had never seen such a creatively made and brilliant film before, and learned that some pictures were very different from the mainstream fare she knew.)

I became an obsessive movie fan when I watched "La Bamba," which I loved for the music and the tragedy. Then came "Stand By Me," still one of my all-time favorite films. Then "Dirty Dancing." Then "Grease." All of these movies, I watched once a day every day of our June school holidays between 1987 and 1990. I can quote these movies better than their screenwriters. From here, I realized how much I love movies and reading them like literature. I went to the cinema after school often and I rented classics on video to watch on weekends. When I was in college, I snuck into film classes as much as they would like me enroll in before cutting me off. I loved them all, and "Film Art" by Bordwell and Thompson remains one of my favorite textbooks from school.

I know a lot of film aficionados -- Peter Duckler watches almost 300 movies a year and stakes out at Sundance every year, my cousin Cheryl is a connoisseur of fine films and wonderful movie conversationalist, and Silvia is my window to foreign film and double-feature partner in crime. There are many more, and it's a testament to sitting in the dark, big silver screen unfurling from left to right as movies turn the world upside down and emotions inside out as great actors emote from screenplays beautifully wrote. Like any fan of the movies (I like Hollywood as much as independent, I thrive on Hollywood politics, but not gossip, and lord, do I love film noir and horror flicks), one of my favorite days of the year is Oscar Sunday. I could watch seven hours of pre-Oscar coverage. I will watch the ceremony straight through without break. I just love it. It's four hours of taking stock of the movies I'd seen all year and trying to stay a step ahead of the voters. I used to bid on Oscar bleacher seats every year. I spied on the Golden Globes red carpet from behind a fence one year. I watch every major (and some minor) Oscar-nominated films so I can understand the evening and its mechanisms better. And of course, I predict.

Here's what I cast for the pool this year -- by the way, I belong in the "Slumdog Millionaire" backlash party. I thought it was brilliantly filmed and what a creative narrative that was! But no matter how exuberant, the manipulative melodrama and fairy tale ending spoiled it for me.

1. Best Actor

- Will win: Sean Penn in "Milk" -- it's the toughest major race of the evening, and while Mickey Rourke deserves this quite a bit, Penn did a lot more acting. It's more than acting -- it's inhabiting Milk's entire persona, it's transmuting body language. It's amazing.

- Should win: Sean Penn in "Milk"

- Who I want to win: Sean Penn in "Milk"

2. Best Supporting Actor

- Will win: Heath Ledger in "The Dark Knight" -- Josh Brolin also deserves one of these for the Dan White role in "Milk" and for the recent strong performances, but giving Ledger the award is more than a posthumous recognition. He earned it, plain and simple.

- Should win: Heath Ledger in "The Dark Knight"

- Who I want to win: Heath Ledger in "The Dark Knight"

3. Best Actress

- Will win: Kate Winslet in "The Reader" -- god, I didn't realize this one would be as tough, too. I was really adamant on believing this was Winslet's year, but I saw "Doubt" today and Meryl Streep is a tour de force like the "peripetatic" wind in the film. I really should change my pick, but it's also time to honor Winslet. At least, I think that's what Academy voters are feeling...

- Should win: Meryl Streep in "Doubt"

- Who I want to win: Meryl Streep in "Doubt"

4. Best Supporting Actress

- Will win: Viola Davis in "Doubt" -- I have to say, Francis swayed me on this one. I was quite convinced that Penelope Cruz would be the Academy's Spanish honoree this year, but again, Davis filled 15 minutes on screen with a lifetime full of hurt, pain and barely concealed realist emotions that took my breath away. And I think, voters, too.

- Should win: Viola Davis in "Doubt"
- Who I want to win: Viola Davis in "Doubt"

5. Best Director
- Will win: Danny Boyle for "Slumdog Millionaire" -- no explanation needed, one of the freshest and most innovative narrations all year.
- Should win: Danny Boyle for "Slumdog Millionaire"
- Who I want to win: David Fincher for "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"

6. Best Picture
- Will win: "Slumdog Millionaire" -- the buzz put this in the bag all by itself, plus its contenders are just not hip or cool enough to truly compete, plus the missing deserved nominees are not present
- Should win: "The Dark Knight"
- Who I want to win: "The Dark Knight"

Here are the rest of my picks for other categories:
- Best Animated Film: "WALL-E" (duh -- although I've never seen it)
- Best Art Direction: "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"
- Best Cinematography: "Slumdog Millionaire"
- Best Costume Design: "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"
- Best Documentary: "Man On Wire"
- Best Film Editing: "Slumdog Millionaire"
- Best Foreign Language Film: "Waltz With Bashir"
- Best Makeup: "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"
- Best Score: "Slumdog Millionaire"
- Best Song: "Jai Ho" (Should have been "The Wrestler" -- I'm sure you'll agree)
- Best Sound Editing: "Slumdog Millionaire"
- Best Sound Mixing: "Slumdog Millionaire"
- Best Live Short Film: "The Pig"
- Best Animated Short Film: "Presto"
- Best Documentary Short Subject: "The Witness - From The Balcony of Room 306"

- Best Visual Effects: "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"

- Best Adapted Screenplay: "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"

- Best Original Screenplay: "Milk"

Notes:
- Brad Pitt for Best Actor because, in one of your weakest performances to date, you preened your way through the movie? Could your facial expressions not change because of the latex makeup?
- P.S. Hoffman -- P.S. you look, speak and behave the same way in every role. I kept seeing you as Capote in "Doubt."
- Angelina Jolie, you creeped me out big time in "Changeling." And no, you already won for this role in "Girl, Interrupted."
- Amy Adams, you were so awesome in "Doubt" -- it's too bad it's not going to you. Soon, you'll be enchanted.
- I wish the Best Animated Film category will go away because really, Hollywood churns out too much cartoon schmaltz. Low-quality moneymakers.
- I really didn't think "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" was that good at all, but I want David Fincher to win because he is my boy.
- Why doesn't the Academy just create a Best Biopic category so that all the conventional, souped-up, madeover life stories can compete with each other and not waste Best Picture room?

Enjoy the show!

Time Out Of Mind

2009-02-11T20:48:00.000-08:00

From high school softball team to adult beer drinking team, boring stories of glory days and all. Boyfriends acceptable.

My extended softball family at home. Parked next to the buffet and within easy reach of the champagne at Ai Wei's wedding.

Chi chick ball -- we bowl, too.

Sometimes we build human pyramids after a day-long tourney.

I watched "Se7en" when I was 18 in a theater in Sydney, Australia, when I was traveling without the authority of parents or school for the first time in my life. MP, Zoe and I spent four weeks with my uncle Robert, who lives there, and there was a great sense of liberation, not only because we got to do things we never have done before, like visit a strip club and drink liberally, but because at that time, I believed I saw the best movie ever made.

Of course "Seven" isn't the best movie ever made, but it's one of the best. Without blockbuster effects and any of the mainstream attractions like a cute, sassy kid in glasses too big for his face, it was a perfect modern film made in the old-fashioned way: strong, intelligent narration, solid performances, and mise-en-scene that often spoke louder and gave away more than the screenplay. As much about the film's morality tale, characters and conflicts were revealed in the setting, lighting and imagery -- if you knew where and how to look. Often, what you didn't see spoke as much about the story -- this was something Orson Welles and Alfred Hitchcock would have been proud of, less Lucas and Spielberg, more Capra and Hawks. Thus began my love affair for a guy who went from directing Madonna music videos to getting away with imitating -- no, paying tribute -- to the "North by Northwest" opening sequence in his fifth film, "Panic Room." No one criticized that bold, slightly egoistical, all-making-his-mark-on-celluloid flash of inspiration. Everyone knew that if Hitch was still making movies today, they would look like a David Fincher film.

Fincher is a whiz at details, and much like Welles, he's updated many modern techniques and created a few of his own. Rather than solving a technical conundrum with CGI, special effects or a solution procuded from Industrial Light & Magic, he works on camera angles and visual trickery. If you know how Hitchcock filmed the scene in which detective Milton Arbogast dies in "Psycho," you'll know what I mean. And what an eye -- freeze frame any of Fincher's movies, and each is a great photo image in itself, so richly he plays with colors, shades and scene structures. And the chills he sends through your anatomy with thrills -- this guy grabs your heart, wrenches it into the bottom of your gut, then sends it flying into the galaxy on a fuel-injected rocket before letting it all crash down into the center of the earth. Watch the basement scene in "Zodiac" and you'll understand (watching that for the first time and burrowed deep into my seat at the Webster theater, I still had to smile at the archetypal Fincher suspense moment).

I just saw "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," the film I had been most anticipating this Oscar season. It's Fincher's first major Oscar coup, although I can't understand why "Se7en" didn't get more accolades. I probably carried too many expectations into this one, because while I appreciate everything brilliant about the movie, I just didn't like it that much. The only other Fincher film I am not a big fan of is "Fight Club," for the same reasons -- great concepts, themes that make your brain tick and creative wizardry -- but they both feel unnervingly overwrought in ennui, in terms of the former, and in "Ben Button," it just felt like too much of a sprawling epic. Still, Fincher is a visual artist, so he manipulates time, innovates existence and creates life as your own very mise-en-scene. You fill it with the people and things and emotions you want, you put them in their rightful places, but others on the set come by and mess it up sometimes. You call the shots as director, but sometimes a Christian Bale fucks it up, or maybe you're fortunate enough to be crossed with the grace of a Clint Eastwood. It got me thinking about time and -- some people call it kismet -- but I call it karma.

