Esquire US April 2007 Swank Cover

At page 156, I hit on the perfect male read - or at least, what I think is the perfect male read - 6 pages by a rather talented writer named Kendall Hamlilton who as an experiment to see whether alcohol is really the great creative lubricant, agrees to accept a series of 6 essay topics from his editor - and to do quick takes on each for no more than an hour and a half, at increasing stages of inebriation - Johnny Walker to be precise.


This was smart, funny magazine writing that was also satisfyingly inventive while at the same time, offering even more for its worth than what it actually set out to achieve. Topic 1 is "Poor Jennifer Aniston? I don't think so. She's the problem. Agree or disagree." Topic 2 is "Starbucks is a metaphor for everting that is wrong with/great about America", Topic 3 is "Morning is the best time to have sex." Topic 4 is Boulder Colorado is the best place to live in America" (This is where Hamilton resides). Topic 5 is "USA today is the best newspaper in the world" and lastly a redux of the Jennifer Aniston topic - at Hamilton's most drunk. The feature also includes the author's post-mortem sober (not hung over) critique notes.

Good fun. And smart. And funny. The Jennifer Aniston topic strikes a personal bell with me as I've blogged about the inappropriateness of her going from Pitt to Vaughn - crazy crazy crazy.
Is this the best kind of magazine reading for men of today? Or is it just me?

Awww no more Friday Night Dates with the Wongs

The difference between then and now

Then - for about ten years, on and off - I lived and breathed women's magazines. My time was ruled by the fashion seasons and I was keenly attuned to the various trends in health and beauty and lifestyle first for women aged 21-35 then for women 25-40. And it was a pleasant life - were mini-skirts in or out? What was going to be the silhouette of spring? The search for a smarter, more accessible method of getting ahead, staying ahead, improving one's, revitalising one's health, losing five, ten, fifteen pounds and the various ways you can do it, powering one's love-aka-sex life, streamlining one's relationships, getting the man, getting over the man, accepting that a man is all well and good, but at the end of the day, your life is about you.

Now I am attempting to plumb alien depths, having learned that simply wading and treading the shallows of testosterone just isn't doing it. You have to go all the way to find those pearls, those gold nuggets, you have to sift through masculine sands and manly mud. So I now flip through pages in magazines that I had previously read only for fiction - GQ, Men's Health, Arena UK, Playboy with frequent forays into non-specific but seemingly male oriented titles - Wallpaper, The Robb Report, and to a certain extent Vanity Fair and now Monocle - which I am enjoying. I now read Vogue only for pleasure. Whereas a Saturday morning will find me diligently reading - not just flipping, mind you - the opinion pages of Esquire. What constitutes the desires of a man, what is his reason for being at this point in human history.

It is all extremely fascinating and occasionally even satisfying and pleasurable, having to try to empathise the mind, soul and body of a man. And yet, and yet, and yet - I am faced with a conclusion that even as deeply as I plunge myself into all of this alpha or non alpha maleness and as much as I credit my ability to empathise... it would all still be an approximation, wouldn't it, now? I mean, at the end of the day - yes, I am wise (but it's wisdom borne of pain. Yes I pay the price, but look how much I gain. If I have to I can do anything. I am strong. I am invincible - but ultimately, I am woman.

Back to the good stuff

Imagine one full 50 minute period where every single part of your body is energised - where your muscles are always flexed, tight at the core. Well, that was what my first yoga core class was like. It was completely a strength session and very addictive. So made it to yoga twice this week. What's more I actually got to see Dr. Theresa for my first accupuncture session in a month, since before Hanoi. She found me extremely blocked right down the meridien. Even the cups actually hurt - and a couple of the needles felt like electricity.

The result? Looking forward to a great night's sleep...

Obsessions, regrets and conversations with the young

I have always had that tendency to allow myself to be completely overtaken by work, even though I am aware of it and try not to give in to it, I find myself succumbing once again. It is not always a good thing though, especially when the work is only a small part of what I really want to do with my life. Is it procrastination? A delaying tactic? A way of fooling myself into believing that what I am doing right now is somehow worthwhile? Should I not just take it easy and cruise and try to fit in the thing that I feel I must do?

Interesting conversation with M at the office today. A young man of 23 at the very beginning of his life, he asked me, a practically 40-year-old woman, what I would do - given the option of starting fresh with a whole new set of years ahead of me. Say if I was 23 again, what would I do. And I said I would be a doctor. A gynecologist - but not just any gynecologist - one with a specialty in internal medicine. He was rather shocked. You wouldn't be writing. I argued - the mistake I made was that I thought that to write, I had to be a writer as an occupation. Not true at all. You can have an occupation, separate from the ability to write. I could have been a banker or a financial analyst or a doctor - and still write.

