Ladies & Gents, Another Ranting Post

It's already April. In fact, it's the 20th. I'm late.

I've been stuck at home since October last year and I think my leash has only been tightened more. I can't even get an effing cheap green tea at a coffee shop (ironically) without having myself assassinated by my parents.

Uhm, wait, that was my problem months ago. Now, I've got far bigger problems at hand.

I don't want to be too specific anymore about such because I may just end up being a shrink's stupid dustbin (yes, reader, you're the psychologist).

To give you just a blind eagle's eye view, here are the rants: 1) I want a room -- a sanctuary -- to tentatively take me away from anything familial or distracting; 2) I've got to regain even a quarter of my eager beaver self as soon as possible; 3) I need to graduate and get these pre-graduation activities over with so that I can finally place my focus in its proper dwelling; and 4) I need a 24-hour body aircon! ("Ineeeet!!!" is an understatement!)

Very unfortunately, I've got to do STILL what I had been doing since the time I discovered where babies came from: WAIT. In a nutshell: a week at most for my room and for graduation; and God-knows-when for my personification-inspired revival -- and for my body refrigerator.

Boohoo.

The Problem With Being Myself

I'm pissed.

Actually, I've got no plans of blogging until the coming exams this September are over... but circumstances do come up with not so funny jokes once in a while. And those "once in a while crack-ups" have just reappeared on the dining table earlier.

Around 1:30 this afternoon. It was hot. In fact, everything was, from the crimson ceiling to the simmering fish soup.

Unexpectedly, it would get hotter.

Right after sipping the last teaspoon of the inconveniently semi-boiling stock, my father asked me for the nth time (he had been doing so since the last 3 months) where I'd be lodging in Manila for my review. I told him ALSO for the nth time that I'd be finding one as soon as next week when I get back to Manila. In addition, I'd be living alone since none of my friends pushed through with the plan of us staying together for the review.

To give you a background (just pretend you're interested) : the apartment me and my sister leased in Sta. Mesa when we were still in law school had already been given up (so to speak) by my way too stingy father days after the last final exam of my last semester in masochist's, er, law school. Friends told me that leaving the apartment was a bad choice since the leasing fee only amounted to 4, 500/month and the access to almost everything was undeniable. (A church, a market, a laundry shop and an internet cafe were just steps away. Not to mention the fact that only a lonesome jeepney ride was needed for one to be taken to the LRT station and to Mendiola/Quiapo.) But fate -- or my father -- had other plans. Conclusively, when the review starts this April I'll be homeless unless I find a new place to live in.

So I thought the conversation would end with my way too rehearsed response. But, alas, it didn't end there. My father then said that maybe I have "PLANS" in Manila that's why I'd be living alone.

It was more than a plain, harmless statement -- it was a banter more than suggesting that I'd be spending months in a place far away from home just to have my booty slammed against someone else's. My father suggested -- or suggests -- that his son is a tramp!

The afternoon got hotter. It boiled. I couldn't believe that he said that.

So I retaliated, "Anong plano po?" I asked this with an obvious opposition and an almost awakening monstrosity.

He paused, sensing that I didn't like what he said. "Baka mag-lamyerda ka lang," he responded.

Every person surrounding the table knew that wasn't what my father really wanted to answer. Everyone there, including me specially, knew that what he meant was that I'd be inviting promiscuity or "dirt" in my prospective boarding house/apartment.

I was really pissed. I wanted to shout, to scream, to take my lungs out and to just get the hell away from him.

But I couldn't. So here I am, blogging my stupid heart out.

Not too long ago, I swore to myself that I would not let any person, any society or even any Theological principle dictate what I should do with my life, how I should schedule it, who the people I should be making friends with and where I should place myself in every circumstance. Though no man is an island, I am still an individual. I can't let anyone carry me in his palm -- or his cage -- forever.

I've had only two relationships in my whole 25-year existence. I didn't cheat and I tried my hardest to love them fully. (Obviously, it wasn't enough.) Now, I'm already nearing 3 years of "singlehood" and I haven't had any sexual relationships with anyone. But still my father thinks I'm a prostitute?!

