Testing cross-posting from Blogger.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
See Spot Pack
“So the years roll on by, and just like the sky the road never ends.” – Allison Krauss
It’s the end of an era.
I moved into this building seven years ago; Spot and I are now preparing to leave it. As this blog owes its name to this apartment, I think the occasion calls for a blog post.
For the info of my (three) dear readers, “Spot on Top of Bar” referred to the fact that our apartment used to be on top of a bar that drew crowds of undergrads with its loud music and relaxed attitude towards underage drinking. It also refers to my best friend Spot, who lives with me, on top of a bar. I kinda miss the bar. The owner used to give me free cappuccino while I watched the World Cup matches in 2006. Yes, I was there when Zizou consolidated his Dark Lord status by bringing France all the way to the final, only to bring them down by getting sent off for headbutting Marco Materazzi.
The bar is no more. In its place is a convenience store that thankfully stocks coconut milk, picture frames and cheap Bounty wipes. The people in the building have changed too. This place is like a freaking airport – so many people have come and have gone. Anna, Jeff, Tristan, Hannah, Paola, Ernie, Jen, Noel, Frances, Chilai, Mae, Mhir, Karla, Leanne. By next week, Spot and I will be added to that list.
It is amazing to me that I have lived in this building for seven years. For most of that time, I’ve never really felt that I could settle down here. In “Fiddler on the Roof” Tevye explains that Jews cover their heads so that if need be they are ready to leave at any moment (e.g. the Exodus). I have always had that subconscious covering over my head, always anticipating a moment of flight. And just when I thought that maybe, this might be home, it is time for me to go again.
I arrived in this country with one large suitcase, one small suitcase, and a backpack. Right now, I am writing this entry in a room with all the furniture pushed against the wall, all the better to accommodate the more or less (actually it’s really more) 25 boxes of my worldly possessions waiting for the moving truck to haul them away. I give the impression that I am moving far away. In fact, I’m only moving four blocks down. But it’s just dawned on me that I have stayed the same place for seven years, and while I could conceivably still stay, I am getting restless.
Even as this new chapter is starting, I can’t help but think of the next great move. I think of Barcelona all the time…perhaps I should take measures to plot my next adventure? In the meantime, I am putting up an image from Casa Batlló on my inspiration board, hoping to channel Gaudi in my decorating efforts.
And because I am kinda sick of Toby, meet Mr. Perfect.
Well, Mr. Almost Perfect. He doesn’t play for Liverpool.
All mine except for Xabi (damn it). Filched from Kickette.com and the Hola Querida blog on Tumblr.
Overheard in Barcelona
K: someone on my asked me on Facebook if I watched the El Clasico. Maybe I should tell him that “the El Clasico” is redundant because “el “= “the.”
Heckle: Shut up, nerd. Nobody cares.
Jeckle: *cackles*
The best part of the trip: I was here.
The second best part: watching Crackovia on TV in Barcelona J:
The other parts (also awesome) are here:
Are you talking about soccer again? And yes, this is a fucking rant!
This morning, as I was waving my Manchester United-loving colleague goodbye and asking him to give my regards to my Arsenal-mad former student, another colleague walked by and kinda snottily remarked:
“Are you talking about soccer again?”
This was not the first time he has said it. Nor was it the second time. Would I really be writing about this if it were just the second time? Really?
I could be the bigger person and let this go. Unfortunately, I am not the bigger person. I am only four feet, eleven and three-fourths inches tall. I am definitely not the bigger person.
It wouldn’t be so bad if the question were just really “Are you talking about soccer again?” You know, the way my father indulgently asks me when he reads about Andres Iniesta’s superb passing and scoring abilities on this blog for the nth time. (My dad, by the way, is a Valencia fan). Or maybe the way my African brother Mustapha says it before joining in the fray and waxing poetic about the Brazilians (the reason he roots for Mee-lan). Or how my students ask with relief as I put up a regression output on the board showing the relationship between summer transfer spending and team ranking on the table of La Primera Division (it seems that being able to explain how David Villa’s 40 million euro transfer fee resulting in FC Barcelona’s number one ranking is more interesting to the students than just talking about “independent variables” and “dependent variables”).
