MGA NASA ISIP KO NGAYON

Ooperahan na ko!
Tuloy na ang aking operasyon sa tuhod. Gaganapin ito sa ika-4 ng Nobyembre sa UST Hospital dakong alas-singko ng hapon. Pangungunahan ni Dr. Jose Fernando Syquia (parang karakter lang sa Marimar) ang nasabing operasyon. Sa nasabing operasyon, puputol ng kapiranggot na tendon sa aking hamstring na siya namang gagamitin upang mapagdugtong ang aking napunit na ACL. Susubukan din ayusin ni Dr. Syquia ang aking medial meniscus gamit ng mga hi-tech na anchor; subalit kung hindi na puwedeng maayos ito, tatanggalin na lamang daw.

May NBA nanaman...
Simula na naman ng NBA! Mukhang mahihirapan ang paborito kong koponan ng mag-kampeon muli. Pero alam kong pag-iibayuhin nila Kevin Garnett, Ray Allen, at Paul Pierce ang kanilang paglalaro para maihatid nila muli ang Celtics sa rurok ng tagumpay. Pero base sa unang tatlong araw ng liga, sa tingin ko’y pinakamalakas na koponan ngayon ang Los Angeles Lakers, na pinagbibidahan ni Kobe Bryant. Mukhang malaki talaga ang tsansa ng Lakers na mag-kampeon.

May planong piging na!
Magkakaron ng isang Christmas dinner (isang piging, ayon kay Miko) ang tropang JRN sa Disyembre. Ang naturang piging (Filipino word of the month) ay isang paggunita hindi lamang ng Kapaskuhan, kundi ng pagkakaibigang walang kapantay. Kahit saang lupalop pa man gaganapin yang hapunang pampasko (phrase courtesy of Miko again) na yan, sinisiguro kong dadalo ako at makikisalo. Kesehodang nakasaklay pa ko sa mga panahong yan, pupunta pa rin ako.

May isasama ba sa piging?
Ukol pa rin sa nasabing piging, tinanong kami ni Miko sa kanyang sarbey kung may isasama ba kami dito. Sa ngayon ay wala akong isasama, pero kung may himalang mangyayari, aba, baka sakaling may maisasama ako. Datapwat nakalulungkot isipin na malabong maisama ko siya sa piging (‘di ba nga, “walang himala!”), ayos lang naman dahil makakasama ko naman ang aking mga mahal na kaibigan.

Kung may isasama ko…
Kung may maisasama man ako sa piging namin, gutso ko si Mhean yun. Ewan ko, pero magaan ang loob ko sa kanya. Nababaitan lang talaga ko sa kanya. At isa pa, nagagandahan ako sa kanya. Hindi siya ang pinakamagandang babae na nakita ko sa mundo at hindi rin naman masasabing artistahin yung ganda niya, pero gandang-ganda ko sa kanya. Ika nga sa wikang banyaga, “There’s something in her eyes and her smile that melts and captivate my heart.” Balak ko nga siyang bigyan ng regalo bago ko magpa-admit sa UST. Tipong “thank-you” gift ba, para lang mapakita ko yung appreciation ko sa kanya bilang physical therapist ko (kahit 4 sessions lang kami).

NBA THOUGHTS

Here are some of my thoughts of the upcoming NBA season. I've got more on my mind, but I'm too stressed out to write all of them.

The Celtics will defend their title to death, but fall short.
For a KG-Ray Allen fan, this is, without a doubt, the hardest thing to accept about this upcoming season. KG, Jesus, and the rest of the Celtics will defend their title valiantly, but the huge vacuum left by PJ Brown, and in particular James Posey, will be hard to fill-up. Unless the Cs sign/steal a veteran contributor by midseason, they’ll be a piece or two short from repeating as champs.

Speaking of signing/stealing a veteran in midseason, I’d love to see the Cs nab the ageless Alonzo Mourning. The thought of KG and ‘Zo on the same floor as teammates makes me giddy. It’s must-see-TV. Imagine those two after they serve a double dose of vicious blocks on some poor sap:

KG: (shoving ‘Zo hard on the chest, snarling like a caveman on crack, eyeballs about to pop out): Yeah boy! *&#*($^@*@&! Good D! @&@^*#&@*#^&$*#&! Ubuntu! &^$*#(^@*! Ubuntu! Ubuntu! Ubuntu!

‘Zo: (pounding his chest like a madman, flexing his biceps, and hollering like a psycho): *&^&^%#(*^%@*#&#^@&! Yeah! *^#&%(@&%&*#&%@&%@*! Ubuntu! Ubuntu!

