foodie forever -- Part III

I haven't written about my last day in NYC because the sheer quantity of food and sugar that I ingested on Sunday was seriously obscene(not looking for a repeat performance any time soon). Before going on, I'm going to backtrack a bit to Dylan's Candy Store and Maltese puppies. Pictures are courtesy of Tiff, as always. We wandered by after brunch on Saturday and before our exhaustive tour of the Met. Dylan's boasts a candy staircase with hard candies displayed nicely under florescent plastic steps. Like all stores, this one was crowded with children and adults streaming towards the chocolate and cupcakes. Even though New York is teeming with people, it has a nice feel to it. The people are intense, but friendly at the same time (I think) and relatively well-educated.

Then we passed by a pet store with some adorable puppies, especially this Maltese that was begging for us to take it home. Although I'm not really an animal person, I wouldn't mind having a tiny ball of fur of my own. On the other hand, I strongly feel that people shouldn't have pets at all. It seems utterly cruel to force animals to live in a completely unnatural and superficial environment instead of being out in the wild. I felt terribly sorry for a set of miserable puppies that were going crazy and running up and down the walls of their cage. No, I'm not an animal activist...or an activist for anything.

On Sunday, we started off the day with brunch at Sarabeth's on the upper west side. I had some amazing salmon eggs benedict (what I usually order for brunch), a bite of the most amazing farmer's omlette ever, another bite of the softest fruit muffin with melted butter, a good amount of four flowers'' mimosa, and bread pudding and their famous 'chubbies' (chocolate cookies) for dessert.

After that extremely satisfying meal, we went by Beard Papa's and Grom, but were all too stuffed to feast on cream puffs and gelato (mmmm...gelato). Instead, we went to Levain Bakery, where we invested in a huge chocolate chip cookie that must have had at least a pound of melted chocolate chips embedded in the dough, a chocolate and peanut chunk cookie, and a rather disappointing rasberry twist brioche. Then it was on to Crumbs for red velvet and mocha cupcakes (which would be consumed about three hours later), and finally to Jacques Torres for an assortment of fine chocolates and cocoa powder dusted almonds.

Although I felt like I was going to explode, I still took part in demolishing some delicious, warm, and microwaved melted red velvet cake. We then went to Giorgio's in Gramercy (Italian is wonderful when you're already stuffed to the gills). For starters, we had some crispy calamari and artichokes as well as a beet salad with an interesting spice. Amy guessed rosemary and I guessed basil (she was correct). For our main course, we split a dish of divine glazed duck breast and another of linguini with lobsters and shrimp. The handmade pasta was al dente to perfection and quite lovely. I was positive that I was going to die at this point, but what sane person passes on dessert? we had a refreshing sorbet trio and their 'flagship' dessert of warm and gooey s'mores cake. After that, we went back to the hotel in Chelsea and collapsed. I didn't think that I would be able to eat again for at least a week (I was very wrong, as usual).

The very next day, I ingested another Jamba Juice for lunch and a Nathan's hot dog in the afternoon at Penn Station. Back at home, I ate dumplings, crabs and lobster, steamed salmon, hand-rolled noodles with pork and mushrooms, english muffins with cheese, bacon, and eggs, steamed buns with melted brown sugar in the center, fried flatbread, and much more over the next week...

gorging myself -- Part II

On Saturday, I started off with a smoothie from Jamba Juice. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that it was my first time there. For someone who professes to be such a foodie, I can't believe that I missed out on something so wonderful (maybe because it's actually healthy). Seriously, if I lived across the street from Jamba Juice, I would go there every morning, even in the middle of winter.

Brunch was at Jojo's, a nice cozy little place on the upper east side. I love restaurants that generally cater to an older crowd because they're calm and the decor is understated (and I'm on my best behavior). When eating, ambiance is not terribly important to me, but comfort is an added bonus. At Jojo's, the three of us shared six small plates: Tuna tartare with chive oil and gaufrette (wafer-like) potatoes; salmon with truffled mashed potatoes and brussels sprouts; hanger steak with gingered mushrooms, asparagus, and soy caramel sauce; cod with marinated vegetables; basil ravioli with Parmesan; and shrimp with salad and a tomato champagne marinade. We finished off with some sorbet. The food was excellent, especially the steak, salmon, and ravioli.

After our atypical brunch, we went to the Met. I was there last when I was ten and didn't remember a single thing. This time, I made sure to go through most of sections (skipping Medieval art and Cypriot art), with highlights in nineteenth century European art, Modern Art, and interesting exhibits in the Oceania wing. Of course, we topped off the whole experience with the lighting of the Christmas tree inside the museum. The lighting itself was masterfully done, with a bottom-up approach and a gradual shift from blue to white light for the nativity scene below the tree.

For dinner, we went to the East Village in search of shabu shabu. Shabu-Tatsu had an hour and a half wait, so we wandered down the street and found Sharaku, a nice little place on the corner that served hot pot. We started off with some sushi and sashimi and ended up cooking awesome tasting meat, vermicelli,and vegetables piece by piece in our pot (we take the process very seriously). I loved the peanut dipping sauce and the other, lighter soy sauce mixture.

We had to get dessert after all of that food, so we went to ChickaLicious. The place was very small (like most dessert places in NYC), but was pretty delicious. We got the tasting menu paired with wines. First, there was some sorbet to cleanse the palette. Then there were three desserts: chocolate cake, sweet potato souffle, and baked pear in parchment paper. I also remember some very good maple syrup ice cream on the side. Of course, the dessert wines were lovely (and strong), with glasses of port, sherry, and madeira that we passed around. Finally, we ended with petit fours, which were quite heavenly. The picture is courtesy of my friend Tiff and her iphone.


On our way back to the hotel, we stopped by Daydream, where we actually got a free ice cream because one of my friends submitted a name for it a few weeks ago (she did not pick daydream). Although it was clearly a Red Mango/Pinkberry wannabe, I liked Daydream much better because its ice cream had less of the traditional sour milk taste. The fruit toppings were quite good (I especially liked the pomegranate and rasberries), as well as the almonds. That marked the end of eating for the day and I felt comfortably full. Tiff later burned off all of the calories on the treadmill at one in the morning while zipping through two editions of wsj while I vegged out in front of the TV and watched CSI:Miami and WaT reruns.

eating until I drop

My motto is doing everything to excess. Moderation is for wimps and people with self-control. When it comes to food, everything else flies out the window...this might explain three days of non-stop eating in NYC last weekend (honestly, who else can hit three bakeries, a gelato place, and a chocolate shop all within two hours right after brunch?).

On Friday evening, I rolled into NY on boltbus ready to get a head start on my food orgy for the weekend. At around 7PM, my friends and I went to K-town, where we always make a pit stop at least once. Korean BBQ's always the way to go, especially in a restaurant with three foot high pumes of smoke leaping from the grill in the middle of the table. Our destination was Shilla and four types of meat for our BBQ, the standard beef bulgogi and kalbi, and pork and chicken as well. Of course, I always get the seafood pancake to start and enjoy all of the little dishes (minus the kimchi). Maybe it's because I'm Asian, but the food is just so satisfying (not that pasta isn't excellent) and homey.

After ingesting a week's worth of meat, we headed down the street to Koryodang, a Korean bakery, where I purchased some tiramisu and a scrumptious mocha cake that turned out to be 90% frosting and 10% cake. We then went across the street to Red Mango, where I gulped down my tiramisu surreptitiously while everyone else munched on overrated ice cream. Red Mango and Pinkberry are so hot right now, they'd actually be doing well in this economy if they were publically traded. As for myself, I'm not a fan of the sour yogurt taste and have avoided it since childhood, where I tried it in a liquid milk form. I confess that I do have mixed feelings about Asian pastries. On the one hand, it's great to eat something that's so airy that it's barely there and lacking the cloying, nauseating sweetness that's the hallmark of industrial-grade frosting. However, it just doesn't quite seem like a real full-bodied cake. Nevertheless, I loved the tiramisu and its liberal dust of cocoa powder on top and was indifferent towards the unbalanced mocha cake.

