Poetry Reading!

Due to the dizzying heights that this blogger has (with all due modesty) scaled in the oddly competitive world of blogging, the Literature Department of the University of Asia and the Pacific has asked me to promote its coolly classy culminating event: "Love, Lunacy and Poetry". The horrible attempt at alliteration aside (oops, there I go again), if you're in the area next Friday, March 2, please visit us at the 5th floor, ACB Building, Telengtan Hall, University of Asia and the Pacific, from 4:30 to 6:00 pm.

Guest readers run the gamut from distinguished men and women of letters (Dr. Paul Dumol, Dr. Lulu Gonzalez, Dr. Gemino Abad, Mrs. Peggy Manuel), to media personalities (Mari Kaimo), to readers distinguished only by their talent and dedication to poetry (beloved students and faculty). Admission is absolutely free!

Stung

I've always been, to some extent, ambivalent regarding Sting. I have nothing against Mr. Sumner, I have quite a lot of his stuff on my iTunes, but is it just me or did his best stuff come out ages ago? I mean, other than The Dream of the Blue Turtles (which derives its strength largely from Sting's willingness to sublimate his musicality in favor of true jazz masters like the brothers Marsalis) and My Funny Valentine: Sting At the Movies (a guilty pleasure which bears more than a passing resemblance to Rod Stewart's As Time Goes by: the Great American Songbook), none of his solo work truly resonates with me.

Here's an interesting article courtesy of our friends at Slate. Stephen Metcalf argues that Sting's musical contributions may have been limited since parting ways with Stewart Copeland, but he remains a charmingly dorky, decent, and thoughtful human being. Check it out.

Photo Credits:
Picture of Sting comes courtesy of Rhapsody Online.

Acquired Tastes: The Onion Dispatch

On the heels of my belated basketball post, here comes another, done in the inimitable style of America's Finest News Source:

John Amaechi Comes Out As Former NBA Player

STOCKPORT, ENGLAND—British homosexual John Amaechi sent shockwaves throughout the sporting world last week when he announced, much to the surprise of his family and friends—in addition to NBA players and fans—that he lived a...

Here's a few choice excerpts, which I admit, delighted this longtime hoops fan to no end:

"According to Amaechi, who spent most of his NBA career on the bench and only averaged six points and two rebounds per game, he knew at an early age that he was different from all the "normal players" when he went undrafted out of college, was unnoticed during his first season in which he only played 28 games, and was never involved with guns, drugs, or shifty agents. Amaechi claims he never once had the urge to record a sub-par rap album.

Furthermore, no matter where Amaechi played, he always felt "awkward and out of place" on the court, adding that he was "never really certain if [he] was a center or a power forward."

"I had no idea," former Cavaliers teammate Terrell Brandon said. "Sure, I saw John around the Cavaliers, but I didn't want to jump to any conclusions. He was tall, yeah, but he didn't look like a basketball player. He didn't act like a basketball player. And just because he hung around with a lot of basketball players and sometimes wore flashy jewelry, that didn't necessarily mean he was one, y'know?"

"In his book, Amaechi states that he even hid his occupation from his parents because he "came from a traditional British household" and his parents would not have approved of their son being an NBA player. Amaechi admits he was constantly worried during the Jazz's nationally televised playoff series with the Sacramento Kings in 2002, because cameras panning over to the bench could have revealed to his family and friends at home that he was in the NBA.

"The last thing you want is for them to find out that way," said Amaechi, who claims his parents have been "very supportive and accepting, although they don't understand why someone would want that kind of life."

Belated Ball Posts

It's been a while since I've posted anything basketball related, and for that I apologize. It isn't that there hasn't been anything interesting going on in the NBA, (on the contrary, the season has been unfolding rather delightfully in a chaotically spirited, contrarian sort of way) but that I normally refuse to engage in otherwise entertaining professional basketball speculation until the playoffs. Still, it's hard to resist commenting on the state of NBA ball, especially when...

Following former NBA player John Amaechi's coming out of the closet , Tim Hardaway unmasks himself as several kinds, a plethora, really, of idiot. It's interesting how the same person can make ridiculously stupid statements such as "I don't like gay people and I don't like to be around gay people. I am homophobic. I don't like it. It shouldn't be in the world or in the United States," and expect to get away with an apology such as "Yes, I regret it. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said I hate gay people or anything like that," practically on the same day.

Then there's the equally riveting quest to land heralded multitalented future NBA world beater Kevin Durant. Much has been said about Durant's undeniable skills, but Slate writer Nathaniel Friedman insists that in order for Durant to approach his almost limitless potential, NBA teams must assimilate the wunderkind's prodigous talents in the proper system:

"The very thing that makes him great, his versatility, will make Durant a mixed blessing for some eager lottery team. Basketball is a game of positions, roles, and responsibilities. Point guards pass, shooting guards score, small forwards slash, power forwards do the dirty work, and centers control the paint. A player who can do all of these things poses lots of problems for opposing defenses. By the same token, the more a player deviates from basketball's traditional typology, the more difficult it becomes to assemble a roster around him."