But then again, even that might be wishful thinking. As things stand now, the Cs will likely be dethroned. However, watching KG and the rest of the Cs defend that title like crazy will be worth it.

Houston will have a problem.
On paper, at least, the Rockets are legit contenders. Ron Artest, who is in a contract year and playing for his favorite coach, will surely embolden the Rockets with his toughness and roughness. He’ll also give them lockdown defense and added scoring punch. However, Houston’s fate still lies in the brittle feet of Yao Ming and the chronically hurt body of Tracy McCrady––not exactly a great proposition. Artest will have a very good year, but T-Mac and Yao will have to be healthy if the Rockets are to contend for the title. The chance of that happening is about the same as Michael Jordan’s batting average in the minor leagues: less than 30 percent.

Kobe will be MVP again.
He––not Paul Pierce or LeBron James––is still the best player in the world today. Mamba wants a championship badly, and wth a loaded lineup, he’ll be at his most dangerous best. He proved his alpha dog status in that gold-medal game against Spain in the Olympics, and that will carry over this season.

The Sixers won’t be as good as advertised.
After Elton Brand signed with the Sixers, a lot of experts penciled in the Sixers as legit contenders in the East, some even going as far as predicting a number 3 seed for Brand and company. Yes, the Sixers will be better this year, but to consider them contenders is stretching it a bit too much. They won’t even get home-court advantage in the first round. They don’t have depth, they don’t have anyone who can shoot consistently from the perimeter, and their defense is average.

The Knicks will be better.
No, the Knicks still won’t make the playoffs, but they’ll be better. Now, teams won’t be able to just mark their Knick games on their calendars and say, “We got a win here.” At the very least, these Knicks will compete on a nightly basis under Mike D’Antoni, and for a city that had to endure the gigantic ego of Larry Brown, the idiocy of Stephon Marbury, the perversion of Isiah Thomas, and the stupidity of management, being competitive is enough of a start.

Jason Kidd will make one final stand.
The obituary for Jason Kidd’s basketball wizardry has already been written, but its funeral will have to wait for at least one more year. I see J-Kidd dishing out a vintage Jason Kidd season one last time, just to remind us of his unquestioned greatness. That said, look for Dallas to fall in the first round. The West is just too damn strong.

Just for the fun of it, here are my predictions for the upcoming season:
MVP: Kobe Bryant, Lakers
MIP: Danny Granger, Pacers
6th Man: Ben Gordon, Bulls
DPOY: Kevin Garnett, Celtics
ROY: Derrick Rose, Bulls
COY: Jerry Sloan, Jazz

All-NBA First Team
Chris Paul, Hornets
Kobe Bryant, Lakers
LeBron James, Cavs
Tim Duncan, Spurs
Dwight Howard, Magic

All-NBA Second Team
Deron Williams, Jazz
Dwyane Wade, Heat
Kevin Garnett, Celtics
Amare Stoudemire, Suns
Yao Ming, Rockets

All-NBA Third Team
Steve Nash, Suns
Paul Pierce, Celtics
Carmelo Anthony, Nuggets
Dirk Nowitzki, Mavs
Chris Bosh, Raptors

All-Defensive First Team
Kobe Bryant, Lakers
Shane Battier, Rockets,
Ron Artest, Rockets
Kevin Garnett, Celtics
Tim Duncan, Spurts

All-Defensive Second Team
Rajon Rondo, Celtics
Bruce Bowen, Spurs
LeBron James, Cavs
Andrei Kirilenko, Jazz
Marcus Camby, Clippers

LIKE A PHOENIX....

I’ve been a little too cynical these past few days, so much so that I’ve found myself sulking and complaining too much. Then, I realized two things. First, a lot more people are going through worst shit than me. Second, there are a lot of more people who genuinely care for me––family, friends, and co-workers––than what I initially thought.

So write this down in stone: I’ll rise like a phoenix and get through this unbroken (Yes, after more than 5 years in hibernation, the phoenix has seen print yet again!). Matter of fact, I know I’ll be fit and ready to go out-of-town next summer. I may even un-retire and play basketball again by May 2009 (that, though, will surely drive my mom nuts).

Anyways, I’ve decided to subscribe again to the belief that there is always a bright side; a silver lining to every dark cloud; a light at the end of the tunnel, a Pot of Gold (yeah!) on the other side of the rainbow; a rainbow after every storm; a flicker of hope amid hopelessness; and a (insert one more cliché here).

So in the spirit of optimism, I’ve taken the liberty to list down, in no particular order, the positives I have gotten or will eventually get from this experience.