Afterwards, we went to Times Square and to the Charmin/Duracell store. The idea of promoting something like toilet paper is very strange because it's a commodity (same with batteries). Moreover, we belong to a culture where bodily functions aren't really discussed in polite everyday converation. The Charmin store had around 20 toilet stalls and a comedian with several helpers directing people to each stall. People stood in line to go to one of these 'special bathrooms' (myself included) while he made remarks including "drop it while it's hot" and asked a young boy if he could handle going to the bathroom by himself. The duracell store had bikes/snowmobiles that you could petal in order to generate energy. My conclusion: some products just can't be placed, no matter how good the advertising. Also, since Charmin and Duracell are the top competitors in their generic markets (besides Scott's and Energizer), I'm not sure that they needed more advertising. Nonetheless, it was fun and we finished off the evening with some Godiva truffles and turkish delight.

the thanksgiving experience: amtrak

On Wednesday morning, I took Amtrak back to my parents' as usual. My hectic one month contract theory class finally wrapped up, and I staggered onto the train completely sleep deprived to the point of not being able to nap on the train. So I did the next best thing: eavesdrop on the conversation in front of me while indulging in some emotionally draining short stories by Joyce Carol Oates.

The guy sitting in front of me was a total asshole. He was some 'bigshot' in the movie industry and completely full of it while misrepresenting himself as sensitive and nice. Of course, he was trying to impress the girl sitting next to him. A snippet of their conversation (the entire train could hear him):

"So, like, you know all the popular songs on the radio? That's all me. Yeah, like, I promote these new bands. You know how some people have like dirty laundry in their duffel? I have all these CDs in my bag that are the next hottest thing. They haven't even been released yet, but this band toured with Nickelback, and they're going to be like #1 next year."

I prefer 40 year old men who don't sound like 15 year olds. Maybe they think they get a free pass to be immature if they work in the entertainment industry. This guy spent four hours hitting on the woman next to him, buying her a beer, telling her that he was close to his mom, but not a momma's boy, or maybe he was a momma's boy, and his biggest problem was that he was too trusting of others and so emotionally vulnerable (I was trying not to laugh at this point). The girl seemed extremely sensible and refused to give him her phone number even after he gave her a CD that was going to be released next February.

In the middle of their conversation, this schmuck was in an area with no reception (frequently happens on Amtrak) and borrowed the girl's phone to call his office in order to strut his stuff. What followed was a long and particularly vile string of obscenities that made the ancient Roman Catholic priest sitting next to me wake up and look around dolefully. Maybe I am picky, but I prefer guys who don't try 200% at being cool, aren't stuck in their teenage years, not momma's boys, not oversensitive, and who don't party all night followed by beer and bagels for breakfast.

Near the end of my train ride, I did strike up a conversation with the Catholic priest sitting next to me. We talked quite a bit about psychology (of which I am completely ignorant), and I was surprised that he was so well read. He was surprised that I knew what the TVA was (we eventually branched out into the history of the US, of which I am slightly less ignorant). I generally get along well with older people. They're considerate and well-mannered, and don't have the need to prove themselves that many young people possess (myself included). So many people my age and a bit older are at a crossroads and not as self-confident as they would like to believe. To cover it up, so many of us walk around awkwardly with a brittle and slightly defensive air. I do believe in the saying 'fake it 'till you make it' to a certain extent, but sometimes I want to meet people my age who care about more than just their jobs and their coolness. Maybe I should stick to the old people. Or move to Europe.

the solace of bond

I was not able to resist seeing The Quantum of Solace on Friday, even while drowning in school (sort of like blogging at this moment). And yes, the reviews were spot on. The film itself was spotty in many places and not quite as introspective as its predecessor or its title might suggest. It held itself together much better than most action movies, although Bond movies generally fare quite well in that respect with the exception of Die Another Day and Never Say Never Again (who the hell casts Rowan Atkinson in a Bond movie?). The action scenes were plentiful and much too short. Contrary to popular belief, most Americans don't have ADD even if they are popping ritalin, and I resent movies that blithely assume otherwise. Even action flicks don't get a pass on that one. The plot was much less gripping in Casino Royale, the gadgets nonexistent except for a groovy touch screen that was less cool than CNN's on election night. Daniel Craig was excellent, perhaps even more so here than in Casino Royale. The rest of the characters were fine but nothing out of the ordinary. Once again, I seem to have shot myself in the foot with my high expectations.

Funnily enough, I don't actually remember Casino Royale except that it was good, the opening parcour scene was the highlight, and Mads Mikkelsen was the villain. Like Batman Begins, I don't think Casino Royale is terribly special. Granted, I love this new approach to James Bond (which hero/superhero hasn't gotten a makeover in the last ten years?) and the grittiness that's infused into every remake. Anyone who knows me knows that I love this Bond. Cold, efficient, acerbic, and rough beyond the edges. It's charming to see a softer Bond in Casino Royale brutally transform into a darker version of himself who's completely indifferent between killing and maiming his enemies. Both Bond films owe much of their credit to Daniel Craig, especially Quantum of Solace, which would have folded without him.

For the longest time, most of the population including myself couldn't figure out what 'Quantum of Solace' really meant. Of course, its literal translation is measure of comfort, but it's much more than that. It's the spark that is fundamental to any relationship, the bit of deep affection (different from love) that one person sustains for the other. And yes, people delight in extinguishing that quantum of solace in each other, not always consciously and sometimes without intention, but it happens nonetheless. Rip it away and the whole thing goes. The result is a deep sense of being broken beyond repair and feeling complete indifference and bleakness where hatred doesn't even exist anymore. Stepping back from my melodramatic soapbox, this movie is not remotely soulful and much less delicate than Casino Royale. However, I love the notion that Bond does regain his Quantum of Solace (I'm not sure that it would be possible in real life), and that idea alone makes up for many of the movie's other shortcomings.

I loved Olga Kurylenko's character Camille, although I couldn't exactly point to above average acting as the cause. Camille is just the right blend of toughness and vulnerability. She takes herself much more seriously than other Bond girls and tenaciously asserts her independence. And her hand to hand combat skills kick ass. I liked the idea of an emotional relationship between her and Bond rather than the requisite bed involved. The other 'Bond girl' (I shudder when I say that) was completely and utterly unnecessary, not to mention what must be the worst pick-up line ever...Moreover, I have to say that I wasn't a huge fan of M in this movie. She should be in the background because no scriptwriter in this era has ever written anything remotely decent for a female director in a spy organization (Pam Landy, Bourne, anyone?).

Quantum of Solace might have benefited from longer scenes. It was much too lean, even for an action movie. In that respect, Casino Royale was definitely better paced. However, there were a few scenes in Quantum that really stood out for me. The most vivid and absolutely stunning scene is where Bond and Camille walk through the desert. His dusty black suit and her black dress against the yellow-white background is stunning in a way that is both overwhelming and understated at the same time. There are only two colors (Thank God she's not a redhead), ochre and black, but the imagery is so paradoxical, rich and desolate at the same time. I would go back just to see that scene.