Coincidentally, yesterday, I spoke to B, also at the office. He is 27 - and already understands what it took me years to realise. So he's going for that finance career - and he will write on the side. Because he can. Then at lunch with M today, age 23 as well, and for the nth time, we talked about what she wanted to be doing. With M however, I sense that she is more sure about what she doesn't want to be doing than what she wants to be doing. Which is so much tougher.

As uncertain as they are, these young people are in enviable positions, I think. So much still ahead of them. So many things that they can yet achieve. Elphaba's refrain runs in my head - "Unlimited. My future is...unlimited."

Back to the practice

Finally, finally. It's been at the back of my mind for so long and the last time I did any was in early February. But today, circumstances fell into place and I was able to make it to the 5:30pm Hot Hour. While I definitely noted rustiness in certain poses, it really did feel wonderful - especially the bow and the tree and triangle. It was nice, too, that Catherine added in a few sun salutations for filip. Hopefully, this kicks off the habit once more.

Back from Bali

A nice little family reunion in Bali - just what the doctor ordered. For two whole days, it was nothing but sun, sand and sea - and save for the sunburn, we are all the better for it. And now we're back, ready to face a new school term, a new week, a new day. On the flight home, I couldn't decide what to watch, and finally settled on Stranger than Fiction. A small film, but one that had real moments of invention, not to mention, real engaging sequences - Dustin Hoffman as the lit crit and theory professor was hugely amusing. The exchange referring to "Little did he know" is really funny for writers, I thought. Tomorrow....life begins again.

Late nights and early mornings

That's what the last few days have been like, due to work. Fortunately, still able to keep all the other balls in my life up in the air. So C forgot his holiday homework - I actually managed to retrieve the worksheets. K had a number of medical appointments, and we managed to get it all done. Today was a colossal coordination act that required the work of all three of the adults in my household, myself, T and Melin. What with K going over to her friend's house in the East Coast, C having an eye appointment, hanging out at the office AND having a playdate visit as well. All that and managed to send out most of the pages this evening. The one thing I forgot? A piece I had to do for swingamahds - which I churned out just now while watching the rerun of American Idol. In between, I listed the Diana Ross songs that I would choose if I were in the contest. Still thinking that it's a toss-up between the slow ballad version (not the disco version) of On the Radio or Touch Me in the Morning. Wow ah. Kapal. As if. But still.

[Related aside to Lazy Sunday Afternoons...ikaw, Kiks, anong Diana Ross ang kakantahin mo, if ever?]

And tomorrow? Gotta get some cardio in to make up for the stress chips and pizza I had at work. Gotta show up at the office and be useful at least till noon. And gotta pack for the family trip to B. Am reminded of Desree's Gotta Be song. Another good one, no?

Listen as the day unfolds...challenge what the future holds...gotta keep your head up to the sky. Lovers they may cause you tears, go ahead release your fears. Stand up and be counted, don't be ashamed to try...

Weekend flicks

Music & Lyrics makes no pretenses about being anything more than what it is. Grant and Barrymore are so very charming, persuading you to overlook the thin conflict and the sloppy cropping - you hoo, we can see the microphone! The best part and what makes it absolutely worth watching? The parody of the 80's MTV with Hugh Grant coiffed all Duran Duran -- guarantees to keep anyone who came of age the 80s in stitches. Pop goes my heart! And then there was 300, a lush portrayal of the final battles of Sparta. Scenes were virtual storyboards and the battles were like ballet - admirably choreographed. Not to mention, it was great to see 300 alpha males in scanty clothing - cut to the six pack. Greek gods...very definitely.

Wierdness

Work is fun, but it's also wierd. In fact, I have to say, it's the wierdest place Ive ever worked. Even the things that are supposed to be sacred, aren't, well, not really. And the particular people who are supposed to do particular things, are doing completely different things. And time moves so excruciatingly slowly. I'm not used to it. It's wierd. Just plain wierd.

Old dog, new tricks

We have a new family activity - a weekly Mandarin class! Finally found a lovely laoshi to teach us conversational Mandarin, one who was willing to take all four of us in - aged 41, 39, 9, and 8 respectively! And it was no easy task to find someone willing to put herself/himself through that challenge. C especially is quite a handful being multiply sensitive to competition, easily distracted, grumpy and inclined to test authority. K is on the nerdy side, conscientious but stressed out when the class is too fast for her liking. The presence of the kids reins in T and my tendencies to compete with each other in classroom situations. The kids have better pronunciation than the adults and sometimes, better memories...but we're all kept on our proverbial toes.In short, we're a handful...hahahah. But it's a nice, positive project and one that will hopefully have us progressing nicely toward our chosen third language. The other amusing thing? We both got Chinese names. I am Ming Ling and T is Na Tan. On that note, wa an wo de pengyou!