You see, it's like this. I set out on a path and the road sign said to join the Brownies when I was in primary four (fourth grade). I went down to school on a Saturday, and had the most fun snapping the other girls' training bras. One of them snapped, she went crying to the teacher, and I was told never to return to the Brownies. Then I took a wrong turn to the right and decided to check out the orchestra, but when I showed up the following Saturday, practice was off and I didn't know. I got back to the crossroads and realized I'd sold my soul to the wrong guy -- I wanted it to go to the highest bidder with the booze. So, the next week at school, a scenic route opened up when our literature teacher, Miss Eunice Choo, announced that she was recruiting for the softball team and anyone interested should come try out. You know the rest of this story. But if I hadn't tried out and fallen in love with the sport, I would never have played it through high school and have a group of beer buddies home in Singapore. I would never have joined the Singapore Recreational Club and met some of the best people I know today, or learned how to play mahjong. Then I never would have played catch with LP in college and be as honored as to be a part of her wedding this summer. Then I never would have worked as a umpire for Sportsmonster after college (the worst league in Chicago, let it be said) and then recruited to play on the Usual Suspects, where I met Mari, Sonny and Mario and then got recruited to Team Mojo where I met Sas, Urs and Joe, and, and... ya know, playing ball three to four times a week became as much of my life as the same street you bike down everyday.

Not to simplify things, but I think a significant part of my life would be so different if I had been a good girl and held hands and sang songs during Brownies instead of letting my fingers wander behind other people's backs. I would not have completed marathons and triathlons (because goddamn it, that's the rage among my softball chicks right now). I would not be as privileged or have the audacity as to claim two different hometowns. I would not be a Cubs fan and my heart would still be full of wonder and hope. All it took was a ball of yarn, 108 stitches, 22 ounces of aluminium and a heart on the sleeve. And, a place in time that you claim as your very own because you called the right shot, just like Babe Ruth did in our ballpark in Game 3 of the 1932 World Series.

The Rising and the Falling

2009-02-02T03:17:00.000-08:00

The best team effort at Super Bowl XLIII.

Bad Fed searching for his groove, changes need to be made uptown.

Good luck, good-bye -- DeRo gave due respect to the sacred second base position of our ballpark.

(Photo by Maureen Malloy)

The sports world as I know it is upside down, from the Northern Hemisphere to the South Pacific Rim. It was supposed to be my Super Sunday with a cherry on top, starting with the Australian Open men's singles championship and ending with Bruce Bowl. But this was the actual scientific chain of events, as it turned out in reverse: We got stuck in long lines everywhere at the Bangkok airport, so I could only follow the tennis match on Blackberry, refreshing every minute instead of watching at least some part of it with a cold Chang at the bar. I boarded the plane with the first two sets tied at one-all and as soon as we hit tarmac, I checked immediately (my fingers were trembling). So I knew what happened, I read all about it when I woke up. Then I watched the Super Bowl Half-Time Show. Then I read more tennis coverage. Then I watched the replay of the match while running at the gym.

But the story really begins in 1988. I was 11, had been playing softball for two years and was a big Dodgers fan. I watched Kirk Gibson hit a pinch two-run, game-winning homer with nothing but pure upper-body strength, barely able to stand on a swollen right knee and a brokedown left hamstring (which means that a sprained ankle or any other meangingless injury should never come between playing ball or tennis or trekking down a mountain) and he became my first true sports hero. In these same October playoffs, he had already made a full extension diving catch to rob the Mets' Mookie Wilson of a double after slipping on wet grass and hit enough clutch homers throughout the month for a Kate Spade purse collection. With the championship on the line and a thin bench, Gibson told Tommy Lasorda to put him in, coach, and he delivered like a FedEx van gassed by caffeine.

Having played softball and been a baseball fan for more than two-thirds of my life, I often believe that people should travel in packs of nine or 10 and that it takes two to make the dream come true, at minimum. Down in Tampa -- some call it Jungleland -- 'neath that giant Raymond James Stadium sign that brings this fair field pyrotechnics, there was an opera out on the catwalk as a ballet was being fought on the yards. Bruce Bowl started with the star quarterback leaning against the massive linebacker and ended with the QB passing back and forth with the coolest little running back as they tagged team all the way into the end zone. The fullback set the tempo, the first-string wide receiver played second guitar, the wide receiver pumped the bass lines, the punter put some kick into her fiddle, the super sub came in for a fallen blood brother (who was there like a spirit in the night), the special team came down the I-95 from the Turnpike and even the unnecessary cheerleader got some action. The thing is, when you've played together on the same team for 38 years, you don't even need a playbook. You look for the captain's finger in the air, you look for how long he's shaking his ass, you improvise on your formations and you back him up. Put it this way -- the Eli Manning-David Tyree play that won the Super Bowl last year? If that was performing music live, the E Street Team completes that pass night after night after night. You might not count on crashing into a camera, but you'd have accounted for it.

When Johnny Mac says Roger Federer really needs a coach to beat Rafael Nadal, I accept his wisdom without question because unquestionably, this is the most brilliant mind in tennis -- the Steve Stone of the sport. He's on his own and he can't go on -- he holds court perfection for 13 days and then breaks down at the feet of a face contortionist with Jose Canseco arms. His confidence level is lower than HGH percentages in Major League Baseball, he can't last five sets against a 22-year-old toro and worst, he's played the same strategy against Nadal for the last three years. It's not going to work because Nadal keeps getting better and Bad Fed is stuck like the Kennedy at 5pm during a blizzard. Why is he expending energy on genius first serves when he ends up with a high second serve percentage that undoubtedly saps precious juice needed to go distance? Why does he continually hit to Nadal's backhand, the equivalent of throwing a fastball down the middle to Manny Ramirez? His tentative winners and mis-judged net shots look like the 2006 (or 2005... or 1997... or...) Cubs and when he double-faulted and sailed wide sprays outside the lines to a massive fifth set derailment, well, that was Ryan Dempster in Game 1 of the 2008 National League Division Series after serving up a grand salami on Spacca Napoli pizza to James Loney of the Dodgers. It might be a men's singles game, but it's time to channel Rocky and find a Mickey. You'll never walk alone.

What I'm trying to say, if you've made it this far with me (Good job, team! Hut!), is that two of my biggest heroes made me cry at two extreme ends of Monday. At 9am, tears came to my eyes as they always do when Bruce came on. It's a kind of electricity that pulsates at the speed of a slinging 97mph Jeff Samardzija fastball through the soul when he turns the ignition to start a set, the very aura of his karmic charisma and the fact that him and his music stand for everything I believe in. The back bend, the stage slide, the swagger, the intensity, the clowning, the brilliance and the religion of rock & roll as it was always meant to be preached -- it's a real class act. At 5pm, as another class act fell short of the honor roll again, the ice man melted in the Melbourne humidity and started to cry steadily. I was getting on to my eighth mile running and without meaning to, I shocked myself when I began to sob as well. I had perspiration streaming down my face and a baseball hat pulled low, so you couldn't really tell, but I'll tell ya what -- salt on salt is double the sting. There was sweat and there were tears, so the only thing missing was blood (but that will come when we realize that Jake Peavy doesn't make a World Series champion, not when he comes from winning the Cy Young and 20 games in a litter box ball park with long dimensions and no lake breeze to loft the homers out). I was planning to hit 10 miles but I had to stop because you can't really breathe when you're heaving, thinking about trying to learn to walk like heroes we thought we had to be, and after this time to find out we're just like all the rest. That's a Springsteen lesson from an eight-minute record, and you ought to listen to a boss man who has never sent two true ballplayers to the Cleveland Indians to make payroll room for undeserving journeymen. Guys who would have taken a pay cut to stay on the team like Andre Dawson did in 1986 or accepted a blank contract like the Hawk did in 1987. Guys who were never ashamed to take the blame for a bad loss only to come back and win three games in return. Guys who loved the game, and you knew it from the way they conducted themselves in and out of uniform and the respect they gave to the fans and the best ballpark in America. Guys who made Chicago their home and still won't leave, even though we've thrown them out on the street -- it's been a bitter winter, one that started on October 1, 2008, and this team need a bailout bad.

So I stopped running while Roger continued to unravel and went to work on crunches to mask one kind of pain with another, but it didn't quite work because I don't have abs of steel (they're more like the swamps of Jersey). Instead, I found a sinking feeling in my gut that morbidly appreciated the fact that being a former Cubs fan meant my heart had already been sliced and diced in every way and fray, and I was out of dollar store duct tape. So I stopped crying and pulled the towel off my head and realized in the mirror that I was wearing a Cubs N.L.D.S. 2008 hat, which I had unknowingly grabbed from a pile of hats this morning. I mean, I have an avalanche of Cubs hats. It would cost a fortune to convert them all to Indians hats, or gear from my new American League project, the Kansas City Royals. I would have nothing to sleep in if I threw all my Cubs shirts into a bonfire. Then there's all this Cubs stuff people keep giving me -- a door mat from Ellen and Hope, a Cubby bear from LP, Pez dispenser from Toshiko, shopping bag from Beth, DeRo shirt, calendar, boxers and bracelet from Sas -- what a chore to have to go baseball team shopping again. (Mets blue light special in aisle sixty-nine, get your own Mr. Wright with every Johan Santana purchase!)