1. I met Mhean, my pretty, friendly therapist (got her number, too).
2. I got reacquainted with the doctor that fixed my scoliosis.
3. I’m living a healthy lifestyle.
4. I found out who genuinely cares for me (thank you).
5. I’ll lose weight because it is absolutely necessary.
6. I’ll learn leg strengthening exercises in my rehab.
7. No work for at least 10 days.
8. Got a good story to tell my kids (if I do have some).
9. Bonded me closer to my mom.

I'M HAVING SURGERY

It’s official: I’m having arthroscopic surgery to repair the tears in my ACL and meniscus. No exact date has been set yet, but it’ll probably be by the end of the month or on the first week of November, give or take. My doctor, Dr. Teresita Altre, is still trying to find the best orthopedic surgeon to do my surgery since she isn’t trained to do arthroscopies (see, my doctor is kinda old-school, but she’s one of the best). For the meantime, I’m undergoing physical therapy to strengthen my leg muscles for the surgery itself.

What a post-birthday and pre-Christmas gift for me.

Bring on the hard times.

MORE BAD NEWS FOR ME

Ever since I injured my knee playing basketball, my mom has constantly harangued me about the hazards of playing basketball. Whenever she can, she tells me that I should no longer ball, and that I should switch to non-contact sports, preferably those that don’t require running and jumping. Hard-headed as I am, I’ve been telling my mom that I’ll play ball again, by hook or by crook.

“I love playing basketball, mom,” I told her once.

“The game doesn’t love you,” she answered emphatically.

“You don’t get anything from playing basketball!!” my mom would say often.

“It keeps me in shape and it relaxes me,” would be my usual reply.

But after getting an MRI last Wednesday, I think I’ll begin to reconsider my stand on playing basketball again. Heck, may be mom does know best.

When I saw the following findings, my heart just melted.
Anterior cruciate ligament tear (partial or almost complete tear).
Complex tear of the posterior horn of the medial meniscus.
Consider popliteal, meniscal, or ganglion cycst with rupture at the posteromedial popliteal area.
Consider slight muscle atrophy of the tibialis anterior.

I’m no doctor, but anytime something’s torn in the body, I know it’s not a good thing.

I’ll be meeting up with my doctor tomorrow to discuss this matter, and I’m not quite too optimistic about it. I actually feel like things will degenerate from bad to worse once my doctor examines the results of my MRI. I’m keeping my fingers crossed, though. Hopefully, surgery won’t be needed.

For the meantime, though, I think my playing days are over.

IS THIS PLAGIARISM? (I THINK SO)

I stumbled upon this veiled yet blatant act of plagiarism (I believe this constitutes plagiarism) by Jay Ortega, a writer for the Philippine Star Modern Living section. I'm posting both the original article (from Rolling Stones) and the Jay Ortega "article" so you can read them both. You be the judge.

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Here's the original article from Rolling Stones:

In the Eighties, thrash metal wasn't a scene, it was an arms race: riffs kept speeding up, drum kits got bigger. But with 1991's Black Album, Metallica opted for unilateral disarmament, slowing their tempos, shortening their songs and smelting their chugging guitars and piston-powered drums into armor-plated pop hooks. After that, the band rushed from one reinvention to another, starting with the Southern-rock infusion of 1996's Load and culminating in the muddled, bizarrely produced group-therapy session of 2003's St. Anger. No longer: Death Magnetic is the musical equivalent of Russia's invasion of Georgia — a sudden act of aggression from a sleeping giant.

Just as U2 re-embraced their essential U2-ness post-Pop, this album is Metallica becoming Metallica again — specifically, the epic, speed-obsessed version from the band's template-setting trilogy of mid-Eighties albums: Master of Puppets, Ride the Lightning and, especially, the progged-out ...And Justice for All. That much is clear from the 90-second mark of Death Magnetic's first track, "That Was Just Your Life," where the band unleashes a barrage of James Hetfield's dutta-duh-duhnt riffing and Lars Ulrich's octuple-time double-bass-and-snare smashing. That long-vanished sound, as essential to Metallica as variations on the "Start Me Up" riff are to the Stones, is all over the album —you wonder how these fortysomething dudes are going to handle playing it live night after night. (Enter chiropractor.)

Death Magnetic marks the group's split with producer Bob Rock, who helmed every Metallica album from 1991 to 2004 and pushed them toward concision and immediacy — until St. Anger, when he seemed to throw up his hands altogether. (As the 2004 documentary Some Kind of Monster demonstrates, Rock deserved credit for getting any music at all out of a band determined to self-destruct.) New producer Rick Rubin shoves Metallica in the opposite direction: Half of Death Magnetic's tracks are over seven minutes long, with song structures that are not so much "verse/chorus/verse" as "long intro/heavy jam/verse/even heavier jam/chorus/bridge/wild solo/outro."