Maybe I just couldn't blame him. After all, many people think of me the same way. To put it in another way, many people think of OTHER PEOPLE LIKE ME the same way.

Can't change that. No matter how hard I try. People are people.

A law professor once told me that God has many faces, and such vary from person to person. He believed that his God -- although deviant of the Church's notion -- is sympathetic, indiscriminatory, unconditional and always receptive of every person, regardless of the latter's "social and/or biblical" imperfections.

He is my God, too. I know He loves me.

Leaving Neverland

I was in AdNU these past two days. The University Choir had its post-Valentine's concert on a solitary February 24 evening and the English major students had the pilot staging last night of their play entitled "Kapa." (The last "a" of the word has a stress -- whatever it's called -- when pronounced but since I'm a techie dummy and haven't got an idea how to display such letter in the monitor, a simple "a" has to suffice.) Both events had their share of highlights, loops and what-have-you. Generally, however, my reviews had raves written all over them and the reasons weren't limited to the circumstance that I was invited to these events by friends. Anyhow, my thumbs up or 5 stars (whatever could be their worth) didn't matter that much.

What really got me into writing this stuff was the sudden re-appearance of the ghosts I thought had long transformed themselves into permanent bygones. More on them later.

After the play, we threw our drunkard asses once again to the pub of our intoxicated dreams, MudBugs, to resurrect our bubbling livers. Haha. Since the time Buboy, one of my best friends, decided to bid adieu to his "lengthy" life of loitering in the academe and to finally wreak havoc in a far less tolerating environment -- the work place (good grief) -- the chances of my friends' get-togethers had likewise bade goodbye to high counts of daily sessions, with or without San Miguel. In other words, a once-a-week-table-talk-with-a-bucket-whipping-our-organs would be a great relief to our now withering social calendars. Buboy currently had been given Tuesdays and Wednesdays as off days. Consequently, Fridays and Saturdays were morphed into boring weekdays, er, weekends. It was a cool change (I'm quoting Little River Band here) since I and Che, my other best friend, have got BIG exams coming up.

So there we were: Buboy and me, without Che, who had had enough of putting her reviewing on a standstill. However, we had Paul and Grace. The former was the actor-cum-playwright and the latter was his "biatch." Usually, on an ordinary Wednesday night, the table would find me, Buboy and Che (other friends are already in places we also dream of reaching one sweet and financially privileged day! :D) Last night obviously was different. After a week or 2 of hiatus, we had Paul and Grace as co-beer guzzlers. Paul used to be a habitue of our drunken table but since Buboy's unfortunate shift and our academic preoccupations, we had seen no Saturdays in MudBugs (or BeanBag -- and/or Molino) and Paul, the weekened-er, would instead litter his disco ball in Jaq.

We spent almost 2 hours talking about almost anything under the sun (or under the smoky ceiling), from the play to the little hairs surrounding one's a-hole. Haha. Then Paul, Grace and one friend of Grace's who arrived later, left to visit a friend confined at St. John's, leaving Buboy and yours truly to guzzle on the lonesome beer bottle (1/4 of it, that is). After 10 minutes of melodramatic talk (it was the beer talking!) and a chat with Joyce -- the cashier and fresh member of "It's a World Made for Singles, Too!" -- we left our favorite semi-sanctuary and prepped for the trip back to reality.

On my way home, while seated, er, slumped on a busted tricycle chair, with 20 bucks readied for presentment (parang negotiable instrument), I couldn't help but get flashbacks from the day that was (it was already past midnight). Either it was the splurging on bottles of Red Horse or my plain inclination to the dramatics, but the condensed moments came like thunders on a supposedly clear day: first, the lunch I had with Jane, who was contemplating her future, from the academic to the familial; second, the coffee talk with Zhulai with I whom I shared high hopes for the coming big event that would dictate our places in the professional sphere; third, the merienda I had with my college friends, who already had their share of ups and downs in their own worlds, from family to work; fourth, the Ash Wednesday mass I attended with one of my girl friends, who had already set sight on a plan to take her away from this sinking country; fifth, the play I'd mentioned wherein I got as a seatmate a former SRA supervisor and as co-viewers a swarm of very, very young people -- tweenies -- with raging, centipede-like hormones that painfully got me into recalling the person I was trying to hold on to but whom fate wouldn't forever allow; and finally, the drinking spree wherein the beauty of love, life and youth -- or whatever was left of such -- served as intangible sisig and mixed nuts.