Old habits die harder than Ron Santo in fake legs and a toupee, so I'll finally admit that yes, despite what you might have been hearing from me, I wake up everyday and know exactly how many days it is until pitchers and catchers report to HoHoKam Park for spring training (10), how many days to Opening Day at Minute Maid Park in Houston (60), and yeah, they're still my team, even if I have to put up with Milton Bradley, our new Sammy Sosa, in the outfield. Roger is still my guy between the lines no matter how many hate messages and lusty jeers I get from Rafa riffraff about how he just got foreclosed on land he used to own. Because the only boss I listen to says forever friends on the backstreets until the end, to stand side by side each one fightin' for the other, and if I should fall behind, wait for me.

Da Doo Run Run

2008-12-14T06:32:00.000-08:00

A forced smile, but the thumbs-up is all heart. At this point, the knees had to be slathered with Deep Heat. Precautionary.

The final sprint.

When I was training for an aquathlon and triathlons earlier this year (soon, I will be starting that up again soon), swimming posed all sorts of challenges for me. I had to brush up on old middle-school-caliber championship strokes (yes, I have gold medals from swimming!) and I had to deal with working out without an iPod. I am hopelessly addicted and devoted to my iPod, perhaps because I am hopelessly addicted and devoted to music. I can't live without it. At any point in my life where I can be listening to music, I am. I fall asleep to music, I run errands to music, I hang out in all sorts of waiting areas to music. So, I had to force myself to meditate and concentrate while swimming, focusing on making each stroke good. I would count the number of strokes it took me to get from one end of the Olympic-sized 50-meter pool to another (approximately 35 when starting out, 48 when I'm tired). So, guided by voices, mostly my own in my head, I would practise and build stamina and endurance for 750 meters or 1.5km, whatever the event entailed.

I'm no Michael Phelps, I'm just kelp. Although I felt strong and confident at the starting line to the marathon last Sunday, it felt different. I wasn't excited like I was last year. I wasn't blah like with the half, but I just didn't feel like I wanted to surge across the start line. I guess when you throw in two major weddings of good, old friends, a silly marathon doesn't seem so much like flavor of the week (unlike the scotch and pecan ice cream I had last night). Last year, I remembered every significant moment and all the highs and low points of the run, even remembering which tracks came on my iPod at which particular point that inspired me or made a difference in my psyche. This year, everything was a blur. All I know is that I wanted to get to the finish point.

What I don't know and can't explain is this: I completed the race in 5:13:24. Last year, I trained pretty hard, missing only a couple of long runs here and there and finished in 5:00:03. I know I'm not fitter -- not in terms of body weight, anyway. I am about four or five pounds (!) heavier this year, but I improved in strength because I've steadily worked on a resistance program all year. My beer belly is definitely bigger. So perhaps, I'm better in overall physical capability. But what it goes to show is, what if I hadn't put on the extra weight and trained well (if I had remained injury-free)... would I have done even better than my target of 4:45?

I believe so. That's because I maintained a steady pace throughout the run, even though I started feeling gassed round about 13km. Fortunately, Dion joined me at the point and ran 21km with me on the East Coast Park loop, and kept me on pace. I was still going to finish at 4:45 when my right thigh suddenly buckled at 38.5km. That's not to say I wasn't laboring up to this point -- in my last 11km, I had to envision targets for myself in order to keep running. I looked out for every kilometer mark and when I hit that, I would look out for the drinks station sign. I kept myself pushing every 500m and very slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y counted down the kilometers. So when the thigh collapse happened, I had to sit on the sidewalk while my muscle throbbed to its heart's content. After about two minutes, I pushed myself up and tried to start running again. No dice -- cramp city. I ended up walking through 41km, and found something in the reserve tank to gun the engine for one slow jog for about 700 meters, then sprinted (!) the last leg.

This year, there were even fewer spectators and entertainers. It was downright boring. I think everyone expected more supporters since more of the run took place along the beach, but that was wishful thinking. There is just no support here for any kind of event -- people are jaded and are more concerned about a marathon not messing with their traffic route than the fact that this is a fantastic event and all runners really need the motivation to press on, especially if you're a schmuck like me. In Chicago, supporters are crammed every inch of the way, even in the most desolate segments of the route. I think it's telling that I received a barrage of well wishes from a tremendous number of friends all the way from Chicago, but didn't hear much from people here except for my family and a couple of friends. Nothing against anyone, just an indication of how non-plussed people are about things that don't involve their stock market investments and real estate purchases. Where's the passion for the finer things in life you can't buy with a checkbook!

I'm also working on a letter to the marathon organizers about the route. It blows my mind that Uniquely Singapore, our tourism board, is one of the sponsors, yet we have the most uninspiring route ever. Lots of people think of these as destination events -- wouldn't a route weaving through Chinatown, Little India, Kampong Glam, Katong and Geylang Serai be such an outstanding showcase for our country's heritage and attractions? How cool would it be -- in Chicago, the marathon snakes through more than 30 neighborhoods. From Boys Town (drag queens!) to Chinatown (lion dances!) to Pilsen (mariachi bands!) to Bridgeport (gangsta rap!), it's so much fun to run. You don't even think you're running. It's just one big city party. The fact is, Singapore won't bear the cost for closing down its streets for a marathon, because it doesn't make money like an F1 race. Ya know, all this is bullshit. No wonder people here won't give more than a shit about the year's marquee marathon event.

I'll get off the podium now, because that's only reserved for champs, not chumps. I actually feel happy to have completed two marathons, considering the second went as well as it could for my level of preparation. We had fantastic weather, actually, and I managed to run a hell of a lot more than last year. I had trouble walking and the minute I stepped under the shower, I realized I had lubed everywhere but between my butt cheeks, so that meant major crack chafing which lasted for 24 torturous and excruciating hours. I went for a massage which really, really helped me walk again, then got drunk on sambuca shots, whiskey and champagne at Aiwei and Zull's wedding party that night at Velvet Underground (more to come on that this week!). Fortunately, as a ball player hanging out with some of my greatest friends here, we earned the right to park ourselves on the edge of the buffet table and at a bottleneck so the booze waitress always had to stop by us. I was out like a light by 11pm and slept for 12 hours.

Thanks to everyone for your excellent support and advice, although I feel completely undeserving of it. I believe I promised to run a marathon with Mofo and one with Jiggy and a half marathon with Rich and Laurie and god knows what else I have said over beers. Can we try to consolidate, please?

(Yes, I have one more marathon in me. It will be in Chicago. I am devoting the rest of my life to half marathons around the world -- Dion and I are planning to run the Angkor Wat Half Marathon next year!).

It's About Time

2008-12-06T04:11:00.000-08:00

Powered by Mom.

Look out for me if you're running, an adidas Inspirator! If I can complete a marathon, so can you!

I'm not one to do things differently. I like routine, so maybe that's why I like non-competitive running. You run, you listen to more or less the same playlist, and you try to go farther each time (OK, so the only competition is with myself). I like knowing how each day will start and end and the game plan for getting from wake up to wind down.

This year, I prepared for the Singapore Standard Chartered Marathon I am not ready to run in another way. I did not make many of my long runs, due to minor injuries I did not want to aggravate, travel, a cold and bad excuses I'm not proud of (just a few). I may be better conditioned with the number of triathlons I trained for, but I feel like I don't have the same super powers I do when I boxed regularly. I'm a little stronger, but I think I'm also a couple of pounds heavier. So, I don't know what to expect tomorrow. Instead of pasta, I ate my mom's amazing keong chou (braised pork in sweet vinegar sauce) with rice for dinner. Instead of resting, I was honored to be a part of Aiwei and Zull's amazing traditional Malay wedding (after completing Kat and Greg's historically significant, society-moving-and-shaking matrimonials last weekend). However, tomorrow I will be wearing exactly what I wore last year, save for the running tights (one of my downfalls was a new pair of tights that proved too tight by the 30th km -- this pair will be well-seasoned and comfortable), socks (new abrasion-free adidas Formotion ones!), shoes (well, of course the same pair from last year couldn't have lasted this long -- these are the adidas adizero Tempos). I'm not wearing my mellow yellow gear because it got stuck in Bangkok and the replacement top doesn't fit me. I guess no one figures for a ball player to run marathons. Instead of a Cubs bandana, I will be wearing my Beijing 2008 hat to start, switch to my Cubs retro hat one-third of the way when I see my folks for the first time, then finish up with the 2008 Cubs National Division Central Champs hat when I see them again. My running playlist will remain exactly the same, because I want Bruce juice pumping through my ears and blasting some serious gray matter into pieces.

I ran my last couple of times this week, a four-miler and a three-miler, both with ease. As with most of my short runs, I don't really get excited until I start sprinting the last mile-and-a-half or so. So, that's a good sign -- I'm running normal and feeling normal. It's a little harder remembering how I felt when I did my last long run, which was about five weeks ago and 18 miles. But I know it went by seamlessly and a great confidence booster.