No, the subtext of the question was, “Is there nothing in your head that you have to talk about soccer all the time?”
You know what? I admit that I shamelessly use football to connect with my students. IT WORKS. Just ask the Cambridge-educated bestselling author, Oscar-nominated screenwriter and Arsenal obsessive Nick Hornby. I got the idea from him.
You of all people should know that international students are not as comfortable with or confident in approaching their professors about their academic work, compared to their American counterparts. It takes them a while to open up and ask for help. Football gives us a comfort zone without having to pry into each other’s personal lives. It’s not being unprofessional; it’s being approachable.
I can tell you about an Arsenal fan, who did abysmally on his first exam. I walked with him once and told him he had the built of a footballer, and he laughed. He also admitted that he did not study well first exam, but promised to do much better. He aced all of the remaining exams. A semester later, I find out that this kid plays for his national football team.
Or a Barça follower, the best student in the class, who almost went cross-eyed when I put up my data on the board and, to his horror, Real Madrid was at the top of the rankings (as of October 2010). He was someone who I thought was untouchable, academically speaking – he would nap in class and still get a perfect score on a midterm - and sometimes a little arrogant. One day, he asks for my help, as he is not doing so well in another class, that he was actually in danger of failing it. I introduced him to a tutor who was not only competent in the subject, but could also speak the student’s mother tongue.
Or the Roma supporter, cruising along in class, whose ears perked up when I explained why the coefficient of the regression is negative in this vein:
Professor: You have to build the team, and recruiting extraordinary talent needs money. That’s why it makes sense that, all other things held constant, a higher spending during the transfer market usually results in better performance or a higher ranking. That’s one of the reasons why Torres left Liverpool. He felt that the Liverpool management was not doing enough to build the team. He didn’t think the team could regain its Champions League spot.
Student: So why hasn’t Torres scored for Chelsea when they paid fifty million pounds sterling for him?
Professor: Ah that’s another story… (Professor brandishes a voodoo doll dressed in the Chelsea No. 9 shirt.)
Football connects a lot of people. I could tell you stories about relatives, students, classmates, colleagues, and strangers. I could tell you about the members of the Liverpool Fan Club in Japan, who have been contacting each other in the wake of the earthquake, making sure that everyone was all right. Because, as every Liverpool fan knows, you'll never walk alone.
(And don’t think I exclude the women. I can point out Chanel Particulière from a mile away and discuss Dominique Ropion’s latest oeuvre. But that’s another post for another rant.)
You know what else? I am sick of this shit. So what if I am obsessed about football? I have a favorite German player, Mesut Ozil, a fantastic midfielder playing for Madrid (yes, I know the difference between Real and Atletico, and I know which one “Madrid” refers to), just in case you think I am biased against your country. I have a hockey team too -- the Toronto Maple Leafs, if you are interested. They may not stand a chance in the Eastern Conference, but I’ve been following them since 1993 (before we even had ice rinks in my country). I’ll let you know the next time the student workers and I talk about that. I’ve been painting watercolors since I was eleven, and I’ve done translation work for a Tribeca Film Festival-nominated film. I have a black Labrador who loves me and listens to me on the phone. I turned down four college scholarships and a study trip to Japan to become an economist. My favorite opera is La Traviata and I adore Placido Domingo mostly because he looks like my grandfather. I carry a backpack because all of the IMF economists I have met during my stint in government have carried backpacks. I sing in the shower to the perpetual dismay of my roommate. She’s getting married and moving out because she can’t stand the constant wailing. OH, AND I HAVE A PH.D. TOO. THE ONE THAT CAME WITH MY DISSERTATION. The one that I presented a while back and the only thing you could say about it was “People are going to get mad at you because you called Taiwan ‘Taiwan, Province of China.’” They can get mad at me, the IMF, the Asian Development Bank, and the World Bank. It’s called Google, you asshole. Look it up.
When I was 21, I was defending my government’s economic program to Congress, to the IMF and World Bank missions. I’ve been using statistical software since when most of our current graduate students were in kindergarten. I didn't do it for the money. As a senior economist, I got $6000 ANNUALLY. What were you doing when you were 21? OKTOBERFEST? I’ve proven myself a long time ago and I resent being patronized by people who think they are better than me.