This feels like the right move for an era where Guitar Hero is the new rock radio. (Appropriately, the full album will be downloadable for GH play.) And it's not as if Top 40 stations were going to slip in Metallica between Chris Brown and the Jonas Brothers, anyway. These songs rarely feel too long: At their best, they combine the melodic smarts of Metallica's mature work with the fully armed-and-operational battle power of their early days. "The End of the Line" is a freight-train rocker with a ricocheting riff and lyrics about a doomed, drug-addicted star. It builds to a frantic guitar duel between Kirk Hammett and Hetfield, a wah-wah-crazed solo and, finally, a bridge that feels like an entirely new song. And the spectacular "All Nightmare Long" — a thematic sequel of sorts to "Enter Sandman" — combines relentless Master of Puppets guitars with a Black Album-worthy chorus.

St. Anger was a misguided attempt to recapture the band's mojo by sounding "raw" — but Death Magnetic manages to sound huge, polished and tough. The musicianship feels thrillingly live throughout, and nimble new bassist Robert Trujillo helps, even though he's mostly heard as a distant, ominous rumble. (Has there ever been a more bass-averse band in rock?)
There's supposed to be a lyrical theme here — something about death — but it's hard to discern. After expanding his lyrical palette on previous albums, Hetfield is now so determined to re-metallize that he pushes toward self-parody: "Venom of a life insane/Bites into your fragile vein," he barks on "The Judas Kiss." The "One"-style half-ballad, half-thrasher "The Day That Never Comes" appears to be yet another tale from Hetfield's rough childhood, complete with the awful pun "son shine."

But if you ignore the lyrics, Death Magnetic sounds more like it's about coming back to life. Everything comes together on the fan-favorite-to-be "Broken, Beat and Scarred," which manages to channel the full force of Metallica behind a positive message: "What don't kill ya make ya more strong," Hetfield sings, with enough power to make the cliché feel fresh. The aphorism he paraphrases happens to come from Nietzsche's Twilight of the Idols, which is subtitled How to Philosophize With a Hammer. Metallica's philosophizing may get shaky — but long may that hammer strike

Here's the Jay Ortega "article.".
(I've taken the liberty of putting in boldface the parts which were plagiarized. Some were verbatim, while some were somewhat revised by either changing a word, ommitting a word, or revising the structure of the sentence. )

In the ‘80s, thrash metal wasn’t just a scene, it was an arms race seemingly likened to the Cold War: riffs were speeding up, drum kits got bigger and hair was grown for head-banging. During those days, Metallica was the new king of the metal hill.

With 1991’s “The Black Album,” their most successful one to date, Metallica went for unilateral disarmament, slowing their tempos considerably, shortening their tracks, smelting their crunge guitars and pulverizing drums into chrome-plated pop-rock hooks… Not that “The Black Album” was bad, far from it, it was just more polished and it eventually ushered in a new era, as well as a new audience, for the band. Although, as a live act, they were as strong and powerful as ever, blasting out old and new tunes one after the other with violent fervor.

I should know all about their live bedlam-like act. I was backstage on April 17, 1993 when Metallica invaded Philippine shores and took the Ultra by storm. I even got on stage while local band Razorback was getting ready to open the show, and screamed in unison alongside Wolfgang drummer Wolf Gemora: “Rock on!” We were all awestruck from the moment we entered the venue. We saw the Metallica crates, heard the roadies jamming, even got to meet and speak with then bassist Jason Newstead, and I almost got kicked out of the backstage area for screaming, “Throw me a pick, man!” to half-Filipino Kirk Hammet, Metallica’s lead guitarist. It was wild to say the least, but let’s save that for another article and get back to the latest Metallica onslaught.

After receiving numerous awards for “The Black Album,” the band swiftly moved from one reinvention to another, starting with the Southern-rock infusion of 1996’s “Load,” the follow-up “Re-Load,” until eventually culminating in the muddy, clanky, and bizarrely produced group-therapy session of 2003’s “St. Anger.” The worst Metallica album ever made, in my humble opinion.

With the release of “Death Magnetic,” the band, now armed with new bassist Rob Trujillo, was able to create the musical equivalent of Yao Ming body-slamming Shaq — a sudden act of aggression from a sleeping giant.

Embracing their past, infusing their experience and newfound grit, this album is Metallica becoming Metallica again — specifically, the epic, speed-obsessed version from the band’s template-setting trilogy of mid-‘80s albums: “Master of Puppets,” “Ride the Lightning” and, especially, the stylized “…And Justice for All.”

