That's Why They Play The Game
A friend of mine has been sharing with me (through e-mail) his views on college football in direct comparison to the NFL. He has many good points, most notably the player commitment to a given team; the long history (some go back almost a hundred years); the intense rivalries... All of which make college football an intriguing sport for me. But it will forever remain that: a curiosity. No, I had the misfortune (luck?) of going to a nerd school. Instead of a Division I-A football program with rabid fans, intense marching bands, and packed stadiums, our school was instead burdened with a Supercomputer program, an annual watermelon drop and a library that was featured in the opening credits of Simon & Simon. Nope, UCSD was not the school to go to if you wanted to have a good football team. And how silly would I look rooting for a college football team if I never went to that college, let alone live in the same town?
But the handful of lengthy e-mails did get me thinking...why do I watch football? My hometown team hasn't won the big one since before the AFL-NFL merge (I wasn't even born yet). And this past Sunday I was let down
yet again with another lost postseason. So why bother? Why root for a team who in 2005 blew (what will probably be) its best chance in
my lifetime to win it all? You see, I was never really
a fan of the Chargers. Heck, I was never
a fan of anything, really. (Well, except for those few years in college when I rooted for the Cowboys - damn what a great team). It was only after moving up here to the bay area that I began to root root root for the home team. Maybe it was just a way for me to connect to home...like that 5th grade picture of me standing next to Gill Byrd when he presented for the Citizen of the Month awards. Whatever the reason, I rooted for the home team. Because it was the right thing to do. I didn't watch every single game, read every single article, go to training camp, get autographs of players, bitch and scream at owner decisions, want to fire the coach, stay grumpy all week when they lose on Sunday, no. That wasn't me. But I watched the games when I could. And I believed that they would win. Every time. And when they lost, I
believed that they'll bounce back and win next week. I never said they sucked. I never hated them.
But this past couple of weeks, going to my
first college football game (ever), reading my friend's e-mail thread, and believe it or not, watching tonight's New Orleans game, it came to me what it really is all about: I just love to watch
good football.
It is one of the most amazing things to watch. Forget all that fan bullsh*t or dynasties or marching bands or new stadium proposals or what have you. The football players you are watching on that field, whether they are a 2-12 team or a 14-2 team, are the absolute best players in the country. Of the 100,000 high school seniors who play football, only
215 ever make it to the NFL. Only
.02% of the 9,000 college football players will ever play in the NFL. And that's what a lot of my memories about football are filled with... Watching Dan Marino leave the Jets stunned by faking a spike in the waning moments and throwing a touchdown. Seeing Tony Romo botch a field goal hold, try to run it in for a touchdown, and then bounce back to be one hell of a quarterback. Or seeing LT run; it was like God himself commanded that no one shall ever get a clean hit on him. Or laughing as Barry Sanders made Pro Bowl defenders look like 5 year old kids on a Pee Wee field. And it's not just individual performances, it's the whole game... Seeing ever changing defensive schemes, halftime adjustments, coaches' play calling strategies, pre-snap audibles, unspoken QB/WR communications...it's just so much fun to watch. (Now if only the stupid directors will utilize more wide angle shots of the entire field pre-snap instead of zooming in on the ball I'd be in absolute heaven)
The sad thing is that this is what modern-era football has reduced the sport to - individual performance. I think the league has achieved that goal of making football more popular: Less dynasties (well, except for maybe those @*!&@*&# Patriots) and teams with equal shots at the title (an expansion team making a Superbowl bid after less than 5 years? It took the Bucs 20 years to do it) have made the sport more accessible to a larger audience. They claim it's all for the fans, but the cold hard truth is that it's all for the money (more competitive teams means more people to watch means more $$) but that's a topic for a different discussion.
It's too bad, really. Those days of head coaching "legacies" and team "dynasties" are long gone. No longer do you have those teams that everyone hated for
years because they were so good. So root for
your team while they're winning. Because they won't be winners for long. Me? I'll continue to root root root for the home team and love watching football.
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Stagnation
It’s been a while since I’ve taken a ride on Caltrain. Bouncing along on the northbound line on a Friday afternoon, I find myself with a bit of downtime to try to break new habits and rejuvenate old ones.
(Holy crap it stinks in here…I think someone just farted. Why couldn’t they let it out before getting on the train? How hard is that?)