Then, the tricycle stopped its shrieking. I was home. Or was I really?

After giving the fare, I opened the gate, walked disconcertedly, paused and then stared at the cemented walk that led to the garage.

Where was I going?

I pulled out a cigarette from its crushed mini-box and sat on a nearby stair. For almost 10 minutes, I sat there -- silent, silenced and mute. Three tricycles, 2 motorcycles and a pedicab passed by. With the sound of distant screeches, I felt a year or so of my life also did the same. I buried my face while the crickets sang their lullaby.

When I entered the house, my sister was doing her YM/Facebook/Friendster exploitation, uhm, exploration -- as usual. Seemingly sober, she told me Daddy was again mad at me for coming home this late. (I left before noon -- a once in a blue moon personal move --- and told him I'd be home before 5 in the afternoon.) Thankfully, he was already loudly snoring upstairs.

Attempting to act indifferently, I snatched my cellphone charger and turned my phone on. (It died while I was watching the play and while I was painstakingly trying to make out understandable phrases from a friend who was calling.)

"Wru? Pumuli ka na!" was the first message that came in. It was Daddy's. He was really pissed off. A Bicol word in a text message coming from him meant only that. Oh, well. I had to sleep; tomorrow -- or later -- would be a new day for cooler heads and a more empathic child.

That (very early) morning, I couldn't sleep though I was sure I had a ton of rocks plastered on my head... Dammit... Finally, after an hour of aping an "Aurora," I was able to put myself to sleep.

Then I was in another tricycle.

I was again on my way home. Or was I -- yet again? As the roads became more smoggy, so did the face of the driver. I started to gaze, then to look at this almost headless motorman, who a few seconds ago was just a dormant voice with an overshadowed silhouette for a face. Now, he was a real monster. The houses were also turning into unfamiliar, hollow structures like manors built on forgotten cliffs by the sea. It was worse than Sleepy Hollow.

More than terrified, I asked -- demanded -- from the driver to tell me where he was taking me. He neither answered nor looked at me. He only smiled and released what seemed like a growing laughter. I was already f*cking scared and I felt I was slowly being annihilated, stabbed in multiple by every crack of his unbelievably white teeth.

Then the vehicle stopped.

I wasn't home. This wasn't home in any way. In front of my trembling eyes was a high and illuminated silver Gothic gate. Behind it was nothing but the haunting and too complex sight of darkness -- still. The last thing I could recollect was that I was breathing -- heavily.

Then I woke up.

I looked at my cellphone. It was 9:30 a.m. I sat on my bed and looked at my slippers.

What was that?!

Then I remembered the day I had yesterday. Were -- or are -- the developments of my adulthood finally taking over -- immediately and mercilessly? Are the days of naivete or innocence in near scarcity (at least in my so-called life)? Am I leaving a place I have always treasured and made as a parcel of my presence, which ironically, has molded itself unconventionally that it has become my complete identity? Am I leaving Neverland, the place of my personal permanent childhood, or the thought of it? Were all the people I shared my atypical Wednesday with telling me, through their mirrors, to let go and to get a grip of something other than what I have been persistently and stubbornly anchored in? Am I "destined" for something worse than Hook's devoured arm?

Am I one of the Lost Boys or am I just lost? Or am I just a boy?

Hungry, insatiable and wanting.

The dream was really strange and scary. In fact, my shivering has not waned up to this very moment.

And why was there only darkness behind that silver gate?

Friendster Finally Got Its Overhaul... And?

For the past weeks or so, I had a morning ritual: to wake from my usually dreamless sleep, to drink my overly caffeine-ated coffee and to check updates on my social networks. Miraculously, that so-called ritual finally ended its streak when I tried to access my Friendster account this morning. I painstakingly had two tries and an almost broken keyboard before I managed to get a full view of my profile, which hadn't changed a bit since the last time I checked. Poor me.