Goodness, I've realized that I've written a generally positive review about a movie that was only slightly better than average. What is the world coming to? Maybe I need to watch it again just to be clear.

heard today

Friend: We have so many things to do!
Friend: Like watching Bolt, and making dumplings.
Me: And read finance papers.
*pause*
Me: Sorry.
Friend: I almost threw up there.
Me: Yeah.
Friend: It's understandable.
Friend: Finance does that to people.
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Friend: I have a weird interview for some "Research Assistant to the Vice Chairman" position.
Friend: I wonder if that's the official title for "bitch". Seriously, it seems really sketchy.
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About Crusoe:
Friend: He has green eyes! But a faux tan. That's hard for me to deal with.
Me: Is that a deal-breaker?
Friend: I don't know. He's yummier than Craig.
Me: I thought green eyes = hot for you.
Friend: Dude, a face is more than the sum of its parts. Although green eyes are yummy.
Me: You are too funny today.
Friend: What?
Friend: I mean, I objectify men, but not usually that much.

solace in swimming

A friend recently pointed out to me that my blog is generally very predictable. To be extra special today, I'll combine two or more predictable topics.

First, I went swimming this morning...something that I've been looking forward to for two days. I haven't really been keeping up with my non-existent exercising regimen, so I was pretty happy when I jumped into the pool Tuesday morning. A few hours later, I received an email informing me that the pool was closed until further notice due to 'mechanical failure'. I was slightly disturbed and my brain went into hyperdrive...did they OD the place with chemicals? Did the filters stop working? Did I ingest something potentially deadly and the gym staff neglected to inform me to avoid widespread panic? Wednesday morning, it all became clear to me. Apparently the bulkhead broke (or something), and now the pool was standard 50M long course. Of course, this made me really excited and desperately wanting to try out the longer distance. The last time I swam in a LC pool was back in undergrad. The really awesome thing about swimming 50M rather than 25M is the feeling of covering more distance and for longer periods.

In all, it pretty nice just to have a change of pace once in awhile. I did about 2,300M total, a 500 warm-up, 300 swim, 100 pull, 100 kick. Then three 500s and a 300 cool-down. The emphasis was on my stroke and not my turns, which is pretty awesome. It also means that I can breathe better because I'm not turning every few seconds. I only attempted 50M backstroke, and it was a killer. Otherwise, I never felt like the other end was miles away. The only negative aspect was the the water temperature was about 10 degrees hotter than normal (maybe something else did malfunction), which makes cold-blooded creatures like me overheat and struggle to breathe (something that I do normally). Other than that, everything was just peachy. I'm still working on consistency, kicking, and futile attempts at butterfly. Apparently the kicking wasn't so good because I got out of the pool barely able to lift my arms over the head but walking just fine. It's so instinctive for me to bring my kick down to a minimum (5% capacity) over longer distances and power my way through with my arms. Maybe I'll increase the pace the last 100 or so, but the bulk of my work-out is upper-body.

After my sublime watery experience, I then went to King of Prussia for a suit. Apparently my body did some massive reconfiguration in the last three years (when I got my last suit), and I absolutely refuse to go to any more interviews in my fugly and ill-fitting pink-dotted black suit. Also, interviews matter a lot more to me now than back then. Times change. Circumstances change. People change. But back to my suit from the Limited. Is it possible for me to wear a size 8 jacket and size 2 skirt? Yes, but then I look completely unbalanced. I went up to a size 4 skirt in order not look like a complete upside down wedge. Side note: apparently bebe dresses fit me pretty well. Big boobs. Sizeable ass. Hopefully small everywhere else. I'll go to bebe again if I ever want to audition for Tramp-a-lot or Hoes in the Hood.

After wandering around looking at bags and trying on shoes (two areas which my brain is just not wired for), I gave up and went to indulge in Quantum of Solace with ugly sexy Daniel Craig. TBC.

almodovar tinged dreams

Most of my dreams are frustratingly normal, so imagine my surprise last night when I experienced loads of women running around on a bus, broken relationships, some useless man getting killed, and various scenarios repeating themselves. If I actually dreamed in color, I'm sure the Almodovar style garish pink-red blood would have played an integral role as well. When I woke up, I realized that my subconscious was telling me to watch Live Flesh (1997), where a bus features prominently in the first scene.

While solid, Live Flesh is not one of Almodovar's better movies. It is the only Almodovar movie to adapt the screenplay from a book, and it shows. From the first important scene (about ten minutes into the movie), I immediately knew what was going to follow in the next 85 minutes. Although it's possible that I've seen enough of his movies by now to predict the ending, I'm generally far from clairvoyant regarding movie endings. Obviously, this made this particular movie much less enjoyable. Something that Almodovar does well is plot twists and offbeat humor, both of which are diluted down in this movie. All of his movies carry familiar and small predictable components, but this was just ridiculous.

The major problem with Live Flesh is that the focus was on the men. Almodovar gets such amazing acting from his actresses. He coaxes so many emotions from women's faces, their bodies, and their dialogue. His women are nuanced, fiery, and absolutely beautiful characters. There's no such connection between the director and his actors. His men are generally cretins and two-dimensional: philanderers, drunks, and murderers alike. In Live Flesh, the men still satisfy all of the standard requirements but are thrust into center stage. The two female leads are atypical Almodovar women. They retain their emotional instability but also add passivity, weakness, and a penchant for failure into the mix.

Javier Bardem has been on my potential actor-to-watch list after Vicky Cristina Barcelona. He was good in this movie but not great. I have yet to see No Country for Old Men, which I'm absolutely dying to see. Penelope Cruz also has a short cameo in this movie, and she's definitely on my actress-to-watch list after VCB and Volver. The acting was fine and there was some humor in this movie, but it was less emotional and original than Almodovar's other works. Allowances must always be made for Almodovar movies, which often combine strange people, strange situations, and strange symbolism. The hero was mildly sympathetic and the heroine could as well have been a piece of cardboard, but I just can't fathom the progression of their non-relationship.

Live Flesh does exhibit some quirkiness, but the characters drag it down. Nonetheless, it possesses one of the loveliest love scenes ever. EVER. A few of the other relationshippy scenes are light and beautifully crafted, but the entire package falls short. I recommend Volver, which is everything that this movie is not. Pedro, please stick with empowering women among a backdrop of worthless men. Thank you very much.

appearance is everything

I was going to write something about the Philadelphia Orchestra or another Almodovar movie, but I've decided that worrying about my appearance should be my number one priority. I spend approximately thirty minutes on make-up, three to four days on shopping, and zero seconds prancing in front of my mirror each year. In fact, I sometimes take pride in wearing sweatpants and sneakers around this ultra-preppy Ivy League campus. But this is all wrong. Since I'll never again be as attractive as I am now, I should wear three inch heels, pluck my eyebrows daily, apply loads of powder and polish, and flirt scandalously with random men in bars so I can create some progeny before my eggs shrivel and my face looks like a wrinkled head of cabbage.

Seriously, I went to a small Halloween get-together a few days ago as a '70s disco girl. I paired a huge Afro with some Elvis sunglasses, a retro one-shouldered Express shirt, and some white jeans (the clothing was actually mine). People were suitably impressed. The good thing about looking like a bum all the time is that you really make a strong statement on the rare occasion when you look normal, or god-forbid, nice.

First, everyone loved the Afro. The only connection that I could find was that the wig was round and my face was round. For one evening, I looked completely different. I don't think I've ever styled my hair before and I've had almost the same haircut for more than ten years running. Hair and shoes are two things that I will probably never understand. I can do two hairstyles: ponytail and down. Go me. My hair is so flat and slippery straight that it will never curl. Period. And I refuse to get a perm and be left with some permanent kinky and coarse mess with the consistency of a rug. Then there's make-up and heels and a bag and an outfit and...ugh.

