Fly

I met up with my friend Ed today who I haven’t seen for a very long time. He's been pampering in-flight passengers with peanuts, beverages etc., at stratospheric level these past months. Catching up with him was unsurprisingly animated. It seemed like the long lost time of not hobnobbing didn’t matter at all. The verbal exchange was fast paced like that "transformers" film. It was fun.

Ed and Tony have been friends for as long as I could remember. I knew Tony through Ed and since then, got to scrutinise his critical self when it’s about the matters of the heart. Also, I have known him as a jet setting entrepreneur who has an affinity for Hermes and Louis Vuitton. Sipping camomile tea with both of them at Covent Garden made the Sunday afternoon a breeze of fresh “take on individual differences”.

Not even 30 yet, being a CEO of his own company is a privilege. Tony surely laps up the fringe benefits that it affords. In the material stakes, this is the closest I have been to communicating with a millionaire and the surrealistic way of getting to know a fraction of their inner desires.

Ed and Tony are my friends for quite a while now. Catching up with them always unravels something barmy, bonkers sort-of-reality. Here’s why:

Ryan: So what’s new Tony?
Tony: Credit crunch is taking so much out of our profits.... Damn it.
Ed: Don’t worry, you have enough... Actually, more than enough...
Ryan: Still collecting LVs and Hermes? Anything new?
Tony: Oh, I paid for a flight to space.
Ryan: A-what!!!!!!!!!
Ed: Ah, that Branson thing...
Tony: Yeah, paid 200000 (USD?/GBP?) to fly Virgin Galactic in 2012. Six people, a go.
Ryan: Why not give that money to charity...
Tony: I organise a lot of charitable events.
Ed: Yeah, he organises balls and galas.
Ryan: Do you need a PA? I need a year off from work.
Tony: You know what, it’s tiring.. All this travelling... I’d give up everything I have for love.
Ryan and Ed: Awwwwwwwww... Just buy one on a weekly basis.

As for Tony's wellbeing, I hope none of the societal baddies are reading this article. I cannot be blamed for being an involuntary accessory to possible mugging. To end that notion, I hope he does take care.

Does that mean I am half full for I love and being loved in return? He'll be singing fly me to the moon in a literal sense while I stick to the Sinatra sense.

so you think you're hot

I’m back to my hunting ground. Tube rides give me that sense of acute awareness (I think well around people in a confined space). Today is Friday and what I wear now is as relaxed as wearing flip flops on the beach... Oh, I am wearing flip flops. Heatwave has possessed this nation and the effects are ugly. There’s a lot of fluid loss albeit from the sweltering heat but add to that the tears from the passing of Farah Fawcett... Fawcett who???? (A teenage girl gabbled whilst chewing a gum)... or perhaps from the King of Pop's untimely death (Michael Jackson).


A million of Britons would raise “fire and brimstone” of wretchedness if they're stuck outdoors at the height of Philippine summer. They'll probably sue the sun.

Wimby

I am the 50th in the queue to the till of the burger stand. With thousands of people eagerly waiting for the opening of this year's Wimbledon tourney, I am not surprised at all. I’m just glad I was able to respond well to my alarm clock at 4.30 am. Tess was in severe protestation as I dragged her out of the sofa whilst Cecile flaked out citing abdominal cramps.

With thousands flocking the verdant grounds, you’d mistake it for that summer music festival minus the beer and foul language. It is a tosh-posh British event anyway. With an increasing commercial impact associated with the event, queuing has now become less tedious than in previous years of my toiling. You have that sponsor EA Wii event where you can release your pent up tennis frustrations by bashing some electronic balls. It's a good idea of distraction when the road to the ticket hall seems like a light-year away and haphazardly, hay fever inducing.

Notable things as you queue:

Burger for £4.50
Women in skimpy outfits made of fresh flowers
Combo of Wimbledon 2008 DVD and a newspaper for 50p
Free water by Evian
HSBC "Champions of Wimbledon" gallery - on your way to the ticket hall
A Japanese chap wearing 3 layers of clothing at the height of this summer's day
A McEnroe wig or not???
An all knowing American
A combo of flying pink and white refuse bags
A packet of low calorie sugar????!!!!
Strawberries and cream
Preened, manicured lawn and white lines

Let's start with Anna-Lena Groenefeld and Sania Mirza. The latter is backed up by a strong group of Indian community on the bleachers. With Mirza winning the first set, you can imagine the “Curry Houses” rejoicing to the hilt and out of jubilation, they serve the best Biryani in the menu. This is too much to say but apparently, she’s revered like a goddess back in India.