Dearest Lola

I know it's early, but I've been thinking about you and wondering how you are. Are you baking up a storm. My mouth waters for puto and sans rival and chocolate cake. Are you tending to your garden? Are you and Lolo going for those early morning (4am walks) you used to try to get me to go on? If you visited me here, we would take you to the orchid gardens, and we would get up early and walk to the track, and we would go to the river and the reservoir and Chinatown. Or maybe we would buy plants so the planters at home can finally be filled properly and with the right stuff.

So many things going on, but it's not strange, is it, that I think of you frequently and wonder what you would think about all of it, and of K and C and T and the way things are here in Singapore. And what you might be able to arrange for L and M in terms of, well, you know what you want, right? I've always believed in your power and know that's truer now than it ever was.

Need I say I miss you so much? Give Lolo a kiss for me and tell him I miss him too - could have used his Lolo's medicine ointment on K's and C's bites, bumps and bruises. Advanced Happy Birthday dearest Lola...

Surprises in Singapore

Now I'm sure this happens in other countries as well. But it's nice to know that it happens in Singapore. Sometimes, you find not just one but a number of unexpected, richly insightful experiences taking place, clustered together like a bright, beautiful bouquet of wild spring flowers gathered from a most ordinary meadow.

Yesterday, a rather comely, intelligent young man from Nepal told me his life story and the fascinating twists and turns of how he came to be at the very spot he occupies today, sitting across a table as he handed me sheafs of paper to insert into some 350 magazines. Later that same day, an Indonesian manicurist who also cuts hair gave me his take on on the benefits of colonial history with lines like, "You are lucky to be colonised by the Americans or by the British. They do good for the people. Not like the Europeans." And in the early evening, an elderly cabbie lectured me on taking time to think about what I want, and think about what I need. "You must focus, " he said, "on yourself, at least some of the time." At the end of the day, I discovered many more good things about the people I work both with and for as we partied late into the night with champagne and fruitinis, as well as found out that I have come to a point that I can talk to anyone, anywhere about anything - a pretty useful thing in life.

It was a good day and for each and every one that happens, I am always, always grateful.

Best Picture for 2007

Am glad The Departed won. Am glad Martin Scorcese won. I saw this movie for the second time on the plane from Hanoi to Singapore, and it was as riveting as it was when I first saw it. No slow moments. No pacing problems. A great story with plot points that are both unexpected and sensible. What's more, it had some really textured work in terms of performances from practically everyone in the film. It is filmaking at its very finest. Am glad it won the Oscar.

Movie Weekend

There was something very poignant about Dream Girls - at least for me - maybe it was all the motown 70's rhythms and strong female vocals that got me. But even just eight minutes into the film, it did occur to me that Jennifer Hudson deserves every award and accolade she gets for her creation of Effie White. This is an annoying character, but with whatever she has, Hudson manages to locate the sympathy the audience requires to make a connection with her. And then there's her big, brassy voice which is so much bigger tan who she is. And then it is pure joy to hear Eddie Murphy and Beyonce and Jamie Foxx sing. Beside's it's a musicale. Who doesn't love a musical?

Letters from Iwo Jima is a good movie overall, mostly because of performances by Ken Watanabe and the newcomer who created Saigo, the Japanese baker-turned-very-reluctant soldier. Not without flaws, but really, hardly anything is these days. Some of the subplots were a bit old in a you-could-see-it-coming kind of way. I also thought there were pacing problems. Still, Clint Eastwood knows how to tell a story, and we are able to rest confidently in his able hands. When you think about his work - The Unforgiven, The Bridges of Madison County and Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil - there is no disputing he is truly a master, for this movie and hopefully more...

Found: Panning Rice in Vietnam

Once upon a time, some sixteen years ago, in the flattest flatlands of Ohio and a small university town of just two main streets, I met A Panning and M Rice. A was in first year fiction to my second year, and M was in the American Culture Studies programme. And apart from being graduate students and writers, we also shared the Philippines in common as they had each been Peace Corp Volounteers there. In fact, that's where they had met.