The old saying of "Don't judge a book by its cover" is theoretically correct, but lacking in several respects. It's highly unlikely that someone browsing in a bookstore is going to pick up a dull brown book over a snazzy blue leaflet with gold lettering. Of course, there are people who go to bookstores or Amazon with a specific title in mind, but considering the massive decline in reading each year, that population is sadly dwindling. I understand the motivation. We're all extremely visual. Substance is great, but it'll never be discovered if no one cares to take the first look. I'm not one of those women who oppose the idea of looking pretty on philopsophical terms, objectification and sexualization and blah blah, it's just that I've never really cared about my looks.

Now, a couple of us are planning to lose some weight, which is furthering my goal to look like an attractive young woman. Weight loss is something that I've never seriously contemplated, probably because I'm a huge foodie. The reason why I spend so little on clothing is because I prefer to eat out and eat out well. Also, since ice cream and chocolate are integral parts of my daily existence, dieting clearly isn't an option. On the exercise front, I'm somewhat in shape, although not what I would consider in good shape. I try to go to the gym every other day, but I probably need to go every day on this new plan. And I should run or do some land exercise...otherwise I'll suffer from osteoporosis.

On one hand, I do want to look pretty and cute (and I'm about to gag now). But... (there's always a but) I don't enjoy receiving attention. I prefer to be anonymous and relatively normal. No psychoanalyzing here, but there must be some reason that I panic and run when two nice guys, Mike and Bill, introduce themselves at a bar and hold out their hands for me to shake. I suspect (or know) that the reason why I'm so blase about my appearance is because this isn't something that I'm uberconfident in. In a few short months, I'll be out of my protective bubble and forced into the plasticky and shallow real world, so time to reinvent myself and find my style (I did not just say that).

Mad for Mads

I'm not generally a fan of actors who portray ambiguous characters and don't speak much English, but Mads Mikkelsen is an exception. I loved him in After the Wedding, where he was so quiet on the outside, but just an explosion of emotion on the inside. A few weekends ago, I saw Open Hearts and The Green Butchers, both solid Danish imports as usual.

Open Hearts was extremely difficult for me to sit through. In true Dogme style (directed by Susanne Bier), there were no frills or softness. The story is abjectly sad and somewhat similar in storyline to Lars Von Trier's Breaking the Waves (I couldn't finish that movie either). A young man gets run over by a repentant mother and becomes paralyzed from the neck down. His fiance is devasted and starts screwing the guilty woman's husband...etc. Even though the movie could possibly have been even bleaker, the subject matter was just too weighty. Seeing Mads cry didn't help either.

As a frequent American moviegoer, I depend quite a bit on special effects and the soundtrack. Nonetheless, I also enjoy 'realistic' movies such as The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Open Hearts was just too bleak and the characters too flawed and realistic. Even though all of the characters are essentially good people who sometimes make bad decisions, there's a sheen of rawness and ugliness over some of the scenes. I was really frustrated by Mads's character as well, who's somewhat of a middle-aged pathetic pansy. However, His wife is wonderful and the real hero of the movie in my eyes, who tries to hold her family together even while she's falling apart. The other woman is annoying as well. On one hand, she deserves some sympathy after her boyfriend falls apart, but then she goes and messes up the doctor and his family's lives. I guess I despise characters who have their cake and eat it too.

The Green Butchers is a dark comedy and completely different. I enjoyed this movie as well. Without the pyrotechnics and profuse sentiment that virtually lurks in every American film, the story was simple and flowed nicely. Although Mads's character is arguably worse in this movie, he was so over the top that it was funny. He plays a psychopath butcher who dreams of opening his own shop and eventually does. This butcher has overflowing reservoirs of self-pity, a receding hairline that redefines receding, and a propensity to sweat more than any other animal alive. His partner in crime is a young man who's perpetually stoned and makes a habit of killing small animals and preserving their bones dinosaur style. For anyone who's curious, the stoner's the sane one. One never really sympathizes with Mads, but he's absolutely hilarious, melting in puddles of his own sweat.

This movie is charmingly simple and accepting of its good but not excellent status. Maybe I've just watched a spate of horrible American movies lately (Max Payne and Bangkok Dangerous), but it just seems that European movies flow much better. So many action movies, comedies, and even dramas feel choppy nowadays with crater-sized holes in plot development and nonexistent scripts rife with stupidity. While the camerawork is undeniably better (for $100M more), so many fundamentals are missing. I enjoy watching European movies because they are more character driven, quirky, and possess a solid storyline and above average dialogue. This is not to say that I hate American movies since most of my all time favorites are Hollywood produced. Granted, having a meaningful conversation onscreen might be more difficult than creating a 50 car pile-up at the entrance of a nuclear reactor with F-15s flying overhead, but please make an effort. It'll cost less, too.

my chick-flicky weekend

I saw three non-chick-flicky chick-flicks Saturday and Sunday. On Saturday, the girls and I managed to squeeze in Vicky Cristina Barcelona between an orgy of dinner at Penang, wine, cheese, and chocolate at Tangerine (aka the suicide lounge), and duck salad and more chocolate at Buddakan around midnight. Self-indulgence, anyone?

Vicky Cristina Barcelona is well-made and quirky, though not terribly lovable. I would have to say that it turned out better than I expected, since I typically expect nothing from 'girly' films. Although I sometimes have issues with 'realistic' movies, I liked the soft colors and tempo of this one. The performances were extremely good, especially Penelope Cruz, who lit the movie on fire and stole every scene as the neurotic genius bent on self-destruction. I've never actually seen her in a movie before, so her stellar performance was quite shocking. I do like Scarlett Johansson, though not in Vicky Cristina Barcelona. Her character, neither Vicky nor Barcelona, is too stereotypical as the whimsical, unstable, dabbler of modest talent. Even though Penelope Cruz was amazing, I have a special place in my heart for Vicky, who could have been me if I were only 5'9", skinny, white, and a student of Catalan history. Vicky is abrupt and slightly awkward, yet strangely vulnerable. Of all the characters, she was the most realistic and the only person who seemed to suffer the consequences for her mistakes.

The plot itself was rather loose and rambling, but charming until the last ten minutes when everything ended very abruptly and unsatisfactorily in true Vicky style. On the whole, I can't really categorize this film as happy or sad. I do want to visit Barcelona now, if just to marvel at Gaudi (I love his work, although I'm a fan of anything Art Nouveau and Mucha especially). I'll pass on the torrid affairs and flings. For a Woody Allen film, this one was actually quite sharp in comparison to some of his other inspirations. I was also introduced to Javier Bardem for the first time and enjoyed his quiet intensity immensely. He and Penelope Cruz make a lovely pair. It was a pleasant movie with a self-indulgent air, but by no means a masterpiece.

On Sunday, we kicked off with Indian for lunch and had dinner at Amada, which was superb. I'm completely ignorant when it comes to wine, but I tasted heaven on my tongue that evening with the combination of a glass of rioja and fig and prosciutto salad...let's not forget the lamb chops stuffed with goat cheese and fried bananas with maple syrup ice cream for dessert. Sometimes food does trump all else, especially when it's tapas.

We followed our extraordinary gastronomical experience with Pedro Almodovar's Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown and Judd Apatow's Forgetting Sarah Marshall. I have fond memories of Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, which I saw five years ago at the Brattle Theater in Harvard Square. The Brattle is such a wonderfully small independent theater with an awesome atmosphere and supportive audiences, which made the movie one of my favorites of all time. It was also the first non-mainstream movie I had ever seen, so it was personal and groundbreaking on so many levels.

Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown is my favorite Almodovar movie. All of his films are extremely innovative, but I just don't identify with transsexuals and impregnating comatose women. Call me conservative. This early 1988 flick, although weird and crazy in its own way, is fundamentally about women and hysteria, which I can relate to. The first half is very slow and even slightly dull, then picks up steam and character in a hurry. To my surprise, I did not like this film nearly as much the second time around. So much of it hinges on suspense and unpredictability that I was not enthralled at all (and I was in a food coma).

The story is woven well enough, with a loose yet compact structure. The women are clearly the centerpiece and do a masterful job of it. One clever twist is that the man whom the story revolves around is barely given any screen time. It's all about women in their element, combining neuroses and hysteria with incredible strength and sense. Conclusion: A woman is a mass of walking contradictions. Another treat is seeing a young Antonio Banderas before he donned a cape and dancing shoes. It is a fun movie to watch, full of surprises and laughs.

Forgetting Sarah Marshall was not my cup of tea. In my view, Apatow isn't a genius and his students also aren't geniuses. Moreover, I don't like the ensemble cast that drifts through each of his films, especially Jonah Hill and Bill Hader to a lesser degree (I'm going to get mobbed tomorrow). Even Paul Rudd, whom I usually love, grates on my nerves as the chill stoner type. This movie didn't make it into my top 500 because I just had trouble relating. Jason Segel as the perpetually weepy nice guy who constantly gets shafted is all right, but not terribly lovable in my eyes. Kristen Bell wasn't spectacular, but maybe that's because I was expecting so much from her stint on Veronica Mars.

The plot was fine and even slightly original, but there was an insouciance and flatness about the movie that I couldn't get over. However, the scenery was very nice, especially Jason Segel's wardrobe. Mmmmm...I'm a sucker for baby blue button-down shirts and khakis or a casual suit with flip flops. I liked the ending, but everything leading up to it was pretty much just blah. Maybe I just don't appreciate comedies. Or just Apatow movies.

stint in suburbia

Today concludes my brief stint in suburbia. I rode back on Amtrak, which was uneventful as always. The little patch between New London and Kingston is the prettiest, especially the silvery waves along Mystic and little inlets where motorboats glide past. The marshes are also charming in an unassuming way. There are always one or two swans lazily floating and a whole boatload of herons just standing there. It's nice to get out of the city for a while and see green and blue and other colors besides gray, brown, and black.

I went home on Wednesday, and the first good thing that happened to me was my dad's cooking. It was the simplest meal ever, but so good. Noodles and stir fried green peppers. Besides being an excellent cook, my dad also apparently has a green thumb. There are suddenly deep green jasmine plants on the windowsill and an explosion of red and yellow flowers in the urn outside our porch. Bedtime for me is suddenly 11PM rather than 3AM, and everything is pitch black at night and disturbingly quiet.

On Thursday, I went running on the bike path near my house and somehow managed 4 miles (divine intervention). It's nice to say hi to everyone I pass, and smile at the woman leading her freaked out teenage daughter on roller blades. I think the daughter's roller blading skills are slightly superior to my running skills. On the way home, I stepped off the sidewalk so a boy on his bike could pass me, and he said thank you so politely that I was touched. Then I came upon his mom and some other mom talking about casseroles and arranging a play date for their kids. Finally, as I walked down my street, an adorable little girl in a summery green dress with white lace trimming ran past me barefoot with her school project in her hand. There's something to be said about the burbs. It's so idyllic and safe. I know if I had kids under 12, I wouldn't want them running around NYC or Philly alone.

Friday started off with some fishing with my dad. I managed to get one small bluefish in two hours, which was unceremoniously strung up on the big pole and eventually lost its life to a crab. Dad fared much better with three flukes, two crabs, and one latex glove. Then we stopped by a local farm stand and bought a few ears of gigantic sugar-butter corn. It's always nice to pick out ears of corn from a burlap sack and smell the sharp tang of limes, herbs, and cinnamon in the air. I also think it's cool that the owners bottle their own cream soda.

In the afternoon, I mowed the lawn, which was a herculean effort in itself since I could barely walk from Thursday. I probably looked like a penguin suffering from osteoperosis. It wouldn't be so bad except that my house is on a hill. A hill that looks deceptively mild until you a) try to park your car on the driveway, or b) mow the lawn. I think the key to mowing a lawn is to wear a hat and breathe through your nose so that bugs/dirt/grass doesn't end up clogging your throat. Still, I'd have to say that freshly cut grass is one of my favorite smells, and I get a workout on the side.

Conclusion? Suburbia is good in micro-doses, and maybe if you plan to have small children and/or small animals someday.

another swimming post

Apparently I'm hopelessly addicted to swimming. I don't actually swim that much, but I devote a large chunk of my day (what's not used for Chinese) to reading, thinking, talking, and dreaming about swimming. Today I did manage to visit the pool and do my usual workout of about 2000 meters, 95% of it freestyle. After my usual 300 warm-up and 200 pull, I was doing 200 kick (albeit painfully and slowly) when the guy in my lane left and a backstroke god-like male specimen took his place.

This guy had the most awesome dolphin kick ever. His turns were lazy, and he didn't really build off the wall, but he had a Phelpsian kick and went 15M underwater on every lap. Seven strokes to the wall and repeat. He had extremely good form on his backstroke: very precise hands, straight arms, and good shoulder rotation. His strokes looked so lazy, and incredibly perfect. He definitely swam in college. I'd have to say that his freestyle wasn't terribly great, a bit too slow and relaxed. But oh my goodness, his backstroke was to die for. And he was absolutely and unquestionably hot. Blond, nice build, and short red swim trunks. No, he was physically nice, but it's really his backstroke that was smoking.

This swimmer, despite his technical excellence, wasn't actually going that fast. I only got lapped every 200 meters or so, at which time I'd stop for a breather anyway. Or maybe I was inspired to swim a lot faster than my usual lethargic pace. When I'm not on a team or forcing myself to do timed sets, I slack off horribly. I would love to have a swimming partner, preferably someone slightly faster than me (that shouldn't be too difficult). Today, I felt that I swam really well. The second 1000 meters just felt incredibly smooth, maybe because I switched to breathing on both sides. I think it made my stroke more continuous (though I still feel that I over rotate my body), and I think breathing on both sides helps me not get any stomach cramps.

When I was little, I used to hate swimming freestyle. I was much better at backstroke and breaststroke. In a complete turnaround, I now swim freestyle pretty much exclusively. It certainly feels easier than my other strokes. I think my form is all right, though I don't have much speed. I have decent extension, though I could and probably should bend my elbows more when my arms are out the water. My kick bothers me because it's very weak and rather slow. I can't nail down its rhythm or the momentum, especially when I'm breathing. Breathing on both sides probably helps in that regard as well because I find myself stroking a lot faster, which demands a faster kick.

My pet thing about swimming is flip turns. I love slamming off the wall, and ever since the Olympics, doing underwater dolphin kicks. It's amazing how far you can go underwater with a couple of hip thrusts. I usually go 10 meters off the wall. Then I can take less strokes to the other wall! Granted, long underwater stints are fatiguing, and I'm usually feeling it on the 7th or 8th turn. Anyway, I also love gliding, and today's guy had an amazing streamline.

It bothers me that I suck at backstroke now. It was my signature stroke about fifteen years ago. At least Central Jersey thought so. Now I've lost the touch. Rotating my shoulders feels much harder now, and I constantly find myself choking on water that persistently slaps across my face. And I can hardly get my feet up to kick. As for breaststroke, I don't think I've ever mastered it, so I still bobble my way across the pool. Once in a while, I feel that I'm getting the up-down motion correct. Of course, it goes without saying that I love pull-outs. And let's not mention butterfly. If I ever got the hang of that dastardly stroke, I'd more or less consider my life complete.