Oh, and by the way, FC Barcelona's all-time highest goalscorer? Guess what, he comes from my country.
If Cesc Fabregas can vent about work on the Internet, then so can I.
Puyi, Geri, Zizou, Dahveed, Zlatan and Cesc are all cranky too. Pics from Kickette, Keystone Press, Getty Images, the Guardian.
Bedtime Stories
One day, my little cousin made me cry. Okay, fine, she’s not that little anymore. She’s currently having her quarter-life crisis (*waves at Bulit*). Don’t worry. We all go through it – why did you think I went to grad school?
Anyways, when Bulit was younger, she used to make me tell the story of Cupid and Psyche over and over again before going to sleep. As much as I adore Greek mythology, there were times that I didn’t want to give in to her. I had other concerns: I was adjusting to being away from home for the first time, I was failing Math 18 (yes, OMG, can you imagine?), I was tripping and falling all over campus (excuse me while I slap Roomie for laughing at me) and the love of my life was ignoring me (life was SO simple then). And here was this persistent eight-year-old saying “Please Ate, one more time, before I sleep.” Bulit, you know how your name rhymes with kulit, right?
So while I was away, Bulit grew up into a young writer, even though in many ways, she is still the kid who introduced me to Anne of Green Gables (Gilbert Blythe, SIGH…) and Narnia. But I had forgotten about all those nights we stayed up, wrapped in our blankets, talking about Psyche’s incompetence with the hot wax (seriously, who could be that careless? We would never drop anything that could potentially injure what we imagined to be Cupid’s six-pack) until I came across this from Bulit’s blog.
How ashamed I was that many nights I said, I can’t, I’m so busy. How guilty I felt that something I thought to be so trivial and tedious to me would be so important to her. How proud I was that something I had passed on to her had opened up her imagination and her creativity, and has forever colored her path in life.
Like Bulit, I had a favorite bedtime story. It, too, involved the stupidity of molten wax. My father, who celebrates his birthday today, is probably the consummate bedtime storyteller (no offense to my mother, who in fairness trumps my dad in the realms of algebra and accounting). Between the both of them, my parents had probably read every book that was worth reading, and watched every movie that was worth watching. Part of the genius of my dad’s storytelling was that he did not limit himself to the traditional fairy tales that adults tell their children. My father told us stories about Moses and the Amalekites (coincidentally, one of today’s readings at Mass), Jason and the Golden Fleece, Orion the hunter, Mangao, Maria Cacao and Mount Lantoy, the story behind Tie a Yellow Ribbon (I think Dad just wanted to sing it at the end of the tale) and so many other stories that are probably buried under all the other learning I have accumulated in my brain.
My favorite, as I said, involved a bit of molten wax. Icarus escaped out of a prison tower using a pair of manufactured wings made of feathers held together by, you guessed it, candle wax. Before the flight, Icarus’ father, who had built the wings, warned him not to fly too close to the sun. But Icarus, so overwhelmed by the freedom, so drunk with his power (after all, no other person could FLY), forgot his father’s advice and flew towards the hot Sun-Chariot, lost his wings, and fell into the sea that bears his name.
But oh, how those stories made me devour even more stories! When I was nine, I finished Bulfinch’s mythology, and, to my parents’ dismay, the Thorn Birds. When I was in sixth grade, I memorized Brutus’ speech from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, not even realizing at that time who William Shakespeare was. The Bible was also fair game, and I had probably read most of the Old Testament before graduating from elementary school.
Today, I am mostly occupied with reading material on hat matrices and survival functions and structural breaks and all sorts of wonderful things that make one want to bang her head on the wooden table. But even these have stories behind them. Even these had that magic “aha!” moment, driven by imagination and creativity. Even these were results of somebody’s attempts to fly towards the sun. And sometimes I touch that feeling of discovery and freedom that Icarus felt as he was flying over the Mediterranean Sea.
And yes, I guess there is a point to this long-winded, rambling, all-over-the place discourse. The art of storytelling has been confined to television programs and books that aim to reach the “average” child. There is no mystery, there is no heroism, there is NO FLYING! We tell our children about ordinary things or ordinary people. Things that they already see everyday. How can they widen their imagination? How can they dream of things that are bigger than they are? How can they FLY?