This first year of married life so far has been quite amazing. Despite the high points and the low points, there’s a fundamental calming effect that can only come with the knowledge that my wonderful wife will be there for us through it all. And yet this comfort, this security, has its drawbacks. I can see how easy it is to fall into that rut. That day-to-day monotony that has the incredible ability to change days into weeks, to bleed weeks into months. If you aren’t careful, you’ll blink your eyes and it’s 20 years later.
So here I am, enduring the abhorrent smell of intestinal gas in an effort to fight the monotony. “Shake things up”, if you will. I refuse to lose sight of those things that I enjoy doing, despite what the pressures & realities of life dictate. Next month, I’ll check off box #12 and #15a on my list: Monument Valley, Bryce Canyon. And with a little perseverance and a whole heckuva lotta work, I’ll check off box #2: a 32” waistline.
Until then, I’m keeping tabs and refuse to let life beat me into submission.
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Perspective
I fell into that trap again...watching the
news media fan the flames for greedy commodity speculators to cash in.
I gotta stop watching TV.
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A Blaze Of Glory
If I were lucky enough to choose how I would leave this earth, it would be in one big blazing ball of glory...blowing my super high-tech multi-million dollar Formula 1 race car into a gazillion carbon-fiber-laced bits in front of my hordes of fans across the world. It would be at the peak of my professional racing career, after stunning the world in amazing feats of car control that defy reality. My legacy would then be left echoing for generations, with children shuddering in fear at the sound of my name, and grown men caught weeping when witnessing my exploits on the track. Ah yes, that would be the only way to go.
But if only we were so lucky.
No, us mere mortals are left with the ultra terrifying realization that our time will eventually come. I've been fortunate(? - if you could call it that) enough to not have to confront the big finale...but being there, witnessing for the first time someone close to me face the cold dark truth of it all humbles me to no end. Seeing him look at
it square in the eyes in all its bare essence, shows me just what
it really is all about. And it left me with a strange conflicting sensation: on one hand, of utter sadness...with the notion that the "clock" that one used to measure on the order of decades and years has now come down to much, much smaller and much, much more precious units of time; while on the other hand, of tremendous respect...seeing the courage and the strength to continue fighting through it all despite all the setbacks and be at peace knowing that you have the love of family by your side through it all and the life you've lived has been a good one.
Yes, it's a gentle nudge in my back...
It's a reminder that I do get too caught up in the frivolities of it all. That having the coolest car or traveling the globe to all the most beautiful places or having the hottest body or having the most money doesn't really mean jackshit in the grand scheme of things. No, when it really comes down to it, the only things that truly count are the people that are going to be there for you at the very end, how much of their love they will return to you, and just how much of a difference you have made in the lives of others (if at all). Children may not shudder in fear at the sound of your name and grown men may not go weeping when hearing of your exploits, but if you lived your life well, at the very least, they'll have a smile when they retell stories of their fond memories of you...
I can live with that.
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Mawage...
...That bwessed ewent.It's wat bwings us here toogeder, today.I knew something was amiss when after the loud bang I calmly kept the pedal down and eyes down the dark road known as the PCH. It was like a flash...a little yellow flash in front of the passenger side headlight on my pride and joy; no time to react, except let out a girlish yelp knowing that I sent that poor little fox to its untimely demise. We were late, and I was hustling a bit on the stretch of Highway 1 just out of Manchester, CA, only a scant 10 miles south of our destination on Irish Beach...a quaint private rental tucked away in the windswept cliffs above the crashing waves of the Pacific.
A few minutes after the incident, I found a safe spot to pull over and braced myself for the inspection of the damage...surprisingly, nothing too severe: a broken high beam lens, a cracked bumper cover, a chip on the plastic passenger door sill lower extension, and the pièce de résistance: a big freakin' dent on the fender. It could have been much worse...a busted oil cooler, bent control arms, etc. Luckily for me, it was relatively manageable. But it appears that the terms "matching VIN" and "original paint" are now officially lost forever...
Not wanting to dampen the mood of our mini-honeymoon, I (uncharacteristically) locked this incident away in that growing file cabinet of "little things in life that are really annoying but don't mean a damned thing in the grand scheme of things". It was wise, too, for our little private getaway was incredibly relaxing. So much so that despite the grandiose plans of driving up the coast to see Mendocino, hiking the various trails, eating at fancy little restaurants, we elected to stay indoors our entire time there. With a room like this:
and the non-stop sound of waves crashing in the distance while I tended to the wood-burning stove (some day I'll have one!), it was a no-brainer. After a mad few months of planning a 275-person event and seeing all those wonderful friends of ours celebrate the big day with us, the quiet solitude was a refreshing change.