Professional swimmers always talk about 'feeling the water'. That's where all the shaving comes in. There are definitely days when I feel and swim like a lump of lead. Sometimes I feel weightless in the water, but I'm never sure if it's because I'm swimming extremely smoothly or because I'm not pushing the water at all. However, today felt absolutely extraordinary. I went through 200s and 300s at a decent speed and barely felt it. It was almost like skimming through the water. I would love to join a master's class, but there isn't one close by in Philly besides a gay/lesbian chapter. Still, I think I'm at a place where I definitely need the solid discipline of a coach and a class.

The thing is, I know a bit about swimming, and that knowledge just reinforces how far I am off the mark. People can be confident and swagger when they don't know shit about what they're talking about. It's when you know a little and realize the richness and depth of the subject matter that it truly becomes frightening. You start wondering if you're destined to be sitting in the muck of mediocrity forever or if you can gradually pull yourself up. In any case, I'm really glad to be obsessed with something positive for once (Not that being obsessed with with tv shows and movies is terrible), and moving my lazy bum. Sometimes I frighten myself with my psychotic single-minded obsessiveness, but I hope this one lasts.

Chinese is frying my brain

My days are starting to take shape. Fuzzy until 8:30PM, then 1.5 hours of intense Chinese on the phone with mom followed by a headache and an inability to concentrate on anything except for surfing the web. It's been exactly a week since I started this Chinese regimen, and I'm starting to feel stuck. The first three days were great because I went from nothing to something (you can't get a steeper learning curve than that). Now I'm frustrated by my five year old's vocabulary and absolute ignorance of Chinese grammar. Mom says that the grammar is easy: subject-verb-predicate. Right. Considering that I almost never follow that standard structure in English, I tend to have incorrect word ordering in Chinese.

On the second day, I realized that Chinese grammar really was simple. That doesn't mean that I'm any closer to understanding it, just that there are no articles. It's very strange for me to formulate a sentence without all of the little words in it. In Chinese, it would be something like 'I formulate sentence feel strange'. I can see how difficult it must be to go from Chinese to an alphabet-based language. My sentences feel so bloated and unwieldy. I keep on inserting random blips when I attempt to speak Chinese, and they definitely shouldn't be there.

The last time I touched a foreign language seriously was...never. High school French taught by non-French speaking teachers doesn't count. I also haven't done anything seriously English/Liberal Arts related since high school, causing signficant parts of my brain to atrophy. In general, I can say with confidence that my grasp of language is not wonderful. Today, I spent the hour and a half talking about the Olympics and mostly Fe er pu si (Phelps). I summarized his technical excellence and dominance in freestyle and butterfly. Then I gave some air time to Lochte and his prowess, though not his unhealthy love for McDonald's. I predictably ended by blabbing about the Longhorns. Having not won eight gold medals each in Athens, they don't have online dictionary entries (which apparently can translate Bilbo Baggins but refuses to give me the Chinese characters for Zhang Ziyi), so my speech went something like this: *broken chinese* Peirsol *long string of broken chinese* Hansen *short string of ugly broken chinese* Crocker *gave up on chinese completely*. At least my mom knows a lot now about the US men's swim team.

Having completely neglected Chinese for practically my entire life begs the question: What the hell was I doing? Math, the universal language. Or English, destined to become one of the universal languages at the very least. Today I was humbled in the post office while buying one cent stamps (When did stamps become 42 cents?). Two Chinese girls came up to me and asked me to translate some Chinese written on a piece of paper. The words were fairly common, but I still couldn't read most of them. I should've just said that I wasn't Chinese when they approached me, but I wanted to see if I had learned anything. Apparently not. In this age of instant gratification, why can't I learn a language in a week? Or is google searching the only skill I have left?

Chinese is difficult

Whoo... who knew speaking Chinese for forty minutes would be so dizzying?

It's amazing how much I take English for granted, nonchalantly flinging bits of slang, esoteric words, and banal cliches left and right. What's even more amazing is that I'm basically starting at ground zero for Chinese, even though I'm technically Chinese (double-check that). Hmmm... maybe I'm more Chinese American, or American Chinese (what is that) or American? I have a funny feeling that I implicitly reject Chinese culture due to my disastrous grasp of the language.

I can say that I know all of the dim sum dishes (in Cantonese and Mandarin), but that's not really an achievement. It just means that I'm a pig. Plus, pointing works just as well. In a non-dim sum restaurant, I sometimes order the only dish I can read on the Chinese menu just to feel superior, i.e. green vegetable or boiled chicken. Unfortunately, rice is usually complementary, so that cuts down my vocabulary by half. More often than not, I address the waiters in Chinese and they promptly reply in broken English. Or the waiters take one look at me and start conversing in English. I swear I don't look like the rest of the Chinese population. Maybe it's my air of self-possession and supreme confidence. Nah, it's probably my double chin (two more than the average Chinese girl) and either looking like a beach bum wannabe or like I missed the restaurant that served foie gras and caviar and ended up in Chinatown instead.

It's nothing compared to what actually happens in China. It seems that all of my Chinese American friends have tales to tell about China. More specifically, about how there are three clothing sizes in China, 00000, XXL, and XXXL. I know this because I apparently can only fit into XXL on a good day. Considering that I wear medium sized tops in most American stores and size 4 pants, it's a bit ridiculous that I'm considered morbidly obese in China. Chinese people are not known for their tact. Every cousin and aunt and uncle says to me, "Oh my, you're strong. Strong like a bull. You have arms of tree trunks and legs like monumental pillars." I can't even imagine that a guy would take that as a compliment, and I'm most definitely not a guy. Buying shoes is even more hilarious. I admit that I have huge feet for my height (eight and a half), but the size apparently doesn't exist in China. Venders would look at my feet blankly and state, "It's impossible for any human being to have feet that big." Okaaaaay. How do I respond to that? "I'm not actually a human being. I'm some foreign species with absurdly large feet."

Being obese in China, it's natural for people to chase you down with weight loss pamphlets. It's also uncomfortable when three other people squeeze into a small box of a dressing room and start happily stripping next to you, although that's preferable to the sales lady coming in and dressing you herself, tugging and pulling and pushing and doing god knows what to places-I-don't-ever-want-another-woman-touching-me-unless-she's-my-doctor. I've decided to avoid Chinese department stores altogether. 99% of the time, the salespeople just stare at me condenscendingly and tell me that there's nothing in my size. The remaining 1% is spent at stores which carry XXL and devoted to unwarranted dressing room drama.

Other amusing incidents:
1) Me wearing a raincoat in the summer (it was raining!) and the sales lady asking me if I was from the North Pole.
2) Me singing along to an English music video and the sales lady telling my mom that my English was pretty good.
3) A friend who also didn't speak Chinese well ended up having another concerned parent tell her mom that "there are special schools for people like your daughter."
4) Telling all the sales people that I'm Taiwanese to explain my American accented Chinese.
5) The first question strangers ask my 6'1" friend, "Wow, you're so tall. Do you play basketball?"
6) The first question strangers ask his parents, "What do you feed him?"

Ok, I guess I shouldn't knock China and Chinese people that much (I think I'm really Chinese since my XXL trumps 00000?). We make good food and good Olympics, and that's all that matters.

Disclaimer: I last visited China six years ago, and I hear that Chinese people have gained some weight since then. I'm sure you can find 0000 in stores now as well as XXXXL.