At Present
“Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift; that’s why it is called the present.”
– Attributed to various people, including but not limited to Eleanor Roosevelt, Babatunde Olatunji, and Master Oogway.
…I haven’t read a lot of books this summer. Why should I? There’s so much po…I mean reading material on the internet. But I managed to finish “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” only to find that it there wasn’t an “ending” because it is the first of a series. I’m still schlepping my way through “Dr. Zhivago,” as I have been for the last three years. I am actually very close to finishing “Fever Pitch,” perhaps to understand my football obsession, and the Roman Empire has just started to crumble in "Europe: A History.”
***
…a package that made my day (and possibly my entire week) arrived this afternoon. Fragrant greetings from Zurich, the note said. I opened it to reveal extrait samples of Vero Kern’s three fragrances: Onda, Rubj, and Kiki. Each one so different from each other, each one beautiful in their own way.
I am not very good at picking out notes from a fragrance, nor am I an expert in describing any of them. On me, Onda was all ginger and pepper and vetiver, definitely not cuddly, nevertheless intriguing. Rubj reminded me of a vintage bottle of Jolie Madame that I acquired from my mother...they both have the white flowers and leather thing going on, although Rubj seems lighter because of its fruity notes.
Kiki, however, is the one I fell in love with. For someone who has a lavender fixation (lavender candles, lavender sachets in my drawers, lavender linen spray), I have a tragically small collection of lavender perfumes comprised of only one fragrance – New Haarlem, which I initially bought because it smelled like COFFEE. Someone on the Perfume Smelling Things blog compared it to a macaron, but I dare my favorite macaron place to come up with something as delicious as this (I may have to talk to somebody at Madeleine. A lavender/salted caramel/passionfruit/mango macacon sounds divine). Plus I love that the name can also be a play on my initials. KIKI, when my next paycheck comes, YOU SHALL BE MINE!!!
We wants the precioussssss….
***
…in the Bronx, somebody just passed by blaring “You’re all I ever wanted…you’re all I ever needed…so tell me what to do now…when I WANT YOU BACK!!!” full blast from his car stereo.
Dude. So much for your street cred.
***
…after dabbling in it for oh, maybe close to thirty years, I think I am really learning more about watercolor this summer than at any other time in my life. I stretched watercolor paper for the first time. I have spent a lot of time practising strokes and giving my brushes a hard time. I’ve already finished a few pads of watercolor paper and I am dying to try the new 300 pound pad that I just bought but I am terrified I would mess up the expensive paper. After buying pretty much a new set of tubes, I learn from the watercolor forums that it is better to learn the pigment name of the color rather than going by the manufacturer’s names. Because apparently, one’s scarlet lake may be someone else’s organic vermillion.
Since I am a nerd of gargantuan proportions, I have compiled a list of my watercolor paints on Excel, listing their pigment names and numbers, their manufacturer’s names and level of light-fastness. Yes, I know my list is not as detailed as some other people’s but my obsession is just starting to take hold. Wait ‘til next summer. And I found out that my two crimson alizarins are not really exactly the same…
***
…sulking because the BBC series “Sherlock” has only three episodes. How do they expect me to go through the whole year without it? HOW??? I must say, I love Martin Freeman, he is great at comedy (Hitchhiker’s Guide, Love Actually) and drama (The Power and the Passion, Sherlock). Although he really did surprise me with that Lord Shaftesbury role.
***
…thinking about the new school year, but not really wanting to prepare the lesson plans just yet…
Pics are from random Google searches, let's see if I can remember: Wikimedia Commons, Luckyscent, Blick Art Store, and some NSYNC fansite.
Dear Penelope
Dear Penelope,
Today I am going to write about something else. Daddy complained that all of my posts were about “soccer” (it’s football, Dad!) so I decided to put off my Liverpool and Nando Torres news for another day.
Yesterday, I went to the home of Franklin Delano Roosevelt in Hyde Park, NY. It is a two-hour drive, much like the distance from San Antonio to Canbanua. Hyde Park is right beside a very big river; for most of the drive up, we took in the magnificent views.