And the it didn't stop with the fox incident...The next morning, we decided to hustle into town for some ingredients for dinner (they had grass fed steaks!!) So we hop into the car parked out front on the dirt driveway, and I proceeded to turn the car around in a 3 point turn to head on up the access road...
If you look closely, you'll notice something a bit strange...the back end of the car is just a little too close to the steps to the house... Being the proud city boy, I had neglected to realize that the ground had indeed been soaking in rain the night before. And covered in moss. And sloping downhill in that area approaching the house. Needless to say, those all-season Michelins gave all their might to will my 4000lb german slug up onto higher ground. It was no use.
All I could do at that point was look at my lovely bride sitting in the passenger seat and just laugh.
One phone call to AAA and 40 mins later, we were back in business.
So I think that's what marriage does to you...beats you into submission, forces you to think bigger than just
you.
Let all those silly little things go, and enjoy the true happiness that life has to offer, revel in the new perspective that someone can offer you for the rest of your life...
Yeah, I think I just might enjoy this.
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Waiting In The Wings
It was sometime near the end of the 2PM show that I realized it was hopeless. I realized that I had run out of talent as a photographer...As much as I tried, I just couldn't achieve the shots that I wanted to. It was yet more proof that as much as I keep trying to convince myself otherwise, photography for me will simply be a fun little hobby, nothing more. So I put the camera down and told myself to get my mind back in the game...focus on playing the bass without screwing up again.
I had been a member of a
Filipino Folk Ensemble, playing music (primarily the upright bass) for a few years. Through those years, the majority of my Sundays were spent with my "second family", providing musical accompaniment to the practicing performers. My tenure included performing for several small "gigs" and a few annual "big shows", culminating in a wonderful trip to the Netherlands where I was given a chance of a lifetime - to join my peers in performing in a foreign country. This past year, however, I had purposely taken a step back in an attempt to reassess my priorities, question my motives, and in the process reclaim a part of my weekend (and maybe try to work on that long-term goal of joining club racing. The club racing "thing" has not materialized - yet. But that's a whole 'nuther story).
Due to a lack of commitment on my part and the aforementioned "break", I neglected to develop my skills on a second instrument (
the Octavina) so I was in no shape to perform for this year's performance commemorating 15 years of the group's existence. You see, joining your fellow musicians on the stage is a privilege offered only to a chosen few. As with any musical group,
the rondalla only works as a cohesive whole. Any weakness by any single member is revealed for everyone to hear, disappointing the entire group that have invested hundreds of hours of preparation for
one performance. You invest the time. You hone your craft. You put on an exceptional performance. You earn the respect and admiration of your peers. From the intricate melodies cranked out by the 1st bandurria to the harmonic counter-melodies offered up by the laud and octavinas to the rhythmic foundation laid down by the guitars and bass, it all comes together to produce that wonderful tapestry of sound.
And so I was honored to have been asked to play for the show -- even if it was to fill a last-minute change in personnel. The guilt was there...I didn't go to any practices, I didn't invest the time, I didn't commit the effort. What right did I have to be up there on stage with my peers? And to top it off, I found myself distracted, hastily trying to put together something that I had been wanting to do for a
long time...
Back in college one of my film professors mentioned in his lectures that one of the hardest things he had to do was film musicians. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't capture "it". It's even worse in still photography, let alone moving film. There is an ever elusive dynamic that takes place within a group of musicians that a still image could never quite capture...those unspoken changes in volume and timing; those minute little tweaks executed through the tendons in your hand after processing a million little feedback loops entering your ears, your body, your soul. But the challenge of capturing the intangible was so enticing...
Waiting in the wings for my brief big moment (I was playing for only a small part of the show) I found myself with plenty of time on my hands to watch the show unfold. It was my opportunity to have a crack at capturing that "essence" and sharing the story of our annual performances from a musician's point of view. Armed with camera in hand, I reflected on all those little things that the musicians cherish so much about performing on stage...
That struggle to synchronize timing and rhythm with an ever fluid group of dancers.
The pressure to perform in front of an audience of heartless critics, knowing that one wrong note would ring through the rafters, forever haunting your history and invalidating the months of tireless practice and effort you put in. And you could never take those mistakes back. No, there are no mulligans.