From the massive screen across the Centre Court showed Federer swaggering onto the court in his some-kind-of-a-swell dandification of an outfit. What is this all about?

Vacuum, Vacuous

Domesticity is something that is just 10% of my whole being. However, when I get impelled to do some scrubbing and vacuuming, it'll not be just one corner but the whole house I get to contend with. Fortunately, it seldom happens as dictated by self preservation through indolence.

It is Saturday and after a 2-hour snooze on the red couch, I decided to meet up with Cecile. Weekend at home on your own can be mentally productive. Your imagination tends to run amuck. However, with tonnes of mental challenges at work, I’d rather exercise my body than burn out more glucose with mental activity. I seldom use my muscles at work anyway.

Today's mild and just exactly how I like it. The only thing that unfavourably assaults my senses is the higher humidity which reminds me of Philippines. I am glad I opted to wear a t-shirt and shorts...... and flip-flops. Summer is here but it is strange when you see people wrapped up in puffer jackets and scarves. They must be boiling underneath.

My stop is next. I have got to snap out of this typing mode. That self indulgent, haughty chick in front of me thinks I’m chronicling her life. I doubtlessly would, if my stop is not beckoning. She’d probably be the only vibrant colour in this entry.

You can't have the cake and eat it...

This is the latest newsflash in my world which I dreaded the most: Rafael Nadal withdraws from Wimbledon citing tendinitis. That old dog whose name sounds like a courier service company is now grinning like a hyena.

May a lowly struggling tennis player win this tourney.

Narcissus

Anniversaries are always associated with love and gifts.

With an array of ways of celebrating it, it is no longer surprising to read that a couple fed sharks in the treacherous Australian waters to re-affirm their love for each other. We also have people in generous mood of reminding each other of monthly anniversaries. In some ways, I think we do that because maintaining a relationship these days is difficult and monthly reminders could serve as a renewal of vows of commitment or subconsciously, we know the relationship won’t last, so we make the best out of it. You must have heard of stories of anniversaries but I know of one that defies the norm and certainly highlights human virtues.

A good friend had nephrectomy 10 years ago. Going through the surgery, the pain and recuperation, he had to build his life from the notion that limitations are inevitabilities in ways of living a life with one kidney. The anxiety it afforded him was a palisade of uncertainties, even with his hopes of seeking a better life that his profession could endow.

He survived it all and now lives in the states. It’s his 10th anniversary of losing a vital body part, a kidney. So while millions exploit the idea of loving oneself to the point of extreme vanity, why not celebrate loving oneself for an undeterred flicker of hope despite the loss of an organ.

His mental landscape has changed since then. He quipped, “I'm too afraid to do long-term plans. Too shy to be adventurous. Too weak to be in love. But heck, I wont let them rain on my parade. I will wake up each morning like it's the day of my surgery”.

Trading Places

For the past months, the socially accepted measuring stick of getting a job has finally caught up with me. I am finally being measured by the same tool I have calibrated others to be worthy members of the working force.

However, this one slightly differs from finding a job. I am seeking for an education. UK is a great place for enriching oneself thru modules upon modules of learning. In most health institutions, opportunity to learn/study is as frequent as the mushroom sprouts. Most of the people at work are even pushed to study as part of their professional development but are vehemently refusing it, as essay writing is daunting for some. Studying is free and in a free world, saying “NO” to it is close to impiety.

Waiting for my ordeal as I sat in one of those wooden benches overlooking the Thames was bittersweet. You flood yourself with visual stimulations to distract your mental thoughts of the interview-related stresses. For each of the good thing you see like the hopping pigeon with one leg equates with a possible terse yet clincher of a question during an interview.

Fast forward an hour and a half and I just waffled through my interview with expectations of a good result waning as it progressed. The three unsuspecting academicians were obliviously polite (or just as I thought) of that dazed look on my face. It was the height of academic intimidation as the years of their combined erudite, scholastic acumen would mean five or more reincarnations for me to achieve it. Here's the excerpt of that interview:

Miss Marple: Applying for this Masters on Education program, why here and now?

Me: Waffle, waffle, waffle.

Miss Tingle: If you are to come up with a research right now, what would that be?

Me: Finding solutions to achieving world peace and reversing world hunger and global warming.

Miss Brodie: Tell me more about research methodologies and the importance of analytical statements?