Anyway, back to FDR. When you get to FDR’s house, do you know what the first thing you see is? Why, Fala, course! Well, not the real Fala, but he is very cute, don’t you think?
According to the Interwebs, Fala’s full name is actually Murray the Outlaw of Falahill (because sometimes rich people give stupid names to their dogs). But everyone knew him as Fala. The American soldiers used his name as a code word to be able to identify German soldiers who may have infiltrated the ranks. Anyway, Fala used to follow FDR everywhere, just like the way you followed your Mommy. He even met the President of Mexico, and he also contributed to the war effort by donating $1 everyday for one year.
When FDR died, Fala always waited for him to come back. One day, President Eisenhower came to visit Eleanor Roosevelt accompanied by security vehicles with a lot of sirens. As soon as Fala heard the noise, he immediately stood up and pricked his ears, expecting his master to finally come home. Fala died in 1952 and he was buried in the rose garden beside his beloved president. If you look at my picture, the small fountain-like structure beside FDR’s grave marks Fala's own resting place.
I normally resist the temptation to buy mugs in a museum shop, but I could not resist buying a GINORMOUS mug with Fala’s picture on it. Maybe because I miss you and Nicole and Paski very much. Maybe because you were trying to tell me that something happened, because your achis forgot to tell me (hmp!). I am sorry that I haven’t been home for a while, but it doesn’t really matter as long as Mommy is there, right?
Say hi to Scooby and Olive and Toyang and Barkley and Tigger and Pablo for me J.
This is my last WC post, I promise!
I would just like to take this last opportunity introduce you to Pepe Reina (guy in green). You probably haven’t seen him around because he’s the substitute for Spanish goalkeeper Iker Casillas. Pepe is also the keeper for Liverpool FC (my favorite team, as my Stats students know well) in the English Premier League.
Yes, you can Google him and learn about his skills on the pitch. However, Pepe has other talents, such as:
Someone give this man a TV show already!
Good night, World Cup...
The notoriously sleep-loving Cesc finally gets some shut-eye with his new toy...
I believe these pics are from fielesalaroja, I think.
Viva Don Andres!
The sweetest way to end the tournament was for my favorite Spanish player to put the proverbial last nail into the coffin.
It came from an attempt at a cross by Nando Torres, which bounced back to Cesc Fabregas, who set it up for winger Andrés Iniesta. In the split second before he took the shot, you knew that there was no way this ball would go but in. With only about 3 minutes more of extended time, it was all over for the Dutch.
Throughout the tournament, I always felt bad for the little guy (he's around 5' 6" or 5' 7") whenever larger opponents tried to trip him. So what if he dives? You would too, if 10 burly guys are running after you. I bet karma's a bitch, right Heitinga?
I called my friend Tafa to gloat, and when he picked up the phone, he barked “I don’t want to talk to any Spanish people today!” Sorry Tafa, I guess the octopus was right in the end.
I would like to thank my cousins and my nephew for being patient with the screaming.
As a tribute to Andrés, here is a video from the Catalan comedy show Crackovia (posted and translated by totalBarca.com) where Iniesta (played by Oriol Cruz) takes on Cristiano Ronaldo (played by Bruno Oro). Enjoy!
Edit: The following video is of the actual incident between Iniesta and Cristiano Ronaldo that is the basis of the parody.
Pics from the 2010fifaworldcup blog at tumbler, and guardian.co.uk.
Little Red Men All In a Row
And just because I was screaming my head off the entire afternoon...
Bits of Inspiration in DC
DC is the city that I have visited the most number of times since I arrived in this country eight years ago. While I don't love it as much as NYC, I learn so much with every visit, and I love the independence of navigating the place on my own, without anyone showing me around. Here are some of the things I find inspiring in the city.
***
If people asked me what is the one place that I would visit in Washington, DC, I tell them that I would make it a point to stop by the Holocaust Museum on Raoul Wallenberg Place SW. Most people are taken aback by this answer. Most tourists go to museums to awaken a sense of wonder or amazement in the presence of beautiful art, or remnants of prehistory, or mind-blowing technology. The Holocaust Museum is not a place to be enjoyed. It is a place where you come face to face with the worst and the best in humankind.