Plus, that old curmudgeon, Charley Rosen, has been at it again. Lately, he's taken on both Chris Webber and the Toronto Raptors. It's worth reading, if only for the astute basketball analysis that manages to slip past Rosen's quest to be the most insufferably sarcastic sports writer ever:

"In general, Webber's off-the-ball defense was putrid. He was frequently caught out of position, or he failed to challenge penetrating guards, or he failed to recover after he showed, or he loafed in offense-to-defense transition. Indeed, Webber never actually ran at any time during the game. He either walked or half-trotted. Nor was he very aggressive in trying to capture any loose balls in his vicinity. His solitary steal came when Manu Ginobili threw a pass that was 5-feet behind a cutter and hit Webber in his hands. His only blocked shot came when Horry was compelled to launch a desperation 3-ball as the shot-clock buzzed off."

"Put Garbajosa down as a terrific standstill shooter. Period.

Andreas Bargnani — 7-12, 4-8 3FG, 4 TO, 22 PTS-- is nearly a carbon-copy of Garbajosa, minus the vision necessary to complete even the simplest passes. Bargnani ventured into the pivot twice: The first time the ball was simply taken out of his hands by a two-timing defender. The second time he started on the right box, and was ultimately pushed (by Mike Sweetney) out to the 3-point line.

But, man, can he shoot!

Bargnani is also the only player I've ever seen whose body seems to get thinner whenever he's called upon to set a screen. He'd rather avoid the contact completely and slide over to an open area in hopes of getting a pass and then firing away.

But, man, can he shoot!

Defense? Forget it. He played too straight up to move laterally at the necessary speed. He reached for the ball, turned his head, failed to box out when he had inside position during free throws, and on one sequence totally lost sight of his man. (Considering that this happened when he was assigned to guard the 6-8, 290-pound Sweetney, perhaps Bargnani needs glasses.)

But, man, can he shoot!"

Photo Credits:
Picture of the NBA logo comes courtesy of Newlaunches.com.
Picture of Tim Hardaway comes courtest of NBA.com

Kawayan Cove!

It's been sometime since I updated my Multiply site, so when my family (with the happy inclusion of my dad) were invited to head on over to celebrate Analou Puyat-Lacson's birthday at Kawayan Cove, I decided to throw everyone a bone and post pictures of the momentous occasion in which Manuel finally got to breathe some sea air, and Juan got to perform and preen in front of a captive audience. Click here for pictures of Juan, Manuel, and maybe, just maybe, their papa as well. Enjoy!

Acquired Tastes: The Onion Dispatch

I hope that I don't inadvertently offend anyone with the following dispatch from America's Finest NewsSource, but it merely underscores the need to prevent humankind from watching incredibly stupid, derivative, one-note performances with no redeeming value from people like the sadly declining Martin Lawrence. Bad Boy, indeed!

Here's an excerpt:

"It will be days, months perhaps, before we have a complete picture of exactly what happened," said FAA crash investigator Matthew Roberts, whose team was given the unpleasant job of analyzing Flight 43's last moments. "But we know that the passengers somehow assembled toward the rear of the cabin without attracting attention to themselves—which couldn't have been easy, considering the tense silence that typically accompanies a Big Momma's House film—and decided that they would rather die than let anyone do this to them."

Around 11:00, business-class passenger Charles Rice left an emotional message on the cell-phone voicemail of his fiancée, Kathi Kearney.

"Honey, it's me," Rice said in one of the excerpts. "I… God. Listen, they've darkened the cabin, and they've started showing Big Momma's House 2. The second one, I mean, and it… it's pretty bad. This might not go well, honey. A bunch of us are going to try to stop them. I have to go, we're going to go now. God, I am so sorry. You know I love you."

Although Roberts said they may never determine who acted first or how the passengers organized their resistance to the brutally awful comedy, it is believed that all onboard were united in their need to stop the movie from being shown. In an amazing coincidence, at least one other person aboard Flight 43 had actually survived a screening of the original Big Momma's House on an international flight in 2001, which may have given them impetus to act.

Passengers Bravely Take Down Plane Showing Big Momma's House 2

WASHINGTON, DC-All 105 passengers chose death over Martin Lawrence's high falsetto shrieks.

Photo Credits:
Picture of Big Momma's House 2 comes courtesy of Wikipedia.

Acquired Tastes: Norah Jones

I've been trying to forego critical analysis of Norah Jones or her music for several reasons. First, I really find her a wonderfully pleasant personality, with a distinct voice and a nonchalant joie de vivre about her. Second, I suspect that, unlike the country, soul and blues singers she admires (with good reason) she's not meant for such rarified heights.

At any rate, it was surprising to find that Slate writer Jody Rosen shares my sentiments about her. Here are some excerpts from her article:

"Jones is by all accounts a lovely, unpretentious, and, yes, funny person. She was still sharing a walkup in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, when she carted off an armful of Grammys a few years back, and though she and Alexander have since moved into a fancy Manhattan loft, she has shown zero interest in the usual trappings of megastardom. She doesn't frequent glitzy parties, almost certainly has no stylist on her payroll, and has never strode into a West Hollywood nightclub on Paris Hilton's arm. She still turns up in tiny rooms in Manhattan and Brooklyn to play country cover tunes with her oldest and dearest pals."