It wasn't about a minute later when I discovered that my account did change after all. Technically, such wasn't limited to my now seemingly stagnant Friendster site. Everyone in fact had it and every Friendster habitue would surely notice that his/her friends' updates box had just gone through a makeover. Yes, Victoria, a makeover -- the one that Oprah arguably invented and the same thing that Tyra arguably tried to emulate in vain.

Tragically, the term "makeover" wasn't that appropriate -- at all. "Overhaul" was more like it. (At least an overhaul would either mean better or worse, depending on which side of the beauty salon or vulcanizing shop you're sitting... or inflating.)

To give you a bigger picture -- just in case 1) you have no Friendster account; 2) you have one but don't log in too much because Friendster is so 2004; or 3) you just don't care -- here's the overhaul: the friends' updates box, which is the second thing you check upon accessing your Friendster account (after your OWN updates), has been divided into 4 brackets, from the "24 hours ago" to the "4 days ago." Quite relieving and more informative, if you'd ask me... BUT... here's the catch: your friends' pictures weren't there! There were just names and the what-have-yous they just did. Good grief.

Personally, the box sort of looked cluttered, like panties scattered on the floor of a museum. The backdrop looked neat but the words -- or letters -- just appeared "shabby" or disorganized though they weren't. (Some of my friends have hearts, wingdings or whatever teenybopper scrapbookish churva associated with their names!) And they just confused you more. Your eyes would get distorted just looking at the small fonts and figuring out who this person who just received a comment or added a photo was.

I, for example, had to freak my brain out just to know who among my friends named MARK had updated his profile. I have 4 friends with MARK as their user names in my account so I had to look further just to discover who among these 4 had ticked his profile though I didn't really care! Haha.

Worse, it would really get complicated if you accessed one's profile just to stupidly find out who was who. If your settings allowed you to know who were those who viewed your profile and their settings were the same, that person would find out you'd been doing some snooping though you weren't really. Sheesh. It used to be so simple but now it isn't. Like d'oh.

Kelly Clarkson had a word for it: beautiful mess. I have one for it, too: messy beautiful or just plain mess.

Poor Friendster. I think the "regression" started when other social networks, like MySpace, Multiply and most recently, Facebook, got into the social networking scene and seized Friendster's moolah. Well, at least in the Philippines... or Naga City. Haha.

Now, Friendster just looks like one granddaddy who had his better days. Its team just couldn't get it quite right recently. With all the hype Facebook is receiving, the Friendster road is getting bulldozed by the minute. Keeping up through the new (and tragic) layout may just be too little, too late -- or too big, too early.

Sadly, I used to be a Friendster supporter (see my past article about Facebook and my initial pissed off moments with it). I still am but no longer that spirited (for the lack of a better adjective). I think the table has turned and Facebook has become my new loitering zone. Must be the applications.

Anyway, it's just an opinion, especially if you're a Friendster die-hard. To be even redundant about it, it's just my PERSONAL opinion. So don't kill me. :)

Losing Cupid

Wanted.
Asked.
Hoped.
Longed.
Needed.

Opened.
Stared.
Gazed.
Looked.

Petrified.
Frozen.

Moved.
Opened.
Stared.
Gazed.
Looked.
Stopped.

Moved.
Stopped.
Looked.
Stopped.
Moved.
Stopped.

Stopped.

Far.
Farther.
Further.

Lost.
Gone.
Gone.

(One of my very few attempts at "poetry." I initially planned to do something long but idleness had taken over my "ranting" again tonight. Oh well.)

The Love of Siam: Bad Ending?

Just when I thought that I had seen enough of sad, bad, frustrating or just plain depressing endings (every adjective is different, mind you), there I was again at almost 3 this morning digging for clues in the IMDB website fora. But unlike the rage I had when I watched "Billy's Hollywood Screen Kiss," where the protagonist was unexpectedly dumped for a more attractive man, the ending of "The Love of Siam" somewhat had me torn between taking the movie to my "Hall of All-Time Movie Favorites" or to my "Hall of All-Time Movie Downers."

Quite ironically, the first time I saw the ending of "The Love of Siam" I was extremely happy (this is an understatement) with how the director depicted the scene. I did not even think of it as sad or devastating. In fact, I was surprised - pleasantly - by how the movie was concluded. But you know that all changed (though slightly) when I got brainwashed by the reactions flooded in the fora. More on that later.