Disclaimer #2: I stretched the truth just a bit for the purposes of this post. I can actually read about 20% of any Chinese menu, but the waitresses still speak to me in English (maybe it's my penchant for blue toenails). I actually wear XL, and I'm sure I saw other sizes ranging from 0000 to 00. Only two other people crammed themselves into my fitting room.

US Open: On the shoulders of giants

This match between Andy Murray (6) of England and Jurgen Melzer of Austria was breath-taking. It was exciting because Melzer was close to winning for a very long time and both players seemed awfully fond of trash-talking and screaming. Murray is known for being surly and angry on the court, even going so far as swearing at the ref once (He later apologized). As the game went on, the stands filled with people who were drawn by all of the buzzing. As in any sports, interesting indicates that either player/team has a chance of winning, which then implies that the underdog is playing the game of his life.

This was a very long match indeed, clocking in at over four hours. We were here for the first set, left to watch some Coin/Mauresmo at Louis Armstrong next door, then promptly came back when that turned out to be terribly uninteresting in comparison. We stood on the top level, which gave us an awesome bird's eye view of the match. I could actually see Andy Murray's face when he was serving. It was also unbelievably sunny during the first few sets, and just seeing the ball's shadow bouncing around on the ground was pretty cool. It's amazing how fast the ball goes, which is impossible to tell when we're looking at the game from the players' perspective. I just kept on jerking my head back and forth in amazement.

Here are the two men, delightfully arguing over calls. However, neither used any of their challenges, leading me to believe that they were just stirring up enmity and getting the crowd's attention. Or there aren't challenges in the Grandstand, which is very strange. Andy Murray is especially funny with his distinctive Scottish accent. Once, when he hit the ball a mile wide, he screamed in frustration, "What is that?" He also kept on screaming "What?" over to Melzer as a mild challenge. Not to be left behind, Melzer didn't skimp on his share of trash-talking (I think I heard a 'damn' somewhere in there). In the second and third sets, both players protested over just about every single call. It made for great entertainment. In the beginning, Andy Murray got into it and sulked and muttered and screamed. Melzer lost his calm a bit later (maybe when Murray taunted him one too many times). I don't think they'll be having a drink together any time soon.

In the third set, Melzer cramped up because he played the first two sets much too hard (Murray was certainly surprised that he dropped both sets). Two trainers came onto the court and rubbed cortisone (or what I think is cortisone) on his legs. Poor man. He just wasn't experienced enough to pace himself, although he might have lost by that point if he had played at a lower intensity. Having faced several five-setters himself, Murray looked soft and definitely uncrisp the first few sets. I doubt that it was deliberate. It's more likely that the young up-and-coming Scot underestimated Melzer's ability. From this point on, there wasn't really any question of who was going to win. After each break, Melzer staggered over to the baseline so stiffly that it was obvious he was going to die of pain. For all that, he still played each point to the best of his ability, running cross court if necessary. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do after his legs gave out, although he still put up a damn good fight. Murray looked a lot more energized the second half of the match, playing much better once he adjusted to what he thought would be an easy win.

This shot was just heartbreaking. It was in the middle of the fifth set, when Melzer was in incredible pain and realized that he was going to lose the game. There's no way to describe the feeling. He put so much into his game, playing through leg cramps, running even though he couldn't walk. I can't believe how much discipline he had to just keep on going. Most people, even professional tennis players, would have quit in the fourth set. It must have been so bitter for Melzer because he was so close to winning in the third set. Instead, all of the trash-talking and cramps didn't bring him victory. It's also a testament to human spirit, the wanting to, needing to keep on going even when the body breaks. Although Melzer might be crushed by his loss, I greatly admire him for the way he played and his unwavering determination. To me, that's far more impressive than Andy Murray coming back in the last two sets. Undoubtedly, getting ahead in the world is all about getting results, but sometimes the effort is praiseworthy as well. I hope I get to see Melzer play in a few more tournaments. I'm sure Andy Murray will be around for quite some time. He's a young 20 to Melzer's 27. At least Murray will always be amusing whenever he steps on the court. He's not quite John McEnroe, but not a bad apprentice either.

The last match that we watched was absolutely amazing as well. The great thing about having day tickets is that we can still watch the night matches (and the day matches end so late that they drag into the night as well). The court gives off a very different vibe at 6PM than at 11AM. Everything's still at night, which makes the game really stand out. In general, things happen at night.

Kei Nishikori, an unknown player (ranked 126th) beat the 4th seed David Ferrer in this five-setter (We only stayed for the first three sets). In many ways, this was similar to the Murray/Melzer match except that the young Japanese phenom prevailed. Nishikori took down the first two sets much too easily. Ferrer looked terribly sluggish. By the third set, it was obvious that Nishikori was caving a bit from fatigue and a lot from pressure. When he first stepped onto the court, he was free as a bird. There were absolutely zero expectations. But when he took the first two sets with well-placed shots, a wicked top-spin, and an excellent forehand, people suddenly expected him to accomplish something. It's amazing that Nishikori managed to come back in the fifth set and take the match away from Ferrer. It's the fairy tale of tennis.

I usually don't root for the underdog, but now I see why others do. It's amazing to go against one of the top ranked players in your sport, face your nerves, stretch your body until it's screaming in pain, and hopefully conquer. It's so brutal and primal, and ultimately sublime. The underdog winning is all about achieving the impossible, rising above statistics and against reason to win. It's the men's 4 by 100 free relay in the Olympics, Michael Phelps out-touching Cavic by 0.01 seconds in the 100 fly, the Patriots winning their first super bowl. The underdog triumphing is a testament to human resilience, the sheer power of will and determination. Oh, how I love sports.

US Open: Day 6

Wow. Even for a tennis ignorant such as myself, the US Open is pretty spectacular. We had day tickets for Louis Armstrong, which guaranteed us good seats in Armstrong and seats in Grandstand and all of the minor courts. Tickets for Arthur Ashe were incredibly hard/impossible to get, but the other matches were spectacular. Essentially, I saw parts of 8 different matches, mens and women's singles and doubles. It was really fun, especially the Murray/Melzer match.

The first two matches at Louis Armstrong were rather lackluster. The first was Sam Querrey of the US upsetting Ivo Karlovic of Croatia, the 14th seed. We only stayed for part of the first set, which was boring because neither players broke serve and...it was just uninteresting overall. Querrey beat Karlovic in straight sets, and by the score, it didn't look like either one broke serve in the first two sets. Maybe it was too early in the day to generate much excitement. I must say that it was the first time in two months that I have woken up before 11, much less at 8:15 AM. We only stayed half an hour into this match and went to watch some women's doubles at 11:30. Querrey went on to make the 4th round without us in attendance.

Then came a second round match of the Chinese women's doubles contingent of Zi Yan/Jie Zheng (seeded 8th), who thoroughly trounced the European team of Lucie Safarova/Mara Santangelo. The Chinese placed the ball extraordinarily well, and the Europeans really didn't have a chance. Safarova crumbled a bit under pressure, and she double faulted several times. There were a lot of Chinese supporters at this match, but they failed to make any noise at all until it was clear that their team would win without any effort. In contrast, we were surrounded by Europeans of different nationalities, all of which screamed "Brava!" and other such Italian phrases as well as conversing in Parisian French.