But in 1991, we all lived in flats in a town called Bowling Green. I was in a studio on N. Main Street, atop a bar called SamB's. Mine was basically just one room with a stove oven, kitchen sink, counter and fridge running alongside one wall, and three small windows along the other side. The heat from the radiator was sometimes excessive, so I always had one window cracked open about six inches, even through the winter months. When it got warmer in the spring, I would leave it gaping wide open, and would frequently wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of some undergrad puking ceremoniously in the parking lot, after having had too much to drink.

A and M's apartment was infinitely more pleasant, the first level of a pretty house on a treelined street, S. Grove I think it might have been. But it was no less strange. They had a large sprawling living room and a separate kitchen. Their bedroom was a little nook off of the kitchen with swinging doors offering very little privacy and just enough space for a queen sized bed. But they were as happy as campers there, and cooked up batches of stew or vegetable soup in their crockpot, often inviting me over to share their supper. We spent a lot of time together, writing, talking about writing, eating, drinking, gossiping, watching cruddy old videos that I rented from a cruddy old video store on South Main. And being intrepid entertainers, they threw many a wild party in that large sprawling living room area. It was a good year.

And then I finished the program, left Ohio, got married, as did they. And but for a few emails back and forth over the years, we had just about lost touch - though I knew they were both faculty at SUNY in Brockport. And I think they were aware we were.

But for some reason, out of the blue, two nights ago, I decided to write Anne again and say, what's up. Turns out this semester, the Panning Rice family is in Asia. More specifically, in Vietnam, three hours away from Saigon to be exact and with their two little kids in tow. The emails came lie rapid-fire and Bim Bam Boom - we're seeing them in April when they come visit.

It is wonderful how, sometimes, the world can be small and cosy for so long as you let it.

Post Ash Wednesday mass reflection and a dead Jesuit

Five minutes after Ash Wednesday mass at 7:30pm, I found myself standing in line to pay my respects to a dead Jesuit named Fr. Desmond Reid. I don't think I have ever met Fr. Reid, and certainly did not recognise him from his picture. But M, who was responsible for getting me in the queue, said he was such a wonderful person, a friendly man, who had led many of her bible discussion groups. So I said, okay, I would accompany her to the wake. It was also, conveniently, on the way to where I had parked the car, so there was that, too - a heavy flow of traffic that would have prevented me from leaving anyway. I was quite taken aback by the crowd of people who had gathered in the hall that for these past three nights had become a funeral gathering. It seemed there were more than two hundred people there, and more outside. Amazing and wonderful and to my mind, rather unexpected.

As we were shuffled, waiting for our turn, I found myself telling M, who I feel very friendly and homey toward (for the simple reason that she is/was a good friend of my cousin's in college), how it was only in Singapore that I started going to mass regularly again. That actually, once I stopped living in my parents' house, mass was only an every now and then thing. As and when. Now and then. And that I had no other reason for my return other than an inexplicable, indescribable need for it...you might even say a hunger. Also, I was worried for my kids, for my family. If I was not going to give faith to them, who was? They would be left bereft, without a choice simply because they did not know. I received it. I chose to leave it a little, and I chose to return. I pictured my kids as adults and realised that if they never had it, they might possibly never want it to return to.

M, who I see at mass sometimes with her children, rarely with her husband, seemed to understand what I meant. That night, for Ash Wednesday mass, we were both alone, and there was no need to speculate on the reasons.

As we shuffled closer to the open casket, I caught a glimpse of Fr. Reid. All of a sudden I remembered a story T had told me of a time when he was maybe in the third grade at the Ateneo. Some Jesuit, then as now, had also passed away. And all the students in all the classes were made to line up and pay their respects in pairs. T was paired with a school mate and as they looked down at the face of the dead Jesuit, T felt a mad uncontrollable impulse to laugh. Something about the man's face. Something off in a funny way. His eyes met with those of his friend's, and almost as if by understanding, they shared that wild desire for laughter. Biting their lips, they ran like mad, pell mell to the outside of the chapel. Only when they got there did they burst into spasms of gut-wrenching mirth.

Recalling this, I squelched a similar impulse of my own to laugh. I closed my eyes, bit my lower lip and said a silent prayer. For Fr. Ried and for my family and for our faith.

Of course.

A scene from the birthday picnic

If you blur your eyes

...Hanoi is an amalgam of many European cities. Tree lined boulevards and cafes recall Paris. The houses along green canals evoke Amsterdam. And if you look out onto the West Lake, and blur your eyes, it's like your looking at the Arno in Florence. And then parts of the teeming city are a little like old Manila and a little like Bangkok.

A little piece of Europe in Southeast Asia