For those who haven't seen the movie - and for your enlightenment - here's a summary (I may not be good at doing nutshells. Just read my previous post, which was a very amateurish attempt in doing a summary of "Billy's Hollywood Screen Kiss." It turned into a novel-cum-critique. Haha. But do I have choice here?) :

Mew and Tong (played brilliantly by Witwisit Hiranyawongkul and Mario Maurer, respectively) were childhood friends. They were neighbors. At the outset, Mew didn't like Tong because of the latter's mischievousness. Tong, on the other hand, was more receptive of Mew. One day, Mew got into a fight with some of his schoolmates because of his "sissiness." Quite expectedly, Tong was there to the rescue. Resultingly, he was the one who got mobbed. That was how the friendship of the two was forged. In one scene, Tong gave Mew a gift through a game where the latter had to find scattered pieces of the toy gift (think of Mr. Potato Head, but wooden) through maps the former made. When the two got into the place where the last piece was hidden - a tree - the same was already cut and being taken away. So Mew got his toy, without its last piece: the nose.

Then the plot thickened. Tong's sister, Tang, "got lost in the jungle" during a hiking trip. Tong's family - because of their devastation - had to move to relieve them somehow of their pain.

Years later, Tong and Mew met again - in Siam Square. Tong was already dating a girl and Mew was a vocalist in a boy band (August Band). The boy band's assistant, June, had a very arresting resemblance with Tang. The similarity was so striking that even Tong's mother hired her to pretend to be Tang in order to salvage Tong's father who was then addicted to alcoholism because of Tang's loss.

As the movie progressed, it could be seen that Mew had more than a friendly thing going on for Tong. Mew even composed several "love" songs specially dedicated to his childhood friend. Tong, on the other hand, seemed "complicated" at first. But in several scenes, Tong revealed that he had the same thing going on for Mew, too. (Just a note: both of them were straight-acting. Mew's girl neighbor even had an obsession for him. Arguably, both of the boys were still confused with their sexual preferences.) But after a party in Tong's house (to celebrate the supposed return of Tang), the two kissed. This was all seen by Tong's mother, who, the next day, confronted Mew, asking him to end the relationship he had with Tong. Being the young, gullible man that he was (both him and Tong were still in high school), he succumbed to the request of the oh-so-typically-conservative mother. Tong soon found out and sought Mew. But for days, the latter gave the former the cold shoulder... until the concert in the square.
As the movie approached its end, Tong gave up his snotty girlfriend; Mew's neighbor found out about the boys' relationship but handled it with respect; and June/Tang quit her job and left for somewhere else, leaving the audience wondering whether she was really Tang or not.

Finally, the ending. After the concert, when Mew and his co-band members were leaving, Tong approached Mew. At this stage of the movie, the viewers presumably were anticipating that Tong will affirm his love for Mew and they'd live happily ever after. After all, in a brilliantly depicted scene, with a girl and a boy ornament used as metaphors, Tong asked what his mother would like to be placed in the Christmas tree. First, he placed the girl figure, then the boy. Later, he paired the two. Tong's mother, obviously unaware that her son was trying to tell her something, candidly told him to do whatever. Then Tong managed a reply, which undoubtedly sent shivers to my bones, "What if I choose one and you don't like it? You'll be upset again." Tong's mother, tentatively petrified and conspicuously overcome by the sudden impact of the query, told him, "Choose what you think is best for yourself." Tong chose the boy puppet, while his mother looked on sympathetically as if telling him that though his son's choice wasn't exactly what she would have hoped, she knew that it was what Tong thought was best for him - and that was enough. That was probably one of the best movie scenes I've seen.
So there were the two boys seemingly caught in all the events that led to this scene: after the concert, as the two stood in front of each other, waiting for the culmination of the decision they had to make for each other... while Mew's friends stood behind them, watching, listening, hoping... so was I. My excitement was already way beyond boiling at this point, but of course, I had to contain myself... Then it happened: Mew asked Tong what he thought of the song his band sang at the concert (a cheesy but quite nice song about meeting someone and making a beautiful destiny - a dream - out of their lives)... There was an awkward, silent moment first as if telling the viewers to prepare themselves for the unforgiving gravity of Tong's words... He replied, with his puppy eyes directed to Mew's wondering ones, "I can't be with you as your boyfriend..." Mew's smile suddenly faded, like a petal hiding away from the sun's rays, but he managed to smile again, attempting to hide the disappointment... Tong continued, "But that doesn't mean that I don't love you."