Tomorrow, I'll just run. I'll start slow and try to maintain a 65-minute pace for every 10km, which will help me achieve my target of 4:45. But I won't kill myself getting there, because I have 10 days of the Annapurna Base Camp trail waiting at the end of the month. Sas reminded me that I once ran 18 miles of the Chicago Marathon without training. I'll have to keep that in mind. I'll also be thinking of Ah Ma, who I miss tremendously still.

I know it's late, we can make it if we run.

They Call Me Mellow Yellow

2008-11-23T22:48:00.001-08:00

Finally, sponsored by adidas!

Lance Armstrong is back in competitive cycling. That's a crock of bullshit, if you ask me. The guy is an egomaniac and he loves attention, and he loves that this announcement is giving his various causes and foundations a huge publicity and financial boost. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing -- good for cancer research and anyone else who'll benefit. But it doesn't do too much for professional cycling -- if he falls short of previous achievements, there'll be speculations over how far Lance has fallen without 'roids -- if he took them. Can he return to his former form? He'll gain my respect if so. But only if he can wipe the smirk off his face.

Other recent yellow jerseys haven't been all that impressive either, in my opinion. Usain Bolt is an amazing sprinter and his Olympian achievements will do a lot to raise the spirits of his fellow Jamaicans in so many ways. But to showboat 10 meters from the finish line? The 100-meter dash is a sport in which every sprinter learns to dip their heads while making a last surge to come in first or break a record across the finish line. I think every sprinter should keep their head down, no matter how far ahead you are of the pack. Even individual events aren't individual competitions. You wouldn't win if you were the only participant. Lightning bolts fall from the sky, but they also hit the ground hard.

A month ago, I received an e-newsletter from adidas, one of the main sponsors of the Standard Chartered Singapore Marathon, announcing a call for entries for Inspirators. If you had an inspiring story about how you came to sign up for the marathon or became a runner, you could submit it for a chance to win a contest and a full running kit for the Big Day -- dressed head to toe in adidas yellow, like an adrenalized banana. A local actor, Randall Tan, is the top banana Inspirator, recovering from a condition that left him almost paralyzed a few years short of his doctor-prescribed recovery time. Me, well, my humble little old submission was:

"In 1996, I smashed my left patella into a steel pole diving for a pop foul during a softball game, killing a mass of nerves in my joint. The doctor advised against long-distance stress on an achy knee full of malfunctioning cartilage. That's OK, I was always an athlete, but not a runner. In 2002, I decided to try running short distances and managed to muster 5km in 45 minutes. Using a self-devised training program in which I set new time targets while gradually increasing distance, I hit 22 minutes by 2004 and now complete 8km in 40 minutes and 10km in 54 minutes. In 2006, I agreed to pace my great friend Maureen in the Chicago Marathon for 5km and ended up running 30km without training. Last year, I completed my first marathon in 5:00:03 and this year, I'm shooting for 4:45."

I'm kind of stressed and encouraged by the fact that I am supposed to be inspiring and motivating people to keep going on December 7, based on the fact that I am currently still stuck at two long runs only. I plan to run 30km on Wednesday, although I am supposed to be tapering already. I need to know I can do it, since there is no way I am going to build stamina and strength at this point in time. But just to know I can do it. Hopefully, since I have some sort of a designated role as Inspirator, I'm going to be able to keep going on some kind of adrenaline and Lance Armstrong-esque trip. When I cross the finish line though, I won't be slowing down and showboating. I will be holding up two fingers for my second completed marathon, I'd probably be yelling "Fuck yeah!" and I'll do something to chalk up yet another dorky finish line shot. But I'd also be humbled, because there would have been many more who overcame greater adversity to cross that line, and plenty who crossed it in a much more classy and admirable fashion than I would be.

When you bleed Cubbie blue under adidas yellow, you know the meaning of humility very well.

A Love Note

2008-11-11T06:21:00.000-08:00

Bruges by night -- magical. Believe all of what you see.

I got mussels.

Fries backed up by bikes.

The goods.

Dear Belgium,

You are not like the other European countries and cities I've visited or know about. You're not a dream destination like Paris or Tuscany or Barcelona or Rome or London. Big things don't come out of you -- you don't make headlines. Your president isn't married to a French chanteuse and paparazzi doesn't stalk your royalty. Your football teams don't produce hooligan fans, your football stars don't get paid off by the mafia and your football teams aren't champions. When people think of you, they don't think state-of-the-art, glorified worldly icons like the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, the Alps, La Scala, the Mona Lisa, the Acropolis, the Sistine Chapel, the Colosseum or Michelin stars.

Oh no, you're not. You have some pretty hot stuff, but you either keep your head down or look on straight, because humility runs in your canals (who says only Venice and Amsterdam have pretty drainage systems?) and if you were any warmer by nature, all your chocolates would morph into fondue. Chocolates. People think of you when they think chocolates, because you're sweet like that. When people think of food, they also think of your mussels, shellfish scraped from the bottom of the ocean, and fries, potato dunked in hot burning beef or duck oil. You drink beer. A lot of it. But ya know, you're so insanely and fearlessly proud of your cuisine, second only to the pride for your beer. You love eating and drinking organic and you love giving back to the good earth -- you have more vegetarian restaurants than most other European cities. Actually, you do have some pretty damned fine cuisine, but you don't like bragging about it. You love brewing your beers in abbeys and monasteries, proving what we all believed to be the greatest philosophy in life's little pleasures -- beer is a religion.

You bike everywhere and navigate cobblestones like Tony Stewart at Talledega. In fact, in Antwerp, they built a half-mile long walkway under the river so everyone could bike underwater. Biking is your national sport, followed by tennis, and you idolize Justine Henin and Kim Clijsters. You let your people jump on subways and trams for free, so that the ticket machine is like a two-handed backhand in Roger Federer's repertoire.

And you have your share of UNESCO World Heritage, knock 'em dead landmarks as well. The Grand Place in Brussels. Your very own World's Fair item of kitsch, the Atomium. Picturesque canals in Bruges. Serene beguinhofs. A vivacious display of Art Nouveau everywhere you turn turn turn, thanks to Victor Horta. Flemish primitives who perfected the art of oil painting using brushes with just one strand of hair. You idolize the statue of a little boy taking a piss on the street, Manneken Pis. I think that's you telling the rest of the world to piss off -- when ya gotta go, ya gotta go. Too much beer.

I love going from Paris to Belgium and almost getting a rude shock because suddenly, I'm thrust into a world of friendly Europeans who strive to speak English so they may get to know you better. I love how your barkeeps know every one of the hundreds of beers they pour and serve tenderly, like a child. I love how the frituur has 50 sauces for your cone of frites and tries to shove as many as he can into your package -- screw miniscule European servings. I love that each beer you brew has its own serving glass and goblet, to maximize the taste and experience. Your dedication makes wine lovers look Little League.

When I wrote postcards from Bruges while nursing an Orval Trappiste, and tried to convey how I fell in love with you twice as hard on this second visit, I suddenly realized why. You're just like Chicago. You have cozy taverns where you huddle with your friends in conversations (although I wish light and domestic beers were banned in my kinda town), you have amazing restaurants where local chefs hold their own with local produce. You're understated because you know you have the goods, but why flaunt like New York and Los Angeles? You play it cool -- you're the seat of the European Union, but how many people know that? You're the kind of European city where someone could say, "I could live here" but not under the influence of fanciful romantic dreams and Hollywood movie ideals. You have staying power, that's what you have. And that's not beer goggles talking. You're more than a one night stand.

A bientot ma cher Belgique,

Your beer buddy

(See my trip to Bruges and Brussels!)

100

2008-10-28T23:58:00.000-07:00

Me and Sas flexin' it like LP. Yet another ChrisKoh contest brought to you by Chubby Cones Ice Cream.

One hundred, or 100, or C, is a very painful number. Yes, it's been 100 years since a Cubs World Series championship. It's also the number of strikes my high school pitcher Shulin had to throw before we could join the rest of the team for batting and field drills each practice (Hey! Guess why my knees are fucked up!). And thanks to Shannon, who makes the best homemade ribs this side of West Town and muddles the most poisonous mojitos, it's now how many push-ups I should be able to pound out consecutively at the end of six weeks.

Although I'm pleased with how my endurance level has built up quite nicely despite a late, jaded and star-crossed start to marathon training, I still believe my general fitness is down a few notches from a year ago. Boxing in my life was key to powerful bursts of strength and stamina, and I feel like I'm not quite as strong or spry as I used to be. I plan on boxing regularly again once the marathon is over -- oh, how I miss my LPAC boxing team! -- and returning to the point when bumping 10 in-between combos didn't even crease my brow. And yes, it's true. Boxing regulates beer belly growth spurts.

So, here's the first step in my rehabilitation. This program can be found at http://www.hundredpushups.com/, a site designed by Steve Speirs based on a push-ups template by Andreas Viklund. I know some of you will be interested in this -- Joe? Rich S.? I know LP wants 100 pull-ups. After taking an initial test to determine the maximum number of push-ups you can do, you embark on a six-week journey during which, if you're not a regular push-upper, you'll never have seen the floor in such close proximity in your life before. You do three sets every week, preferably spaced out with a day in between, then every other week you'll take a test to check on your progress and to determine where you stand for the next couple of weeks. In my time, I have seen spit, I have seen sweat, I have seen some blood, I have seen unshaved female legs and I've even seen jock straps just inches from my nose. So I felt pretty good about starting this journey with 25 push-ups at a go (knowing I could've gone a couple more at least if I hadn't been lazy), which put me in category 3. Steve says that this is "impressive" and suggests that people in this category start the program in week three. No thanks, but I still slung my usual smugness about and started day one last Monday with a wink and a lop-sided grin and Elvis blasting ("Suspicious Minds").

