This. Is. Boxing.

Sunday promised to be a day of unrelenting boredom. I was down to my last few hundred peso, since it was payday (not until midnight, though), and I had to save all those peso for food. I did have a stash of murder mysteries and a few movies I hadn't watched yet (Wanted, MI 2 and a few others) but the prospect of laying in bed reading and watching tv all day just didn't seem appealing at all. So the plan was to head to the mall and watch either "Megamind" or "The Easy A", fool around on the internet for a while, and then go home. I had a few calling cards with ten minutes each on them so I thought I might call a few people and leave "just saying hi" messages.

After doing some chores I took a shower and threw on a little linen dress I have and sandals and walked up to Coffee Academy for breakfast. Coffee Academy annex, which was right around the corner, and has breakfast food, was closed. Coffee Academy is open 24/7 and does not really have "American" Breakfast. Naturally. Settling for an egg salad sandwich, I noticed a relatively unusual amount of commotion on the TV. Oh, yeah.

The big boxing match was scheduled for noon. Not caring one bit about a boxing match I assumed was a local match between two locals, I toddled off back whence I came. On the way home, wanting to avoid the deadliest traffic circle in history, I cut down the silent, depressing street of Fields ave. Right at the apex is Paradise Beer Garden, where my coworkers and I have spent many a happy "white people gripe session". I peeked in over the open air railings, to see Daddy- Matt, AK, and Lovely. Perfect. I toddled in to say hi and was immediately enveloped in the warm arms of Daddy-o, who, once he has you in his tractor beam, is not letting go. The bar, which is usually deserted at 7.30 AM, was hopping. The boxing preshow was on, and everyone was ready for what was actually a Pinoy versus a Mexican in America. Huge deal.

So, I ponied up (actually Big Daddy AK ponied up- I took slight advantage of his disheveled, highly partied- out state to extract a cover and some drink tickets on his tab, being broke myself) and settled in.

The players:
Matt: Matt is a 40- something, brusque, brush- cut good- old- boy from Texas. Married to a 20 year old with a kid (that's his, and the reason for the marriage), he took quite a while for me to warm up to. There was an unfortunate incident the night of Lindsey's big night out where he and AK showed up to Bossa a tad worse for the wear and Matt proceeded to spend the whole time frowning over his cell phone and dozing, occasionally making sexist, annoying complaints. AK, the much nicer of the two, was stranded at the far end of the table, so all I got was the top of Matt's mouse- brown head and his hooded eyes peering over his peaked nose, both of which give him a very distinct "Peg Leg Pete" appearance. However, one morning Matt and I were the only people at Phillies while we waited for Daddy-O and we got to talking and he redeemed himself considerably. Defending a girl that a mean memo was sent around about helped too, as did his long story of his tragic love life:"Matt: from butterfly (that's what they call serial daters here) to reluctant, hen pecked father and husband". So now I'm "neutral" on him. Don't hate him, but wouldn't exactly take a bullet for him either.

Anyhoo, his wife is in town from the States (she's a Pinay that lives with Matt's parents, who help with the kid). Michelle is a very particular type of girl: a Pinay who has found her sugar daddy and has NO INTENTION of ever letting him go. Petulant, pretty, petite, and the type of woman who is very likely to develop into a good looking invalid later in life, she wore a gold chain with a flat gold disk with her initial on it and behind it, a "children's" disk engraved with her son's name--they type of thing a woman wears in place of a tee shirt that says "SUBURBAN TROPHY WIFE, FUCK YOU VERY MUCH :)" She was nice enough, as it goes, daintily picking at her food, pouting, and leaning on Matt, chit-chatting in Tagalog (which she made a sort of show of "forgetting"\speaking in such a way that made it clear she had sprung from the crowd and there would be no recoil) with the other Pinoy at the table, and just generally being the kind of woman you intensely dislike and can never "pin" anything on.