Awww. I was already blushing then but I didn't care. Haha. At that time, I didn't know yet the true import of Tong's words. All I knew was that Tong finally had the courage to embrace who he was and to reciprocate expressly Mew's love for him - though not in the best way there was. After all, if one loved another, shouldn't they be together? But who am I to meddle with this? Haha.

After those powerful words, Tong gave Mew a Christmas gift. Later, Tong went back home and confirmed to the audience once and for all that family had to be first in his priorities. In the end, Mew was shown with Tong's Christmas gift, the missing piece of the wooden toy Tong gave him when they were little (remember the game?). It was the nose. After finally putting the piece in its place, he stared at it and began to cry while saying the words, "Thank you." It was one of the most fragile yet brilliantly acted outbursts I'd seen for a while in a movie. Very heartbreaking, especially when Mew had to open his mouth to contain his tears. The movie finally ended with the toy staring blankly at the viewer - haunting, asking, hoping.
When I turned off the screen, I had no doubt that "The Love of Siam" would be one of my favorites, maybe next to "American Beauty," "Brokeback Mountain" or "Shelter."

I was so taken by the movie that I immediately got into the IMDB website just to have a view of what other people thought of it. But disappointingly, many of them didn't like the ending. Some even questioned why the two couldn't end up together. Some had very rational views on the matter, alleging that Asian families are still stuck in the tradition of a heterosexual setting, thus, making hesitant followers out of their children. But most - if not all - of them liked the movie in general. I did, too, but in its entirety. I thought it wasn't concluded as worse as some people put it. In fact, I viewed the ending with a very big possibility for Tong and Mew. Just because Tong decided that he and Mew couldn't be boyfriends didn't mean that they couldn't be together at all. (People, Tong didn't say he'd marry a girl or be straight at once!) I even thought the arrangement Tong offered Mew entailed a bigger space for optimism and love for the two of them. They could still end up together because what they had was sufficient to hold them together.

Even though it was obvious, I still had to get the idea from some of the bloggers that what the director offered was an open-ended ending. Hence, any conclusion that suited the viewer would suffice. In other words, Tong and Mew's love story could either be a tragedy or otherwise, depending on the individual's perspective. Personally, either it was a bad thing or not, the two protagonists were still very young and worldly. But they had shown very strong oppositions against the norms, so be positive. Anyhow, a presumably "happier" ending could have pushed the movie to infinity, but a hint of reality couldn't hurt a little, if at all.

So thankfully, I wasn't brainwashed totally by the comments. (Inevitably, only a sequel can end all the debates over the ending. "The Love of Siam 2" please!)

I also didn't construe Mew's "thank you" in the end of the film as an utter piece of sarcasm. When I first saw that scene (which I've repeated countless of times), I thought what was being acknowledged by Mew wasn't the bitterness engulfing the just transpired conversation he had with Tong - but the affirmation of the love, of the possibility that he wouldn't be lonely anymore because of Tong. They weren't tears of regret, of frustration - but of gratefulness and of hope. As that part was running, I remembered the scene in Mew's room where Tong asked Mew if he was feeling lonely, Mew had a part of his answer which went like this, "Is it possible that we can live our entire life without loving anyone at all? That's my loneliness." I thought with Mew's "thank you" came the answer to his question. And he couldn't be lonely anymore.

Mew's favorite verse couldn't say it better, "As long as you love, you still have hope." Indeed.

So, to answer conclusively the question: was the ending bad? NO. Not at all. In fact, it was excellent.

Roger Federer Lost It

Heartbreaking. That's the word.