Me: Ei-what? Am I applying for NASA training? I just want to be Mary Seacole.


I’m ecstatic that I convinced them with my answers. Now, drudgery is just around the corner.

Hallucination

Literally, there is no other word to describe my predicament right now. That word is “stuck”. The jam-packed carriage is even worse than I could ever imagine as caused by tube strikes. Few tubes are left to operate to carry the major workforce of London and that means catering to millions of them. It also means pushing, shoving, armpit-to-face stance, pulling and the smell of a-year-old-of-unwashed-jumper/jacket-that-stinks. Now, I am stuck.

The common people that occupy the breadth of that space represent the rabble from all walks of life and they're just as stressed as I am in finding a way to get to work. While I’m stuck, I thought of people I’d love to be with in a situation like this. I could think of a few:

• Nelson Macaalay
• Kahlil Gibran
• Chris Evans and Ryan Reynolds
• Barbra Streisand
• Meryl Streep
• Rafael Nadal
• Myself 20 yrs ago
• Myself in 2029
• God, Allah, Jesus, Ra, Shiva

What's the chance of these people getting stuck in the tube with me? Zero. I don’t even believe they know how it feels like to get stuck inside a transport.

Well of course, except Nelson.

About-Face

In a typical fashion, it is “standing room only” as I take the tube to work. The iPod and notepad (phone) become instant reliable companion when rubbernecking seems like a futile idea. The latter has rendered me productive the past weeks that I have thought of focusing on something else.

My iPod has been a dutiful consort to me. It must have been jealous these past months of the notepad for I have been inseparable with the latter since blogging took over my transition periods of travel, to and fro work. Only recently that I listen to songs more than just an aid of interference to the noise of carriage, people and other things associated with living. It is only now that I get to appreciate the songs and how people relate to it in their aloneness.

There are things in life which we usually forego and stack on the side once it’s served its purpose or things that we just use as a conjunctive element to our diurnal struggles. They are far less appreciated when another thing comes along that is of great interest to us, affecting us in a passionate way. In that solitary moment of retrospection, you look back and see the person that separates you from the one who runs your life at this juncture. That's why I miss few things that used to occupy my frenetic lifestyle.

I miss doodling and writing poems.
I miss karaoke and house parties.
I miss tennis and swimming.
I miss being fit.

Bridesmaid No More!

So, TMF (The Mighty Federer) won his first French. To a non-tennis enthusiast, that would look like, "big deal?!!!!" as if with Roger's standard it's something hard to imagine. However, for hard core fans of the sport, that first trophy held aloft the red (burnt orange) clay of Roland Garros is a piece of history. Federer finally wins the event after the agonising years, three to be exact (and once losing to Nadal in the semifinals) , of being a bridesmaid to that “freak of nature” (Agassi's terminology for Nadal). In a way, pundits were robbed of that glory of Federer-Nadal final as Soderling stepped up to the challenge of creating his own little history of major upset in the tournament.

With the Swiss anthem reverberating around the stadium, the teary eyed Federer has finally allowed himself soak up the wallowing with his own tears homogenising with the drizzle of Parisian rain. He said that he could finally relate to how it feels to win four slams, as he threw a glimpse towards Andre’s (Agassi) direction, the last person to win all four slams few years ago.

Now, talking about historic moment, Federer is now lauded as the greatest ever tennis player to grace the sport. Winning in three straight sets against Soderling, 6-1 7-6 6-4, the Swiss maestro slumped on the ground and like a rush of emotions to vanquishing moments, reacted like he's finally savoured his sweetest ever win of his career (and rightly so). Federer played beautifully against Soderling. He served and delivered his groundstrokes like a willed cannon. He was for the first time aware that this time he won't be looking up, as the bride throws the bouquet. He'd be the one to say "I DO".

I will try and avoid dropping Nadal's name in the picture (profuse apologies for that slip) but Federer's several journeys to the clay courts of Roland Garros have not been a rewarding one until today. To take out a Swede in the final proved that winning for him is not about winning against the freak of nature on this surface but winning no matter what.

There will be endless talks about Federer's resurgence and form-finding moment in the past weeks but one issue is resolved in the minds of fans and critics: the man is the GOAT- Greatest Of All Time (a Federer fan confessed that he doesn't buy that goat talks because he'd rather judge Roger's accomplishments at the end of his career). However, that is probably in the eyes of those who argued for years about Federer and Sampras' Grand Slam counts as the main basis.