I will not dwell on the dark side, except to say that we should never look away from human suffering, that we should never let anything remotely like this ever happen again.
But even in the darkness, some lights refuse to die. At the end of the museum is the list of the "Righteous Among Nations," the non-Jews who helped save Jewish lives during the persecution in World War Two. Some names are familiar (Oskar Schindler comes to mind). My favorite story is that of the Danish people. When Hitler ordered the arrest of the Jews in German-occupied Denmark, a German diplomat alerted the Danish underground, launching a nation-wide rescue of the 8000 Danish Jews. The people of Denmark considered the attack on Jewish Danes as an attack on all Danes. There were stories of Danes hiding their Jewish neighbors until plans were made to transport them by sea to neutral Sweden. Some refugees were transported in large fishing boats and ferries, others in kayaks and rowboats. It is said that some people just went through the phonebook, calling every Jewish-sounding name and warning them of the impending arrests. The underground also organized financing for the rescue, and many Danes donated large amounts to the cause.
By the end of the rescue, it was estimated that over 99 percent of Denmark's Jewish population had survived the Holocaust.
Stories like this always lead me to the conclusion that God exists. For even when confronted by Hell itself, there were people who never lost faith, people who never lost courage, and people who never lost hope.
***
I have found my true calling. I am going to be a sports photographer.
Since I have spent the last eight years completing a Ph.D. and a post-doctoral fellowship in Economics, I am more than halfway there. I think.
From the time I first discovered the joys of an SLR camera, I realized that I preferred motion over stillness in my pictures. There hasn't been a lot of opportunities though, except for a couple of professional games I've been to, as well as the occasional impromptu futbol game in Central Park. The players are not too conscious of the camera's presence; they are too focused on the game to notice, and maybe that's why it translates well in the image.
The Newseum (on Pennsylvania Avenue, right behind the West Wing of the National Gallery of Art) is currently holding an exhibit of sports photographer Walter Iooss, and I am just inspired by the magnificent work he has done for almost a half-century. I took pictures of the exhibit here, and I promised myself to look for more opportunities to photograph different sports. Starting with bringing my camera when Roomie and Ex-Roomie go back to the driving range.
In the meantime, here’s the closest I could get to taking photos at the World Cup.
Drama queen Cristiano Ronaldo:
David Villa scoring a goal...
Rodrigo Tello pausing before a free kick...
***
This is apparently the place the Reverend Doctor goes to when he feels a little naughty.
I don’t usually eat out when I am in DC/VA due to the fact that my host is an incredible cook. But Friday night, the good Reverend Doctor instructed me to meet him at Masa 14 in the Shaw neighborhood of DC. Shaw is a historically African-American area close to Howard University. The area has been gentrified for a while, and the beautiful Victorian townhouses probably fetch very good prices. However, the jazz and hip-hop clubs around U Street still give the neighborhood a distinct personality.
Masa 14 comes off as a Latin/Asian fusion restaurant, serving its dishes tapas style. I arrived late, due to a full day of sightseeing, and I was sadly underdressed (really, who dresses up to meet a priest?). Heckle would be mortified. The place was already packed with young Washingtonians who were washing away the memories of the previous week with a dose of Friday night happy hour. I wish I caught happy hour – the drinks were half price. I had a bowl of mussels in chipotle-miso broth, and pork belly steamed buns (of course!). I had a little bit of the good Reverend’s hibiscus margarita (awesome!) but decided on a white sangria (also pretty good). It was pretty reasonable too…I think I paid less than 30 dollars, which is great considering that tax in DC is 10 percent (????!!!). I left the place very pleased and slightly buzzed. Little did I know that my night would end in Georgetown at 3 in the morning. More on that later.
***
I’ll stop here in the meantime. The Germans are killing the Argentines and I need to focus my attention on the game.
(Half an hour later.)
The Argentines did get killed, 0-4. I don't care, I still love Leo Messi (speaking of which, Leo DiCaprio was watching the game in South Africa). You're a tough little (only 5' 6") guy, and you will be in the next World Cup. Looking forward to your next season at Barça.
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