Well, Week 1's first set was 10, 12, seven, seven and then maximum push-ups with a minimum of nine with 60 seconds of rest separating each round. I went through the first four rounds easily, although I started to break a sweat in the third and after I went through the second round of seven, I actually said out loud, "Well, who would've thought? Jesus christ." And I had to take a big breath before I plunged into my final round, which found my arms shaking as I eked out the final four push-ups for a total of 11. That's when I said "Jesus fucking christ" and got my comeuppance as I realized, as I always should have, to never take things for granted. Time to get back to my corner and ponder my next move.

But before that, I woke up with sore shoulders and a dull ache in my sockets the next day. It's the kind of blah pain that comes after skipping boxing for three weeks (I'm afraid of how it will feel when I get back in the ring again). I said to Shannon, "Dude, what have you gotten me in to? This shit is tough." Her response: "I bet you found muscles you never thought you had." Shannon is up to 42 consecutive push-ups in her fourth week. Wow, dude.

Today I face 10/12/8/8/max (with a minimum of 12). Dion, who can already do 100 consecutive push-ups as a consequence of being able to bench-press 160 pounds plus an LOLcat on each barbell, scoffs and says it's nothing. I'll be chronicling the next six weeks and I'll let you know.

She Chafed At The Thought Of A Marathon In Six Weeks

2008-10-26T23:31:00.000-07:00

Because you don't want to see where I'm chafed, a picture of my misshapen toes and striated and veined foot is less frightful.

Large calves that look like football players for sale!

Lots of things hurt. The Cubs. Death of a grandmother. Not seeing good friends for more than a year. Innocent deaths. War. A torn medial collateral ligament. A hairline fracture in the ankle. A softball hit in the eye. The continued draconian and incomprehensive rule of the G.O.P.

A lot of people mistakenly believe that it's tough to complete a marathon. It is, but it's not the toughest part of the game. The most challenging part about running a marathon is the training. If you're a decent runner, the first 65 percent of your training program won't break too much of a sweat, with regular runs ranging between six to eight miles and long runs averaging about 12 miles. But when you're about six weeks away from the race, like I am, you start to wonder why the hell you put yourself through the rigormorole of running 15 miles continuously for three hours (with more to come, with 16- and 20-mile runs to put in before I finally begin to taper). Because I'm a wimp, I do it on the treadmill while watching the World Series. It's still not the most inspiring thing though. Running by your lonesome self (unless you count Chase Utley, B.J. Upton, Carlos Pena, John Maddon and friends as running mates) is a drag and a sign, and that's not all. I went through six different versions of "Born to Run" on my trek yesterday and by the last one (1976 "Live at Hammersmith"), it did pep me up a little but I could barely fist pump like I usually do during "Tramps like us..." Motivation. Easy come, easy go.

Can you see why running a marathon is fun now? Once you get into tapering, the excitement really builds up. It's the same buzz I'm hopping around on the morning of a softball playoffs game, the afternoon of a Bruce show or the evening before a race. You can't sleep, you can't still and you keep thinking about the beer after. Apart from the fact that I'll most likely put in no more than five long runs (!) by the time the marathon rolls around this year, I'm pleased with my training success. With a marathon, three sprint triathlons and two biathlons under my belt, I've become pretty adept at rationing my water, isotonic drink and Shot Block intake and supply. I listen to my body well, so when it says "Fuck off, freak" I know that I have to wait a day or two before gearing up for a 15-mile run, even though it screws up my schedule (I had to miss Sunday morning softball practice to go the distance because I only have four miles in me Friday -- muscles were screaming and fatigue was on the Mexican Riviera). So, I have no soreness or aches after long runs. I feel really good, actually, and today I plan to run eight the day after 15. In fact, I could've played tennis in the afternoon after my morning run, if not for the fact that my pitcher Chris threw 120 pitches at practice and was done. All this, I believe, is the result of taking better care of an over-30 body with proper stretching and better nutrition, which includes a strict abolition of light and domestic beers.

Despite my sound (I hope) preparation, I always overlook one easy detail while training, which is the stupidest thing I can ever do. I forget the Vaseline. Which means that when I turned on the shower yesterday, I knew exactly which parts of me hurt like a bitch whose left cheek just met Oscar de la Renta's boxing glove. To be painfully precise, the top part of my chest, under my breasts, in between my ass cheeks, my beer belly and the sides of my hips. These are all vital parts that come in contact with the hems of my various running gear, such as sports bra and tights. There's nothing stuffed in my butt, apart from my head, but I guess it means I have a large ass.

There's still enough time for the big hurt to hit, but when I'm not wondering are we there yet in the first hour of a 15-mile run (2:45 completion yesterday), I'm really enjoying the apres-training experience. Plastic cup re-filled with Brewerkz pilsners and ales and stouts each time it got down to half full, two dinners (a cookout and my mom's divine creations), chocolate cake richer than Bill Gates for dessert... the only thing that hurt last night was betting $500 at Texas Hold'em thinking I had a straight when I was missing a card. What to do but to fill up the beer cup again?

"I Listen To Bands That Don't Even Exist Yet"

2008-10-18T01:33:00.000-07:00

Threadless shirts -- Chicago on your chest!

Diversity: 4/7

For the last 12 years or so, I've been an annual subscriber to 10 magazines. They are Sports Illustrated, Entertainment Weekly, Rolling Stone, Vanity Fair, The New Yorker, National Geographic Traveler, Arthur Frommer's Budget Travel, Time Out Chicago, Chicago, Vineline (official magazine of the Chicago Cubs) and most recently, All About Beer. You would be an idiot to look into my mailbox and not know what kind of person I am. And that's why my life is an open book, perhaps because at my old place on Addison in Chicago, most magazines can't fit into my mailpigeonhole together with the letters and Netflix, so my mailman leaves them on the floor.

The reason why I pay over a hundred bucks each year to read about film, music, beer, the city of Chicago, the world through Manhattan eyes, the world through travelers and the Cubs is because I'm obsessively passionate about too many things. Puckett once called me a Renaissance Girl, but honestly, the worst situation I can imagine is sitting on a couch with nothing to think about. You might think I am a snob and I am. I detest conformity. I select my Hollywood viewing selection carefully -- "The Dark Knight" is great, but I won't watch "Transformers," no matter how fantastic the CGI or screenplay because I don't believe Steven Spielberg has had a new trick since Jaws snapped its jaws, just new technology to play with. I love "Charlie's Angels," because McG is a brilliant director who offers the pop culture nerd a crossword puzzle of references under the boobs and booties. Instead of mindlessly sifting through "Mamma Mia!" and whatever cinematic confection of the moment, how about gems like "Once," "Juno" and "The Orphanage"?

I hate listening to radio. From the Clear Channel takeover of American wavelengths to the schmaltz in Singapore, one thing is pretty clear -- I'd take Alan Freed and Payola anyday over the commercial crap public listening is subject to. Whatever happened to media as a channel for disseminating new, groundbreaking ideas and art forms? I went to Gramaphone Music the other day and asked for the new Ray LaMontagne record. After a few awkward quizzical looks, the salesperson brought me "Til The Sun Turns Black". Nope, that's Ray's second record; his new one is "Gossip In The Grain" featuring that fantastic Sam and Dave-inspired "You Are The Best Thing" first single. In a world where Gwen Stefani, Sean Kingston, Rhianna, Chris Brown and worst, the faux jazz impersonators Michael Buble and Peter Cincotti, are rotated like they're the very best music can offer and the best producers can do is sample past brilliance, why not check out some of 2008's most amazing releases by The Black Keys, She & Him, James Hunter and The Wood Brothers? Yeah, Bruce Springsteen I know is not the most unconventional music to be listening to. But only if you've never listened to "We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions," "Devils & Dust," "Nebraska," "The Ghost of Tom Joad" and "Magic." (It's OK if you skipped "Lucky Town" and "Human Touch.")

A few months ago, I wrote an email to the programming manager for ESPN Asia. I said, why the fuck (not verbatim) are you showing Yankees and Red Sox games every goddamned weekend when the Cubs are (um, were) ruling the National League, the Rays are the most exciting thing to happen to professional baseball in decades and we've had the most interesting wildcard chase since the system started? Why are we subjected to Yankees-Mariners games, the most boring and worst teams in the 2008 season and if I had to see the mugs of Pedroia, Ortiz, Matsuzaka and Crisp one more time, I would personally reach in and tear the Green Monster down. The response? "Because our fans like the Yankees and Red Sox." That's right, keep dumbing down baseball, one of the most intelligent games in the world. If you're going to devote airtime to baseball, do it right -- one ad for baseball features an animated Cincinnati Reds player, presumably Corey Patterson. I appreciate the faith, but the entire Reds line-up this year is as accurate a representation of the sport as Michael Jordan. I think baseball had an amazing run in September, so much so that we had to extend the month by one more day with a playoff game between the Sox and the Twins to see who would win the American League Central Division. ESPN Asia did not think it necessary to air that matchup, so bless you, MLB TV.