Everything is clear and evident from the get-go. “Death Magnetic”’s first track, That Was Just Your Life, unleashes a barrage of brilliantly melodic James Hetfield guitar riffs and Lars Ulrich’s octuple-time double-bass-and-snare bashing. The track charges like a beast possessed. That long-vanished, and much-awaited sound, as essential to Metallica as Bonzo’s drum sound was for Led Zep, is all over “Death Magnetic.”

“Death Magnetic” also marks the group’s annulment from producer Bob Rock, who helmed every Metallica album from 1991 to 2004 and pushed them toward succinctness and immediacy — Including “St. Anger,” where his producing magic all but disappeared, added to the fact that the band was on the brink of self-destruction (as evidenced in the Some Kind Of Monster rock-umentary).

New producer Rick Rubin shoves Metallica awake on this new release: Half of “Death Magnetic”’s tracks are over seven minutes long, or even longer, with song structures and arrangements that are not so much verse/chorus/verse, as long intro/heavy jam/verse/even heavier jam/chorus/bridge/wild solo/heavy outro.

As long and heavy as the songs are, it’s not like Top 40 stations are going to slip in Metallica cuts between Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers, anyway… right?

But in all honesty, these songs hardly feel long at all. At their best, they combine the melodic experience of Metallica’s more mature, latter work with the fully cocked-and-loaded battle power of their early days.

The End of the Line is a locomotive rock-hard track with a bouncing riff and lyrics about a doomed, drug-addicted star. (Sounds familiar?) It builds to a speed-obsessed axe-fight between Kirk Hammett and Hetfield, a wah-wah-laden solo and finally a bridge that feels like an entirely new song. Beautiful!

You get that vibe all throughout the album. Soon as something sounds familiar, it turns into an all-together new hook that takes you on a different flight of fancy.

The amazing All Nightmare Long — a thematic sequel of sorts to Enter Sandman, I feel — combines relentless “Master of Puppets” guitars with a “Black Album”-like chorus. It really is a perfect marriage of old school Metallica amalgamated with their well-developed polished side.
“St. Anger” was a failed attempt to recapture the band’s garage days by sounding “raw” — too raw — but “Death Magnetic” manages to sound huge, polished, and full of fuerza bruta or brute force.

Lyrically, James attempts to engage death head-on, and makes it the quintessential theme of the whole album— “Venom of a life insane/Bites into your fragile vein,” he barks on The Judas Kiss… a half-ballad, half-thrasher, just like the next track The Day That Never Comes.
After hearing the rest of the tracks, though, the listener, at least in my case, can’t shake the feeling that instead of simple and literal death, the album lyrically sounds like it is tackling coming back to life as well.

Here’s extra proof from Hetfield’s own mouth: “As if the number ones were not enough excitement, here we are on the cover of Rolling Stone... the first time in 12 years!! It’s been quite the week to say the least…” This is James Hetfield waxing enthusiastic about “Death Magnetic” on the band’s official website.

Obviously the band is enthralled and elated about what the album has achieved in just a couple of weeks since its release last September 12.

And on another positive note, everything comes together on one of my favorite songs Broken, Beat and Scarred, which manages to exude the full force of Metallica behind something optimistic: “What don’t kill ya make ya more strong,” Hetfield wails. The aphorism he paraphrases happens to come from Nietzsche’s Twilight of the Idols.

The track Cyanide could possibly be another fan favorite. A melodic guitar and drum drone coupled with a lyrical hook: “Suicide, I’ve already died, you’re just the funeral I’ve been waiting for, Cyanide.” This track is followed by The Unforgiven III which kicks off with a haunting piano line, laced with an obo-sounding murmur, that slowly builds into a classic Hetfield speed ride. An obvious takeoff from the first two Unforgiven songs, but only lyrically, this tune separates itself through a jigsaw arrangement that definitely works for me. A classic rock anthem with heartfelt guitar solos.

Next on the disc is Suicide & Redemption an empowering riff-laden juggernaut of a song. In local terminology “bagsakan na malupit!” And, before the main riff becomes redundant, in comes a nice, quite melodic part that pieces the song together before introducing another bone-breaking riff that just completes the track. Technically sound and luminous, this epic 10-minute song is a castle-in-the-sky instrumental blast.

The album closes just the way it started — full on kill or be killed offensive assault via the heavier-than-thou My Apocalypse.

Welcome back, Metallica, in all your glory… A powerful force of nature has been reborn.

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Now, is it just me, or is the Jay Ortega "article" really an act of plagiarism?