Then there's that constant battle...letting the music flow through you -- getting lost in the moment and "feeling" the music -- but at the same time, not losing track of where you are, what's the next cue, what's the order, and asking yourself, "
were we supposed to repeat that measure or skip to the next one?"
And then you make eye contact with a fellow musician, and you know that you're on track.
Or you realize that scowling look your director gave you was because you're horribly off: too fast, too slow, wrong note, wrong section...and you better fix it. NOW.
No, you can't get distracted. You need to focus on this piece, and this piece only. You can't think about that song you screwed up 12 minutes ago, or that really difficult one coming up in about 9 (err, 6) measures.
It's the ultimate expression of living in the moment. Even if you absolutely
nail a piece without flubbing a single note or missing a single decrescendo, you can't waste time to revel in the here & now...you're too busy worrying about the start of the next song...
2-note pickup or none? How did this song go again?
The percussion pieces present an even bigger challenge by being largely unscripted. It is entirely up to you and that tiny little brain of yours to remember the multitude of rhythms and melody changes and make sure they're fired off by very subtle but distinct cues within each piece.
You're constantly fighting to maintain that balance between the four or five other musicians while at the same time keying on the variations in tempo with the dancers.
And you can't afford to be distracted by the next costume change, or which instrument will I need to carry off after this set ends.
Or what will the crowd think about the song that I wrote, that I poured all my heart and soul into?
On top of all this, there's all the history and "drama" that accompanies any group dynamic in a pressure situation. Nerves are wracked and patience is pushed to the absolute limits as individuals cope with varying degrees of strong and weak personalities & levels of commitment.
I struggled to capture
it. To capture that feeling of what it means to be a musician laying it all out on the line on the stage for all to see. And I failed. Instead of putting together a flickr book of images as a gift to my peers, I relegated the project to another one of those "something to work on in the future" things. I set the camera aside and sat back. I stood in the wings of that later evening show and just let it all unfold.
And then it happened. Sometime during the first half of the show, a group of dancers came off the stage and couldn't contain their excitement. They fought to hold back the screams of joy of getting a dance done right, and KNOWING that they did it right. Their faces were beaming with bright smiles, they were high-fiving, hugging, jumping up and down.
I stood there in the wing with a slight grin, soaking it all in. The music echoing through the rafters in sync with the rhythmic stomping of the dancers' feet. The joy of seeing it all come together. That's really what it's all about... getting the job done right and performing perfectly with people who have made the exact same painful journey with you. Having been away from performing for so long, I had forgotten what it was all about. I'm glad to have had an opportunity to be reminded of
it.
Congratulations LIKHA on a wonderful show and a job well done.
Labels: rondalla music musician likha filipino folk performing
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Brevibacterium Linens
It's no secret...I
love cheese.
And every so often while perusing the cheese aisle and sniffing a variety of molded creations, soft & hard, stinky and sweet, I happen across one that I've always wanted to try.
But instead of walking by and choosing the goat or brie or cheddar made from raw milk, I picked up the package and said to myself, "why not?"
The seeds of curiosity were planted when I was years younger, watching old cartoons. Every so often they would make a reference to this stinky cheese called "Limburger". And so I finally get to explore that unknown...it can't be
that bad, right?
Well, I've smelled some pretty awful food before, and I go ga-ga over durian, but this takes the cake. Opening the package revealed this unforgivable stench of pure B.O. that just made my stomach churn and my nose shrink. Holy crap, it was foul. And I mean stinky. Like panghi stinky. Like Seinfeld B.O. episode that messed up his BMW stinky. Seriously...it smelled like the underarm sweat of a really fat stinky sweaty hairy man in his fifties after walking 50 flights of stairs in a crowded building in New York in the middle of July in 100% humidity and 80 degree heat.
OK, if it smells bad, it can't taste bad, right?
WRONG.
The rind had this texture like it was dragged through sand, and the center was bitter & squishy. I didn't mind the squishy texture, but that taste...blech.
I guess it's an acquired taste.
So digging through the internet more I stumble upon some interesting things. Like the fact that the bacteria used to grow the cheese is the same bacteria found on human skin (thus the smell of putrid B.O.) And that they use Limburger to
practice isolating bacteria. And that there are recipes out there for a really interesting
limburger and onion sandwich on toasted pumpernickle. Hmmm...I wonder if that's any good?
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