I'm sorry, this wasn't meant to be a rant but sometimes, it's frustrating to spend time in a culture where you buy donuts when there's a donut fad, where you buy bubble tea because everyone is drinking it, where you're burning dollars with whatever's hot until the next craze hits Fahrenheit 451. I wish more people would try to be their own person instead of a sugar cookie made with Pillsbury dough from the cutter. It's fun to say how you really feel, rather than something that would buy you brownie points. It's fun to be different. Even "Sesame Street" says so, and those muppets know best.

Marathon Musings

2008-10-15T06:29:00.000-07:00

Dionnie, powered by Powerbar.

Running like a champion.

Bling.

However, this is the kind of bling I'm talking about.

My heart is bursting at the seams right now. And that's not because it's been pieced back to its normal optimism-pumping, full-blooded, ketchup-red self since the National League Division Series. It's because I know many people who completed marathons on Sunday, and behind every finish line is a great, great story and an even greater person.

Congratulations to my little brother Dion, who stands tall with yet another huge achievement -- third marathon, both Melbourne races under 4:45 (he would have done well last December in the Singapore Marathon if not for the knee injury). Battling winds and running alone, he didn't make his first stop until past 30km. He didn't train as hard as he ought to have, opting to pump iron instead of jumpstarting his legpower. Didn't matter, he still crossed at 4:43:50, with the bling and fucked-up ankles to show for it. Three marathons in two years. Beat that. And then kiss his aching ankles.

Congratulations to Mofo and Denise, who returned to the Chicago Marathon with a vengeance after last year's heat and logistics debacle. Mofo came very close to five hours this year with 5:04:34 -- great job for someone who completed her first at the six-hour mark two years ago. You don't just drop an hour from your 26.2-mile time without a lot of determination and improvement in fitness. She says she didn't train like she ought to as well. Who needs training when you're already pretty much there? Fantastic job.

Congratulations to Nima, who ran her second race in two years (San Francisco last year). She didn't make her 4:30 target because she had a tough run, but she raised more than $2,000 for the American Cancer Society. And to Matoula who also ran her second Chicago race in two years and finished in a fine 6:30:17 at no less than 46 years of age. More than that, she ran for the Children's Memorial Hospital.

Congratulations to my boxing buddy Tom McKone, who completed in 3:30:07. What the fuck, Rocky? And to my other boxing buddy Tom Labadie, who completed in 4:25:24. Boxing keeps you in excellent shape, let that be a lesson to all you kids out there. One of the greatest sports, art on canvas.

Congratulations to Bernie, who is again one of those who "didn't train", but still finished in 6:12:29. If I know you and you ran and I didn't know, I'm sorry. But you know I would have been thinking of you and cheering you on and you're part of the elite team always.

Look at me. Do I look like a marathon runner to you? No. I do not. I know that. I look like a beer-swigging softball player who plays tennis on the side and ping pong for a night job. And I'm one. I'm not a marathon runner. I can complete marathons and enjoy training for one and running one, but I'm not a marathon runner the way I can play ball or other sports that I'm genuinely good at.

After miraculously completing the Army Half Marathon in a decent time of 2:25-something or other with a strained left calf, I have been falling apart and tripping over every limb akimbo. My calf never healed and suddenly, my right knee started to hurt for no apparent reason, unless I've been tripping over home plate in the fence-clearing shots I'm hitting in my dreams. Imagine starting to run and being hit by pain up and down your legs for 10 minutes before it stretches itself out or motion numbs everything away. As usual, I refuse to make excuses because I keep finding dumb reasons to not execute my long runs each weekend (fatigue, watching postseason baseball, reading in bed, loser), but I did consider trying not to hyperextend my injuries. Just for shits and giggles, my elbow acted up last week illogically while I worked on some resistance training. So I rested for half a week, working out on alternate days while I attended a course, enforced at least eight hours of sleep each night like a draconian boarding schoolmaster and guess what? I have had the best training week ever.

It's only Wednesday, granted, but my completely pain-free 10k on Monday was a lovely and long overdue surprise. I never want to try figure out how my body works because I can't. I can't explain why I'll stick to a good nutrition plan for the week but only drop pounds after a night of too much pizza, wings and beer. So I don't bother and when I have a 100 percent enjoyable run, I'm not going to ask questions. I did another 10k today and had so much fun. I've also finally clicked into training mindset. I really should be halfway through my program right now, but in a way, I'm only just starting since I've had no long runs completed since the Army race. But I'm in a great place -- I'm enjoying watching baseball as I run (more if the Dodgers buck up), I'm thinking wonderful thoughts like, what will be the first beer I drink back in Chicago? When will I see Bruce again? Shall I attempt to run a different marathon in a different country each year? Will I ever write a book on pancakes? Ya know, fantasies. One day, I'd like to be able to lock down mentally and zone in on karmic breathing techniques but until then, I need Bruce, Ritter, PBJ, Cash and all sorts of crazy shit blasting gray matter between my ears.

Lots of people declare they will never be able to run a marathon. Six years ago, I would have told you to eat shit and die if you even suggested I attempt one. I'm eating crow sandwich with all the trimmings now. So, believe in yourself, even if you're done believing in North Side baseball. (But don't stop believing.)

Good luck Maribel at the Dublin Marathon, less than two weeks away! Swimming pools of Guinness await at the finish line.

Thanks to our friends at dialoperatorplease.blogspot.com for Dion's finish line shots!

When Your Heartstrings Break

2008-10-05T02:26:00.000-07:00

Goodbye, 2008 season.

When you are a Cubs fan, you belong to a brotherhood and sisterhood of fellow irrationalists who live and die by the team, even though they know better. They know that the team does not play by sensible logic or abide by natural statistics, mathematical renderings this sport of physical mechanisms loves to calculate for everything from walks per nine innings pitched to on-base-percentage ratios. No, I'm not talking about the Trixies who flood the bleachers in pink bikinis or the Midwestern frat boys who love to wear their Cubs hats backwards while double-fisting.

I'm talking about my good friend and fantastic print artist Dan Grzeca, who a few moments after he was born, received a verbal apology from his grandfather who was sorry that he would have to raise his descendant a Cubs fan. My good friend Jill Morino, who has never forgiven the Cubs for breaking her grandfather's heart in 1984, but will find it in her soul to forgive. Andrew Decker, who is a walking almanac of Cubs facts and statistics covering a significant portion of the last century. Sonny Beta, for whom "Go Cubs Go" was played recently at his mom's funeral and whose daughter is named Adycin, a play on Addison Street. Edgar Rico, Kevin Kelly, Rich Morino and Maria Sanchez, four sports fan friends whom I often watch games with and while they have some of the best managerial minds I know and offer the smartest criticisms of the team, still find room for a soft spot somewhere in the carnage that goes for the Cubular. Jennifer Walker, Chicago superfan. Then there are those who believe with me until the very end, defying the very same logic our team can't seem to take advantage of -- Sara Christensen, Maureen Malloy, Julie Swartz, Joelle Gentner, Joanne Puckett, Ryan Puckett. Even my great sports buddy Lindsay Peterson was yelling at the Cubs to fucking buck up. And she is a Cardinals fan.

This season, we accomplished the following:

- Won our division by a resounding 11.5 games over the Milwaukee Brewers one week before the season ended

- Had the second best record in Major League Baseball (97-64), which was the best record in the National League

- Had five players hit 20 homers or more

- Had three pitchers who won 15 or more games

- Have a probable Rookie of the Year candidate in Geovany Soto

We had great stories, like coming back from being down 8-1 against Colorado in the eighth inning to win in extra innings. Ryan Dempster converted back to a starter from closer and won 17 games, while Kerry Wood converted from starter to closer -- after many years of arm injuries -- to earn 33 saves, a National League leader. (Wood has been a Cub all his life, and turned down multi-year offers from other teams for a one-year contract to remain a Cub -- this, my friends, is what Cub-dom is all about, heartwarmth together with the heartbreak.) From the first day of of the 2008 season to the last day of September, we all knew we had a different team this year. We had a Cubbie swagger, we blew threw cities with our brand of big and small ball, strong starting pitching and an airtight (mostly) bullpen. Even when we lost six in a row in early September, the longest and only losing streak all season, everyone said not to hit the panic button. They were willing to LOL off the warning signs of lackluster offense and poorly executed play. We were the team that was going to win the World Series, the first time in 100 years. We also were the team with the most curses -- how many sports teams do you know have a black cat curse, a billy goat curse, a Bartman curse (Google "Steve Bartman Cubs" if you want to know, it's too hard to explain) and currently, a century curse? Before the playoffs began, we had synagogues pray for us, we had a priest sprinkle holy water on our dugout and we had Muslim fans gather outside the ballpark to pray for us. You see, Chicago Cubs baseball is a religion. Whatever happens to the team hits the core of each of us.

And that's why, the fairy tale wasn't supposed to end this way.