In my opinion, that Fed fan is logical and sensible. I'd rather wait for Federer and Nadal's career be over before I speak my mind about it. Roger Federer is 27 and who knows what he'll achieve in the remaining few years of his tennis life. There are a lot of possibilities there.

Being a Rafael Nadal fan, I am not bothered in the slightest by Federer's French Open triumph. In a typical “STAN” behaviour, I would be mad if Nadal lost the final to the GOAT.

the power of T-Shirt

This old man started talking to me when I rode the bus. He took the same train and carried on with his undoubtedly witty remarks about places, people, weather and animals. In a slightly packed carriage, he unbuttoned his black jacket and his black shirt to reveal a black t-shirt with sequined embodiment of Obama's head and the date of his inauguration below. It was in shimmering red, yellow and green and proudly flashed it with so much pride.

I have kept to myself this impulse of blurting out an important day of my life for an irrefutable reason. Nothing is as haunting as your birthday starting to roll up and reach digits that you’d rather keep mum about it. I have a feeling that it is exactly the same sentiment most people share with me upon the mention of natal days. The only consolation of this is the reminder of how you’re valued as a person by people around you. However, the same cannot be said to those who have no friends nor family to share it with.

My birthday is usually shared with few other notable celebrities and local heroes. Today however, reminded me of that day Obama took oath as the most powerful man on the planet. What does it mean to me? It means from that moment on, any notable history that Obama will create in the process will be retracted back to his day of inception to post as the start of countdown to change.

I am certain that most of us could relate to having a memorable, historical moment when we were born. My distant relative was born when Gloria Diaz won the Miss Universe pageant in 1969 and was overshadowed by that citation, "One small step for man, A giant leap for mankind" that same year. As Neil Armstrong stepped bravely onto the moon’s surface on the 21st of July, 1969, a friend of a friend was also born at that time. A work colleague was born on a leap year and will have to celebrate birthday every few years and is technically younger than her biological age.

My birthday falls on the 20th of January and I am already in my prime this year as Obama’s legitimate rein over White House started. As Obama creates a chapter of history in the process from that inauguration day, it will remind me of the bittersweet montage of my past life and the future screen grandstanding uncertainty. And that is scary.

I need that old man’s t-shirt to remind me the practical meaning of the words “earnest and perseverant”.

Measure

How many words can I type in an escalator ride?
-Not many it seems.
-10.

How long did it take for the pizza to arrive?
-Too long!
-22 minutes.

How much does it cost to fly to Italy via Ryanair?
-Not much.
-70 pounds return.

How deep is Marianas Trench?
-Scarily deep.
-11033 metres.

How much is love?
-Priceless.
-5 dates, with flowers, diamonds and fine dining.

Warning:
Certainty is an awe-inspiring degradation of follow-ups and continuity.
Uncertainty is a ploy to delay evolution.

a.k.a. Bettina

If people are judged merely by first impressions, the lady standing in front of me certainly radiates her woes and misgivings that only she and perhaps a shrink could fathom. However, her cartoonish portrayal of a sad face in a normal state is a given. She tells me a story without paying a cent for soliciting some sort of, understanding or plain nonchalance.

Suggesting her fiery nature, her red blouse that is covered by a leopard print polyester scarf and bright red bag hanging tightly on her left shoulder look overdressed for a day in the park and too flamboyant for daytime work. Her black skin compliments the striking colour that sets her apart from the monochromatic people around her. Today is Thursday and people in their utmost formal work clothes make Bettina a colourful personality. I call her “Bettina” as she exudes confidence against the face of austerity and the modern age repercussions of it.

Her gold loop earrings and pale tight jeans belie the suffering that her facial mannerisms convey. Her eyes reflect the deep thoughts of her brain and lips quiver as the result of involuntary mental release. Although her open-toe heeled purple shoes are high enough to support her heavily laden physique, she opted to stand the rest of the journey to London Bridge. This is despite an available seat behind her vacated few stops before I got the chance to scrutinise her.

Two weeks ago, I met her in the same tube ride. Her demeanour has not changed nor her choice of clothes. To call her outlandish is an overstatement but slight disarray would suffice the description. However, as 99% of tube inhabitants don half of the layers of what she wears, you wonder what she keeps innately. I suspect sinister possibilities.

Today, she looks unhappy and yet that strong will is evident. She can force a smile on command and not be bothered by that waste of energy for pulling it. She dropped her purse on the floor as she tried scrambling for a piece of paper from it. The man behind her picked up the red purse and was greeted by a stern, “Thanks”. She found the piece of paper and folded it neatly to a pointy triangle. She examined her nails and poked each nail as if trying to remove dirt from underneath it.