Next to her was Lovely. Oh, good old Lovely. Lovely apparently landed like a piano on the unsuspecting AK his second week here (uh, hello Ryan) and never let go. A tad "rode hard" she's a bar girl with a heart of gold. Wild, loud, and crass, she's thin, and tends to wear tiny club clothes that lace up the front, have fringe, and jingle when she walks. She also has some small, sort of jailhouse-y tattoos. She has a pretty, rather hard face, long black hair tiger striped with orange in the front, a slight overbite that men seem to like, even though it makes women look like they can't understand "hard stuff", and a neon tongue ring. She's very loud and "crazy", the type of woman that's fun at 3 AM and resoundingly annoying at a dinner party. Her sharp shouts of AK! rang across the table with alarming frequency. She left pointedly early, her explanation being that she "didn't want to be too fucked up". Uh, didn't want to? I'd say you missed that boat, honey. Both her and AK, when I arrived at 7.30 AM, were eating bar food with the particular concentration that comes from falling on your prey after a long, boozy night out. The group is divided on if we like her. She memorized my phone number and gave it to a bar DJ without my permission in a misguided attempt to steer me away from AK (who I have no interest in), so I'm on the fence. As long as she keeps it to a dull roar I'm okay with her.

AK: An extremely thin Indian who was raised in Dubai, and who's last port of call was Puna ("the education center of India!!"-it is so cute how Indians will "sell" their town to you, despite a staggeringly obvious lack of interest. However I did learn that India's national bird is the Peacock and it's national game is...wait for it...field hockey. Not wanting to be taken on what I suspected was an enthusiastic, National Geographic breakdown on the wonders of India, which the conversation showed every indication of becoming, "major exports: coal, garnets, and clay. Major imports: wheat, taro, and corn...", I hastily flanked a just- warming- up AK with a side discussion about cricket, a subject on which you need know nothing in order to successfully talk about ), AK is a particular type of man, a man who's sort of half complete without a group. Matt's best friend (you never see them apart, ever. In fact the one time I saw AK dining alone I said "AK, where's your better half?" He immediately responded "oh, on a call". He knew I meant Matt!), they met on the first day of orientation and have been inseparable ever since. The most common sight is Matt lecturing a docile and half- smiling AK on some indecipherable topic, while the intensely hyperactive AK rocks on his heels. AK is a heavy duty parti-er, and it shows in his eye sockets, which are sunk in permanent panda paws of inky black skin, and his eyes, which, although extremely beautiful- light topaz, prominent, and fringed with jet black lashes that remind one pleasingly of a camel- are always slightly bloodshot.

AK has a scar that runs down his jaw into his neck and across his throat and when he speaks he sounds like an Arabic Rip Torn, which is also pleasing, in an odd way. A typical Gemini, he's got zing, charisma, and his own brand of icy charm, but not one ounce of sensuality. He tends to cling close to the comforting bulwark of Matt or hover near me or Daddy -O waiting for Lovely to burn herself out so he can slouch in a chair and smoke undisturbed. He has a distinctly simian cast to his features and his body, which is enhanced by his narrow, nervous little paws with their long fingers and pale palms, always picking at something, and by his frame, which only lacks a tail to wrap around his tiny little waist.

So we watched the pretty- well- put- together pre show (shout- out to Matt, who I think does something similar for his work!!), which told the dramatic story of the match-up. It appears that "Pac man" as he's called in a national hero, and his trainer is one too. Shots of Pac-man running and training were inter cut with shots of his dazed looking Anglo trainer being mobbed in the mall with the usual thin, useless security guard impassively staring ahead next to him. Hilariously, Baguio, the training city, is described as "a town were modernity seems to have passed by". Uh, announcer? Have you seen the Phil? Uh, yeah.

This little cutie is "our" hero, and everyone in the bar, including whites, were rooting for him. So after about 3 hours of interminable build up, and 5 San Mig Pilsner's later (thanks, drunk-y AK!) it was on. Twelve breathless, bloody rounds later, the Pac Man wins, amongst a screaming, going crazy crowd.

I actually love watching sporting events in a crowd, especially in an "underdog" city or country. Our little bumblebee, 154 pounds of dutifully circumflex-ing before every round (his crucifix was the last thing taken off him in the pre match ritual) Pinoy, pummeled the tattooed Cali boy into the ground!!! And I was loving it. I was especially loving the crowd which packed the streets, since our bar was one of the few you could see into from the street. There was Pinoy everywhere, silent and reverent, not wanting to be chased off seeing "Pac-Man" on his big day. There were even a few clinging half way up the support beams to get a better view, heads one on top of each other like some peanut butter colored Brady Bunch gang.

All in all a great day and great fun.