"Jones' problem is not that her music is subdued. On the contrary. She keeps trying to push her music into "hotter," more expressive territory, when she should be playing to her strength, emphasizing her cool and reserve. Instead of worshipping at the altars of American country, soul, and blues singers, Jones would do well to look to cosmopolitans like Astrud Gilberto, Chet Baker, and Sade, who find the pathos in froideur. She has shown her willingness to stretch when she gets out of her snug musical circles, dueting with Andre 3000 on Outkast's "Take Off Your Cool," and even singing the word "motherfucker" several times on Peeping Tom's "Sucker." Surely co-starring with Jude Law in a Wong Kar-Wai movie ought to do something to stir a young woman's wanderlust? However many copies Not Too Late sells, it's apparent that the trademark Jones style is paying diminishing returns: The new single, "Thinking About You," is a blatant "Don't Know Why"/"Sunrise" rewrite, and a rotten one. But even in the lamest songs, you can't argue with the distinctive loveliness of the voice, which still sounds like no one but Norah Jones. That's a lot more than you can say about 99 percent of the world's singers, and a lot less than you can say about the great ones."

Photo Credits:
Picture of the Norah Jones album "Not Too Late" comes courtesy of Amazon.

From Gallipoli to Victory

Last night, my son, Juan woke up his mama, Tina, to complain of an itching sensation. Naturally, Tina went right to the heart of the problem and concluded, with all the grim determination of the Joint Chief of Staffs during the Vietnam Conflict, that she would have to administer anti-allergy medicine to alleviate Juan's distress.

Of course Juan, like any other hyperactive two year-old who had been conditioned to view all medicines as "yucky" and all cockroaches as "funny" would rather play with a cockroach than gulp down his medicine. Which he tried to do, to the consternation of the roaches who happened to be in the vicinity of our bed. Thus began a long, epic battle of wills between parents and the parented. Juan kicked, screamed, squirmed, and in the end, hissed and spat. Mama ducked, while Papa was covered in dollops of medicinal vomit. Eerily, visions of Peter Weir's classic movie on the Battle of Gallipoli featuring a young Mel Gibson, Gallipoli , flashed through my mind, along with other such classically inspired military debacles.

But Juan had spat out his last. Weakened, and perhaps awed by Mama and Papa's resolve (No, it was probably because he was weakened; I must consciously remind myself to avoid the pitfalls of all conquerors who seek to rewrite history), Juan grudgingly agreed to gulp down his medicine. Victory! Wait, wasn't that a cheesy, yet indelibly and unabashedly feel-good movie starring Pele and Sylvester Stallone? What the heck. Mama and I settled down to watch CSI: NY. I must remember to upgrade the software on my stream of consciousness ruminations...

Photo Credits:
Picture of Victory comes courtesy of IMDB.

Acquired Tastes: The Onion Dispatch

Just the other night I was almost overcome by an almost undeniable urge for chips. While this urge might not seem to present much of a problem, even for the financially challenged working stiff, for some reason my chips had to be Ruffles potato chips. Naturally, after I had indulged in a pack of chips, I berated myself for giving in so easily to temptation. Is there really a difference between Ruffles, or say, Oishi natural potato chips?

I need not have worried. According the America's Finest NewsSource there is, and if you think there isn't, well, there should be. Enjoy!

Potato-Chip Connoisseur Detects Notes Of Sour Cream, Onion

ST. CHARLES, MO—"A fine chip can be worth years of waiting," said Nathan Sterkin, whose refined palate allows him to appreciate flavors like "flamin' hot" and salt.

Photo Credits:
Picture of Ruffles Regular Potato Chips comes courtesy of Frito Lay.

A Weekend to be Spent on Love...in Literature

I was invited some time ago by a former student, Miguel Quinto, to give a short talk to the students of the Amber Center. I must confess that when Miguel first asked me to give a talk, I was all "talked out": my many commitments delivering talks on a wide variety of topics, as part of my extension work for the University and my apostolate, left me all tapped out. Which is why I found it providential that when Miguel (a proper and serious lad) sent a formal letter inviting me to give a talk, I finally stumbled on a worthy topic to give a talk on, courtesy of the students inviting me: "Love in Literature".

My students never believe me when I say this, but more often than not, we learn more from them than they ever do from us, their teachers. Of course, I'm still in shock. How could I not have given a talk on "Love in Literature"? To make amends for this deliberate (and I suspect, divinely ordained "D'oh!"), let me provide a link to a rather erudite fellow, Robert Pinsky, who didn't forget to reflect, at length, on love and literature in Slate.

Photo Credits:
Picture of Robert Pinsky comes courtesy of The Academy of American Poets
Picture of Homer Simpson comes courtesy of Zapin.info