There are two types of people shaped by strife and adversities: those who fold and die hopeless and those who get to become feisty.

She eventually said, “What the fuck you staring at?”

grumpy ol' me

The summer heat is hitting a raw nerve for so many reasons. On top of that, a daily routine mirrors standout discrepancies to my rudimentary existence of late:

• Stinky, rancid body odour and his audacity to grapple onto the upper bar inside the carriage.

• The man who makes maximum use of his peripheral vision as I read my morning fix of free news. Two reasons why people use newspaper inside a packed train: One is distraction; the other is to “keep your distance”.

• The rushing city girl who trampled on my left foot.

• The blasting of bass emanating from his iPod. I wonder if his tympanic membrane is still intact. And oh, I don’t need to know that you listen to Jai Ho (PCD version).

• In a packed tube, she manages to cross her legs occupying more breadth from that little space left.

• And oh, her fake LV bag treated like a Chihuahua.

• The splattering of cough droplets from that man in the corner. If he is a swine flu sufferer, he just succeeded infecting the majority of the working class.

• The shrieking toddler admonished by her mother in Latin... errr... Italian... The decibel gets higher and higher and BANG!..... the loud announcement over the built-in speaker shuts her up as the tube driver recapitulates more delays in today’s travel.

• And yes, delays, delays, delays. Pray to god when you have continuous journey from point A to D. That’s a miracle.


I already feel good about myself.

if the stage is the world...

I am sat next to Grace Jones (left).

Opposite me is Daniel Bedingfield sneezing his head off. His nose, now red.

On my right is Kim Basinger.

Wearing his gentleman's hat, Clint Eastwood is sat in the far left corner.

Winona Ryder in her early 40s is sat next to Bedingfield scratching her right ear.

Sushmita Sen is in the far right corner ballooning from depression.

The train operator sounded like Stewie (Family Guy) as he pointed out some delays and admonishing yellow line violators.

I am getting off soon at London Bridge, so is Miss Jones.

****

In the tube on my way home, Keira Knightley is reading a book.

Jet Li at 65 is talking to himself and waving his hands.

Far right is Vanessa Redgrave reading the newspaper but occasionally sticking her neck out to check the tube stops.

Ashley Simpson is sad whilst reading text messages.

Denzel Washington opposite me is tinkering on his laptop. It is odd seeing him like a salesman.

Steven Seagal on my left is munching on crisps and chugging down Orangina.

Sharon Cuneta sitting next to Denzel is chatting to Michael Douglas about her sale purchases from esprit shop.

My next stop is home. Keira just took out a large sandwich out of her satchel.

15 minutes of difference

It is Monday and the same “waking up” struggle kept me battling on with myself for a while. A five minute snooze ended up nearly half an hour of unabated joy of extra sleep; this with the consequence of an early use of adrenalin to propel myself to morning routine. The sun is out and summer is truly here. This is the time to welcome the world of sweaty armpit patches as they invade the usually packed underground stations. There should be a “deodorant day” to remind people who shower themselves with sweat to an awareness of how putrid and rancid body odour is.

However, unlike before, the big ads of deodorants are no longer plastered across big billboards. The nasty bite of economy has taken a big chunk out of advertising budgets this recession period. So, sweat-inhibition products are now least of proletariat’s priorities. Well, the only saving glory is the unpredictable London weather. This summer, just like the many summers before has a high possibility rate of a washout. With culprits like overcast and cool breeze stealing the summer fun away, the chances of fresher tube conditions are always a don’t-bet-against-the-cynic possibility. Living here for some time now gives me an idea of possible expectations.

Not to lose the plot, it's not the sweaty armpits nor the London weather that interests me. The predictability of change is just as bad as that humdrum existence of an employee who hanged himself for his unremarkable life. Although of opposite polarity, change and monotony affect us in varying degrees. Today, despite taking the right train to work, I ended up walking the long junction between Charing Cross branch and Bank branch tube stops. Last minute tube itinerary change is a pain. That change has added extra 15 minutes on top of my travelling hours this lifetime and perhaps missed a rather important life-altering moment of my life (Have you seen “Sliding Doors”?). I was nearly late. However, a 15-minute rest from that coma-reviving armpit sniff is a relief.

I hate being pedantic but the pragmatist in me pushes me to be one.