Minutes after Rafael Nadal broke Roger Federer's serve to be the victor in the nail-biting 5-set Australian Open Finals and, thus, finally crashing into the ranks of tennis superstar-dom (and history: he had just become one of the very few tennis players to ever win in all grand slam surfaces, i.e., hard court, clay and grass, and the first Spaniard to ever snatch the Australian Open trophy), the world witnessed the hard beating of a torn Roger Federer. Seconds into his speech - amidst the jeers from the passionate, fanaticism-inclined crowd (one MAN even shouted, "I love you, Federer!") - the once seemingly invincible Swiss champion finally revealed his vulnerability. From a tear to a visibly uncontrollable outburst of emotions, Federer stood on the stage, with the crowd looking down on him, shocked and sympathetic.

Even I was caught in the moment. Mentally exhausted after reading pages from a Civil Procedure textbook (Mandamus and Quo Waranto were twins I had no intention of ever adopting), I never thought I could be more drained... until that moment.

From the 1st round of the 1st grand slam of the year, I rooted for Rafa over Roger. After all, Roger already has enough trophies (he has 13 and that night, he was attempting to equal Pete Sampras' record of 14 grand slams) and Rafa is more dynamic and entertaining in the court. And I've always admired him since the time he first had his Wimbledon men's singles appearance. He reached the 3rd round in that year, I guess. Not bad for a first appearance. Even a sportscaster exclaimed that he had no doubt the world would be seeing more of this youngster. I thought so, too, and both of us were - and still are - right. And, yes, I liked the Nike ensemble he had on last night. He looked like a warrior from the future with that lime gree, white and black mix. Haha.

Don't get me wrong but I like Federer, too. Roger plays elegantly. Clean. Polished. There is an indefinite beauty in the way he does his forehands and backhands. Pizzaz, I think. In scrutiny, when Rafa chases the balls, it kind of looks messy and all over the place. Roger, on the other hand, scores with precision and clarity, like making a draft look like a finished work.

But a match pitting the two against each other always has me going for Rafa.

It all changed last night.

So there was Roger, sobbing, yet trying his hardest not to. Then the screen turned to Rafa, who was sober and undoubtedly feeling for Roger. Surely, Rafa's Mardi Gras had been stalled.

There was suddenly a very uncomfortable silence - or whisper - in the Rod Laver arena (note: Rod Laver was even there to present the trophy!). Then, Roger finally ended his struggle. After the host asked the Swiss if he wanted to continue with his speech (which could have been coined as an "eulogy" - a farewell to his title of "master" in all surfaces in the modern era - for now), the latter asked that he be allowed to compose himself. The crowd could be heard sighing in relief. I did, too. At that moment, I was already wishing I did not cheer as much as I did for Rafa (as if I was a factor in Roger's loss. Haha!).

The host then introduced Rafa: that his victory in the Aussie Open Final is the first for a Spaniard, blah, blah, blah... Before Rafa took the mic, Roger finally decided to say his piece. After all, he claimed, Rafa must have the final word because "he deserves it." He was saying that still with his eyes flooded. (Sigh.)

He thanked the sponsors, the tennis legends (yes, they were there!) and the fans. It was truly heartbreaking. There were the alternate moments when he had to slow down because of the surge of emotions and had to hasten again because he knew he had to end the struggle once and for all. (The speech was a requirement to say the least.) Though he didn't say it, it was clear that he was extremely disappointed with his loss - and with the failed attempt to match Sampras record-breaking 14 grand slam titles. Add to that the realization that an attempt of the same feat will be met by yet another colossal battle with the now (presumably) reigning "master of all court surfaces." Roger was truly devastated that he was not able to thank his team - the Swiss, his coach, his parents, and even his wife, who was crushed as well.

I am not saying that we should pity Roger; that his supremacy has already ended; or that Rafa is unbeatable. The fact still remains that Roger is arguably the best player out there. Either last night was Rafa's night (he is younger after all though the odds were against him because he just dispatched Verdasco in a very exhausting 5-hr.+ semi-final epic) or Roger's overdue wake-up call has finally rung (I think his defeat in the French Open against Rafa was the outset).

Conclusively, I still believe Roger has the guns to match or even surpass Sampras' record. Just give him time to recover - fast.

Damn... Just give Roger that trophy!