I thought we would beat the Dodgers easily. Since I grew up idolizing the Dodgers, I typical follow the team and know them well. Basically, the Cubs and Dodgers are usually the same team. Great on paper, failure to execute in key situations, particularly in converting baserunners into runs. However, this year the Cubs were not the Cubs we always knew as losers, so I felt we had a good chance of going to the National League Championship Series. We had Ryan Dempster, who was unbeatable at home all season start game one. He had the jitters and he put us in a hole after giving up a grand slam to James Loney that we never climbed back of. In game two, each of our infielders made an error -- first time in National League Division Series history -- that we never had the spirit to overcome. Tonight, we got swept by the Dodgers in one of the most beautiful ballparks in the country, Dodger Stadium at Chavez Ravine. We got out-pitched, but in typical Cubs fashion (again, not the team we were used to this year), we managed to out-hit them eight to six yet we still lost 3-1. Many of us knew we wouldn't make it after losing the first two home games. The 2008 team kept insisting we weren't the same as the 2007 team, which also got swept in last year's N.L.D.S. by the Diamondbacks. But we are. We looked like Joe Six-Pack on the outside but inside, we really were Joe Beer Belly. Our core was weak.

If you're not a Cubs fan, you might be asking right now, "What the fuck?" I hope the above helps to answer your question, although I wouldn't fault you if you're still scratching your head. You might even wonder, rightly so, why we continue to follow and subject ourselves to panic attacks and heartbreak? I've been a Cubs fan for 12 years and I still haven't figured it out. But maybe the following words from my fellow Cubs buddies might help:

Deck: "As a Cubs fan, we are doomed to believe."

Rich: "We are not supposed to believe in curses, but you have to wonder if the pressure of being the team that breaks through is too much."

Scottie: "I think that's why we might be more tortured than most fans. Even the defeatists have that hope. Most fans would have figured out something else by now."

Ryan: "You gotta BELIEVE!"

Edgar: "The life of a Cub fan... no matter how upset/mad we are or how some of us feel like it's over, deep inside, we still have that die-hard faith."

Jen Walker: "Can someone let me know why I torture myself?"

When we lost game 2, many of my friends took a shot of something strong and went to bed (although they all woke up with something fierce), but I had to make it through the rest of the day. I was almost in tears of frustration and sadness, and I was numb and dumbfounded. I refused to answer IMs and it was an excruciating 48 hours until the final game in L.A. which I couldn't watch, since I was at the very successful launch of The Lens Men Eye Care-a-Van. (At least I had something going for me.) I turned off the Blackberry so I wouldn't know how the game turned out until I could get home and watch it in its entirety. After the Dodgers scored two in the bottom of the first inning off Rich Harden and his 1.77 regular season E.R.A., I probably should've done what Joelle did -- turn off the T.V. and go to bed, and wonder if she would wake up either ecstatic or depressed. I was back to my Cubbie optimistic self, thinking that with Harden and Ted Lilly pitching games 3 and 4, we would have a great shot in winning two and bringing the N.L.D.S. home.

Now, I will return to rooting for the Dodgers even as my fellow fans and I look for everything possible to mend the broken hearts. Beer, whiskey, duct tape, elephant glue, Band-Aid, rubber band, angioplasty, stitches, whatever. It won't be easy and it's a long winter ahead.

Purple Pedalin'

2008-09-28T02:49:00.000-07:00

Wheelpower. Everyone's gotta have one.

Thank you YahooOOooOOooOOoo!

Genius gray matter between two handlebars.

Fat tire (not beer).

More gray matter in a box.

I learned how to ride a bike in a most Rocky Balboa way. My dad taught me how to ride one, of course, when I made the transition from tricycle to two wheels with two little wheels hinged on either side of the bike tire, which is like bowling with the gutters up. On one of my evening bike rides to the park, one of the little wheels fell over and after giving me some time to get used to a slight imbalance, it was Ye Ye who yanked off the other wheel and sent me careen down a little slope for the first time ever on a real bicycle (as Ah Ma shouted for me to be careful and was there after the inevitable crash). Gotta fly now.

Most people get themselves a car after college graduation, in a symbol of freedom and readiness to take on the world. I bought myself a bicycle, still the same Specialized I whizz around Chicago in. I rode it downtown to work when I was a Ketchumite and rode it uptown to coffee shops, softball games, bars and festivals. As time went on, I became more and more reliant on my bike, for the sheer pleasure of feeling a summer breeze, the efficiency of getting places without having to look for parking or quarters and soon, the rationalization of saving gas. I have never minded showing up a little damp without the opportunity for make-up and having to lug a messenger bag around for the wonderful opportunity of watching the city scenery roll by. Life is beautiful from 15 miles per hour.

A few weeks ago, my good softball buddy Cheng asked if I would like to ride a bike and take pictures for Yahoo!, where she works. If so, they would send me an Electra Cruiser outfitted with a Nokia N95 cameraphone mounted in-between the handlebars. For every 60 seconds the bike is in motion, a picture would be taken and immediately uploaded to Flickr via a GPS system. This all would be powered by a control panel mounted on the back of the bike, which also houses a solar panel to allow the bike to charge as it transports in daylight. Pretty cool, huh?
Of course I said yes and last week, Wheelpower arrived. There has been a satellite bug we've had to deal with but the amazing technology and ingenuity of Yahoo!'s Jason Anello makes this an extremely cool project. It's part of Yahoo!'s Start Wearing Purple campaign, in which the company is trying to flood the world with its brand of purple. Some people wear purple clothes, some wear purple shoes, and I'm one of about 30 in the world from Vermont, San Diego, New York and San Francisco to Sydney, London and Stockholm to ride a purple bike. And I get to keep it.

It's fun riding an easy bike, very smooth and comfortable. Although it's made of lightweight aluminium, the control panel and its secure casing is a clunker, slowing my ride down considerably. I take almost twice as long to get anywhere, but it's teaching me important lessons in taking it slow and enjoying the scenery even more. (Also, you can't really take good pictures while speeding, can you?) I've also made friends with most of the other Purple Pedalers and barring a few rain interruptions, have rode Wheelpower just about everywhere in my daily routine and beyond. Check out our wheeling and dealing adventures at www.flickr.com/photos/wheelpower, and soon we'll be live on startwearingpurple.yahoo.com.

Wheelpower may not be a suicide machine, but he'll do his best to ramrod till the break of dawn!

Holy Cow!

2008-09-24T00:28:00.000-07:00

Ah Ba makes a chillingly similar motion to Sweet Lou Piniella's call to the 'pen while buying massive quantities of flowers at Chiang Mai's night market.

Photo courtesy of Julie Swartz, Cubs soulmate and one of the most dedicated fans I know.

My family is Buddhist, although it's less of a religion for us than a way of life -- we're no bead-slingers, we're dharma bums. For me, especially, I love the all-embracing open nature of Buddhism. From Buddha's philosophy, you learn compassion and grace, and you apply it in the best way you can to your daily life. You learn to expand your mind and gain an innate understanding of why things happen, how they happen and what makes you and others tick. Best of all, your life is in your hands -- you decide how you want to get to nirvana and how fulfilling life can be for you. Of course, Buddha lived more than 2,000 years ago -- very different times. So you adapt his teachings so they work for current situations, making the best of what you have to create the best for the future. You can be Christian, Catholic, Muslim, Jewish, Hindu, Tree-Hugger, Cubs Fan, Yankees Fan, Sox Fan, Britney Spears Fan, Paris Hilton Fan, and still welcome to learn, no strings attached. We're so chill we can cool cases of beer. God, Allah, Shiva, George Steinbrenner, George Bush, George Clooney -- everyone can all exist without rejection (spiritually, of course).

So, why should the Cubs be denied of a World Series after 100 years of futility? Last weekend, my family was in rural Chiang Mai, in a little town called Ngau where our master has a monastery, Wat Chong Kam. We were there to attend an important ceremony in which his master was remembered on his birthday, and to celebrate the sangha -- Buddhist monks -- for devoting their lives to spreading compassion and the meditation of living complete and balanced existences. While we were in attendance as Ah Ba (also the abbott appointed by the Siamese king to govern the entire Northern Thailand region) radiated powerful metta through a two-hour chanting ceremony, the Cubs clinched the National League Central Division. There's really no reason to make a connection between 10,000 miles and Ted Lilly pitching us through seven strong innings and winning his career-high 16th start, and I'm not a proponent of numerology, but check this out: The last time we won two division titles back to back was 1908, which was, yep, the last time we went all the way and took it home.

Of course, this all means more when your team has been saddled with several curses -- a billy goat one, a black cat one, a Bartman one, and more. We've got more excess baggage than Imelda Marcos on holiday. But what we have is faith, and what we need is a little bit of divine intervention, in addition to Soriano not swinging at the first pitch, Lee not hitting into double plays, Marmol's slider nastier than a Pamela Anderson sex video.

Sports is not 100 percent ability and teamwork and million-dollar contracts, particularly in a traditional, old-fashioned enterprise like baseball. When you've four guys on the field making the difference between a painted-corner cement-mixer curveball strike or a split-second head-first dive to first base with two out and a runner breaking from third, you better bet your cleats that you've got your stars aligned in the right places at the right time for you. Some days, some guys can't get their arms up to keep their pitches down no matter what and the bats have holes that voodoo termites have eaten their way through. This is especially true of the Cubs who get swept by the Rays (my favorite American League team, by the way) one series then gobble up the Sox the next. And getting routed by the Cardinals 6-12 on Carlos Zambrano's first start after his historic no-hitter -- he lasted just 2.5 innings -- before winning the division the next day. That's just another day in the life of a Cubs fan, where each inning is the heart attack equivalent of eating a box of Krispy Kremes.