Then we watched the men's doubles match of Igor Kunitsyn/Dmitry Tursunov and Simon Aspelin/Julian Knowle, who were ranked 6th. We didn't even stay for an entire set in this match, but the ranked team was pretty hot. In particular, Aspelin was hot until he started playing. Needless to say, they were upset in three sets. After this match, we caught a few minutes of Amelie Mauresmo(32) vs Julie Coin. Unseeded Coin suddenly found herself a celebrity after beating top-ranked Ana Ivanovic in the second round on Thursday. This match against Mauresmo, a former #1, was highly anticipated. It turned out to be uninteresting as Mauresmo beat her fellow Frenchwoman in straight sets, 6-4, 6-4. There wasn't anything noticeable about this game except that Mauresmo does look very manly in her uberbuffness. The far more interesting women's singles match was Nadia Petrova (19) vs. Flavia Pennetta (16). That was a thrilling three-setter, which we caught the end of. Both women just pound the ball across the court, but they look graceful while doing it. Pennetta won the first set, lost the second, but persevered in the third. In the third set, it looked as if Petrova was suffering from a toe injury. Both Petrova and Pennetta did very well in 2008 and led undistinguished careers previous to this year. They were pretty fun to watch. As their game stretched on, more people came to the court just like us. We had to wait a while because there's supposed to be no movement allowed when the ball is in play, especially in the players' line of sight while serving. In Armstrong, we had seats directly in the line of sight, so getting up wasn't possible until each break.

The third match in Armstrong, Gael Monfils (32) vs. David Nalbandian (7), was also lackluster at best. Monfils is an up and coming French star, but his playing style is very awkward. His movements are rather jerky, and he looks like he doesn't know where to put his body sometimes. And his sneakers squeak abominably. Monfils is fun to watch because he does little dances and he's a bit flamboyant. He doesn't have the intense look of murderous concentration that seems to be stamped on every other tennis player's face. In his last match, his racket went flying into where the photographers were sitting and he got stuck on the divider while trying to retrieve it. Monfils pulled off a straight-set win over Nalbandian, but it was a boring game. My tennis friend claimed that both players were very out of shape, and Nalbandian had a belly. I'm not sure about the second point, but both Monfils and Nalbandian did not look particularly good on the court compared to the other matches. Even Querrey and Karlovic, while dull, looked smooth. Monfils essentially steamrolled over Nalbandian, 6-3, 6-4, 6-2.

The two amazing matches of the day were Murray/Melzer and Ferrer/Nishikori. These are two instances where watching on TV is incomparable to watching live action. I'm going to wax poetic about my love of sports again, but these two long, grueling games really embody the determination and beauty of tennis, and sports in general. Melzer and Nishikori (as underdogs), fought unbelievably and bravely. In Melzer's case, he played the last two sets through cramps and extreme pain. Nishikori, ranked 126 in the world, lost his composure a bit in the third and fourth sets, but heroically rallied himself and managed to outplay 4th ranked Ferrer in the fifth set. I don't usually cheer for the underdogs, but both gave superhuman efforts. Even though Melzer didn't pull off the mindblowing upset that Nishikori did, he still deserves a lot of credit for pounding Murray during the first three sets and almost wrapping up the match.

Next stop: Wimbledon.

the human condition

On a horizontally challenged roommate:
YJJ: She doesn't like vegetables and only eats fruits, chicken, and turkey.
ME: That sounds pretty healthy to me.
YJJ: I had some blueberries and peaches that I needed to get rid of before this trip, so I offered them to her. She said that she only ate fruit in muffins or tarts.
ME: It all makes sense now.

YJJ: Last week, our apartment got hit by lightening.
YJJ: The only thing that got hit was the TiVo, which got fried. My roommate spent a whole day in front of the TV trying to reprogram it. It's my first time using TiVo, but apparently it records 20 hours on high quality.
YJJ: I was like, "That's pretty great." My roommate freaked out and told me that 20 hours was less than two days worth of TV watching for her. She told me to please use the lower quality option so she could get 80 hours.
ME: ...

A conversation with my physically young but old-at-heart friend who staunchfastly refuses to be labelled as a pessimist and insists on being called Uncle Sam at the tender age of 20. I'm afraid I can't do that, son.

PT: I just realized that you came to Austin after your sophmore year, right?
ME: Yes.
PT: Ah blast. Now I'm old and probably jaded like you too. This is miserable.
ME: Thanks for that lovely picture of myself. If it makes you feel any better, you were always old and slightly jaded.
PT: What?! Bollox.
I was young and filled with ambitious wonderment.
I was like that one song.
I was like yesterday in that beatles song.

PT: I'm trying to figure out if lunch with a co-worker might be kind of strange.
ME: Why?
PT: Well, I don't think I want to engage in small talk right now, but serious business may not reflect well on me. Er...as in talk about what's on my mind right now, which is pretty much politics and school and tie colors.
ME: tie colors?
PT: Yeah, that isn't really on my mind. But it's a cool line.

ME: Tell your mom I said hi.
PT: No, you can tell her yourself.
ME: I want to post some of this on my blog.
PT: Solid.
ME: My god, you sound like a cross between a beatle, king arthur, and a surfer dude.
PT: The crustacean?
Or the British rock group?
Are beatles crustacean?
ME: Um.
PT: Don't think so.

ME: I love how you bash the Olympics because I loved them.
PT: Yeah, the Olympics really bothered me this time around, like inordinately bothered me. Even when I wasn't thinking about them. I hardly watched any as a result. China sucks a nut.
ME: Dude.
PT: I really hope they forfeit the gymnastics gold.
ME: There's no way in hell they're going to forfeit the gold. Plus, no one really gives a crap anymore except you.
PT: ...and the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th place teams? It's just the temerity of it. The whole thing is just a propoganda fest. Sure, that's most Olympics.
ME: Well, yeah.
PT: But this is just egregious.
ME: that's the point.
PT: ...
ME: Or would you prefer something like Athens?
PT: Some place where the Olympics are less an end than a means. This competition just felt like let's make a big show, let's get golds and everything nice on paper.
ME: But it made people watch and appreciate sport. That I do admire the Chinese for.
PT: Seriously, without Michael Phelps, this would have been a sham. Michael Phelps made the Olympics. Him and basketball, I guess.
ME: Yeah.
PT: Michael Phelps got relegated to a pargraph on page 19 of Chinese newspapers.
ME: Well, the Chinese have huge issues with swimming. If it were up to them, they wouldn't even include swimming in the Olympics.
PT: Haha. Or any track aside from hurdles. And even then, they might have found some reason to cancel them.
ME: They'd just have diving, gymnastics, ping pong, and weight lifting.
PT: Weight lifting is just cruel. The way they go to farm villages, pick some plumpy girl out.
ME: You're such a purist.
PT: I'm telling you.
ME: Damn, I would have been picked if I were in China.
PT: I'm not jaded, I'm disappointed.
ME: I don't know why you keep on denying the fact that you're a pessimist.
PT: I'm not a pessimist! I think London is going to be cool.
ME: You appreciate minimalism.
PT: Already they're using the Olympics as an opportunity to uplift some of the slum areas.
ME: Don't worry. The Brits will be toned down.
PT: It's not just the ostentatiousness.
I love big, I love grand.
It's the callousness.
It's the brazen, we're host, so we can pull shit and you can sit down and shut up.
ME: But people didn't shut up.
PT: Yeah they did, the protesters?
ME: There were a lot of articles about the gymnasts and crap.
PT: That's horrific.
ME: It's China.
PT: News articles won't amount to anything. Indeed it is.
ME: How can you expect them to do anything different?
PT: I'm not a pessimist. Hah. Anyway, my mom's stomach grumbles.
ME: You should go. tell her I said HI. PLEASE?
PT: Sure, why not. Call me Uncle Sam in your blog.
ME: Ok.
PT: Deal. Shake and I'm out.
ME: Shake. Man hug. Shoulder slap.
PT: PELVIC THRUST!
gone