You never really know what to expect, but everyone is expecting us to win the World Series this year. When we won the division, we knew we would, it was only a matter of time. It wasn't like last year when it came down to the wire, neck-to-neck with the Brewers and the Cardinals. Although Wrigleyville went wild (wilder than usual, that is), we didn't send each other congratulatory texts or emails or IMs. We played it careful, but more importantly, we played it smart because we know the real business at hand is the playoffs. As Maria, the smartest Cubs fan I know (apologies to all who believe they are the one), would say, "I'm not believing until we get to the Series." Last year, we were swept off the face of the earth by the fantastic Diamondbacks in the National League Division Series. I don't think the Dodgers or Phillies or Mets or Brewers will do that to us this year. And I'd be very ecstatic with a World Series berth, although I know when we get that far, I'd want it all. But the truth is, the Angels are a powerful team and so are the Rays. And if the Sox make it, too, why... it'd be our turn and much as there will be much bloodshed on the streets of Chicago, similar to when we used to be a livestock slaughterhouse town, it will be one of the greatest sporting moments in America's most humble big city.

I'm not sure if I can be there and I'm trying to come to terms with not being on my usual perch in my favorite Wrigleyville tavern with my favorite Cubs friends with my favorite 312 in hand while it all unfolds. But nobody said being love was easy, and I know karma comes back in a way you don't plan for it to, so I'm leaving this in the good hands of whoever keeps score in the dharma books.

And yes, I'm happy to share all the good merits I've hopefully racked up by being a good person with my team. It's my dana parami to a bunch of guys who played their hearts out for the fans all year. Thanks for a great 2008, let's make it one to remember in the history books.

The Good Earth

2008-09-17T06:22:00.000-07:00

Beautiful fall squash at the Wicker Park farmer's market. I mean, come on. Why wouldn't you eat anything that looks this good?

4. Assists: I don't really enjoy basketball outside of March Madness. 1/4

5. Farmer's Markets: 2/5

6. Organic Food: 3/6

I have a couple of theories, so hear me out, will ya?

Ever since I started coming home to celebrate Chinese New Year with my family, I begun to notice a very pleasant trend. I eat a shitload and do my due diligence as a Chinese person celebrating a 15-day festival. I don't work out as regularly. Each year when I get back to Chicago, I take a deep breath and barely open my eyes when I get on the scale. And each year, I pleasantly discover that I haven't put on any weight despite almost three weeks of debauchery and bacchanalia. Why? It's not like what we eat in Singapore is any healthier. But, a very significant portion of the fresh produce and meat here is exactly that -- fresh. There are little preservatives or chemicals prevalent in what Singaporeans buy at the market and grocery store, so it translates into pretty high quality dishes and pastries and desserts and fried shit. So it takes a lot to put on the pounds, which is not entirely possible, but more challenging, unless you constantly eat out of a package or can.

Secondly, I'm not a health freak but I did use to be a teenager hypochondriac and I like to be smart about what I put into my body. I also believe in supporting independent businesses who take the time to be proud of selling products and services they believe in and nurture. I'm happy to say I haven't eaten chain fast-food (except for Chipotle, but that shit's fresh and organic) regularly in five years -- the last time I had McDonald's was nine months ago and I can't remember when I had any other (oops, maybe A&W by the I-94 in June 2006 when Jiggy and I drove up to Milwaukee to see Him and the Seeger Sessions Band, but cheese curds were in order). If cancer is caused by mutated cells, then why pump into your body unnatural catalysts that could turn the Loch Ness Monster into the Abominable Snowman?

Now, for the fun part. As a result, I 95 percent-exclusively shop at Trader Joe's in Chicago where you can buy organic and free-range for cheap on independent labels. It's like paying $8.99 for the new Albert Hammond, Jr. record (which is fantastic, please buy it) instead of $18.99 for whatever new Paul McCartney monstrosity sold at Starbucks. For my produce, I like to visit local farmer's markets or Whole Foods when I need something specific. How nice to stroll through the Wicker Park, Logan Square, Blaine School, Nettlehorst and Green City markets, and let whatever strikes your fancy dictate your menu for the week. Last summer, I made meals of a lovely chicken mole salad with fresh mango salsa, ostrich burgers with sweet potato fries and primevera pasta with the greenest baby bak choy ever, among other things. All this stuff just feels good sitting in my stomach, and although my grocery bill is usually 40 to 50 bucks a week, which is probably a lot for a person living alone, it's worth it. I do my part to live offa the fatta the land, and ya know what? I fall sick just about once a year, and it's usually just a mild cold I can run through and still be up and about without sniffling much. This isn't bullshit or yuppified consumerism. I don't own a large dog or push a massive Bugaboo stroller, so if I only had one reason for conscious shopping, it's to make organic ice cream to go with a slice of blissful blueberry-peach crumble pie from Lula Cafe (where the menu is also based on what's great at the market any given day).

As John Steinbeck would say, these are the pastures of heaven, my friends.

Stuff Bananas Like

2008-09-16T01:34:00.000-07:00

Sasa knows what I like, and that you can never be a big enough Cubs fan.

The Music Box movie theater around the corner on Southport, opened in 1929 and for the last 20 years playing the best classics, independent and foreign films. If you've seen the fantastic "Tell No One" French thriller, then know that the 'Box distributes this film, taking a chance when no one else did and scoring big time. And they even have a resident organist and ghost.

I have a friend who a few years ago, used to always ask me at softball if I wanted to hit Ladies' Nights with her and her girlfriends. Well, I think "girlfriends" is a dumb term for your female buddies and I think Ladies' Nights are dumb. Also, her idea of Ladies' Night was cheesy bars where Asian women gather to be picked up by white, black and Latino men suffering from yellow fever. So, no thanks, but I'd rather stay home and cry in my beer. But she let me know that she thought I was a banana -- you know, one of those Asian chicks who's white on the inside and yellow on the out-and-out. It takes a lot to insult me, and that was a shitload. I'm proud of my heritage and who I am. You'll never catch me reading Moshi or Yolk or attending the Asian-American Journalism Convention, but I can eat my way across Singapore and back and narrate the history of my country beginning from our founding in 1819.

One of the reasons she cited as evidence of my bananability is the fact that I don't have many Asian friends in Chicago, or as she put it, "You don't like hanging with Asian peeps" and "Even your best friend is white!" She's half right -- I enjoy the company of anyone and everyone who is likeable, but unfortunately, by virtue of the fact that I'm not a doctor, engineer, consultant, investment banker, clubber or Chinatown lounge lizard, I have very few Asian friends (but many of other ethnicities). It's not a choice, but the reality of being a beer-drinking softball player who didn't have good grades in college nor likes sports cars. I'm not typecasting by any means, but if a good number of Asian peers at school hung out at church and I'm Buddhist, then the best place to find me would be at Papa John's or Buffalo Joe's, ya know?

The Sas sent me a care package last week, the highlight of which (apart from the CUBS BRACELET, monkey head key rings and monkey alarm clock) was the book Stuff White People Like, written by the dude who created the same-named blog. The blog is a hoot and a farce and I often forward posts to the usual gang of email suspects. And, by almost every indication on the blog and the book, I'm a white person. I'm a banana dunked in a facetious fondue smothered with irony. If you catch my drip.

So, let's take a peel and a peek and have some fun with how I put the Asia in Caucasian. I'll go down the list of the top 100 things white people like as chronicled in the book, have a beer and a laugh and see just how white I am.

1. Coffee: I don't like coffee. 0/1

2. Religions Their Parents Don't Belong To: My parents are Buddhist. So am I. 0/2

3. Film Festivals: 1/3

In 2000, one of my I'm-graduating-college-I'm-so-grown-up acts was to attend the Sundance Film Festival with MP and Kat. Because my family used to go skiing at Park City, Utah yearly, I was just so cool, ya know, showing them around town and knowing when the last calls for alcohol were. I mean, I had just been gliding down the bunny slopes six weeks ago.

I wanted to see "You Can Count On Me," "Girlfight" and "Chuck and Buck" among some others which would go on to secure distribution and be critically acclaimed -- we wouldn't know it then, but my Hollywoodar picked it right up -- but we didn't. We ended up watching about three movies a day for the long weekend we schmoozed with Val Kilmer, William Hurt and an assortment of others in the business (and considered crashing a Sammy Hagar party), including a Japanese softcore porn flick about nymphorobots called "I.K.U." We ate take-out rotisserie chicken and buried our ice cream in snow to keep them frozen. MP was androgyneous then, and I was Rogers Park badass. We flew America West where I won a few bucks playing the nickel slots when we had a Vegas layover.

But consider this: Sundance will never be this free-spirited, where corporate sponsorship consisted of eager tech start-ups about as fledgling as the filmmakers roaming Main Street and streaming through the Egyptian Theater. We caught Sundance the year it was all roses in its senior year, before the Ivy League college application came through. Today, it's all business casual corporate, but that's OK -- we have a wonderful international film festival in Chicago and my favorite movie theater, The Music Box, runs its own seasonal weekend matinee festivals. The Koh Film Festival is pretty neat as well -- we enjoy curating Welles, Fincher, Hitchcock, Kurosawa, Nolan, Eastwood, mid-1970s B-horror movies, boxing epics and pre- and post-World War II film noir. This blawg entry, my friends, is brought to you by Netflix.

The end.

(More to come on Stuff White Asians like, keep reading!)