It was a pretty quiet Christmas this year. We had an interesting sermon at church, with the priest blasting mankind about the wars and disease and poverty, infidelity and other things, but it was all made up with the choir as there was an ambitious little guy (or girl) who was absolutely singing her (or his) heart out. It was really touching he was putting all his effort into it.
We had dinner at mom's and just kicked back, watching football, plus we watched It's a Wonderful Life, a movie I hadn't watched in 20+ years. I can't believe how good movies were made back then. The dance scene on the pool cover was crazy, and the actresses back then were so beautiful, the story line was so pure. kind of makes you wish that movies were made with such good story lines again.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Wendy J Hyland
So today started off with me waking up from a dream starring none other than Wendy J. Hyland. It started off with her house for sale and she and her mother were actually not the owners anymore but were looking at the house from a buyer's perspective. I was there just to see the place as I had remembered it way back in the day. I gave her a big hug because I hadn't seen her in a long time. Her mother was talking about how we were back then in junior high and high school. Her brother Billy drove up in her dad's 69 Corvette Sting Ray, but it didn't have the custom burnt orange paint that her dad had sprayed on it but a dark blue.
It was like a mini reunion.
Wendy and I didn't talk too much but we did a lot of hugging and her hugs were really warm. Her body was warm, not stiff, but really warm and inviting.
Strange eh? I haven't seen her since 1988. I had a huge crush on her throughout high school, but I was spending too much time making all the wrong decisions with all the wrong "friends." I was making other "lifestyle" choices that I was really ashamed of some of the things I did that I would just avoid talking with her for months at a time.
She went to FVHS, I was at OVHS, so that made things well, what they were. I always would do something and say to myself, "Would Wendy approve of this?" or "What would she think about that." It was like that so much throughout my high school life because I would continue to do "those" things that, in my mind, I thought she wouldn't approve of. The thing is, I really had no clue what she would think. I just never really thought I was good enough for her, so I tended to stay away and not call her.
Anyway, after our junior year, we pretty much faded away but that first love still lingered, even through my senior year, and even up until 1988, the last time we went out. Today I hear that she has four children already, though she was not married the last time I spoke with her back around 2001 or so. She had a white German Shepherd and was living in Trabuco Canyon. I always wonder how she is doing, and it seems that we talk every five years or so and catch up, but we haven't talked since, well five years ago, or so.
It was like a mini reunion.
Wendy and I didn't talk too much but we did a lot of hugging and her hugs were really warm. Her body was warm, not stiff, but really warm and inviting.
Strange eh? I haven't seen her since 1988. I had a huge crush on her throughout high school, but I was spending too much time making all the wrong decisions with all the wrong "friends." I was making other "lifestyle" choices that I was really ashamed of some of the things I did that I would just avoid talking with her for months at a time.
She went to FVHS, I was at OVHS, so that made things well, what they were. I always would do something and say to myself, "Would Wendy approve of this?" or "What would she think about that." It was like that so much throughout my high school life because I would continue to do "those" things that, in my mind, I thought she wouldn't approve of. The thing is, I really had no clue what she would think. I just never really thought I was good enough for her, so I tended to stay away and not call her.
Anyway, after our junior year, we pretty much faded away but that first love still lingered, even through my senior year, and even up until 1988, the last time we went out. Today I hear that she has four children already, though she was not married the last time I spoke with her back around 2001 or so. She had a white German Shepherd and was living in Trabuco Canyon. I always wonder how she is doing, and it seems that we talk every five years or so and catch up, but we haven't talked since, well five years ago, or so.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
James Kim RIP
A man whom I never met died this past week trying to save his family who was stranded on an isolated road in Oregon. I never knew James Kim, but there were a few things in common between James and myself. We both have children of our own and he was a technology editor reviewing consumer gadgets, like myself. The story is James and his wife and two young daughters were driving home from a Thanksgiving holiday in Oregon when they took a wrong turn and ended up lost, and then snowed in, on a logging road in Oregon's forest country. For nine days they survived in their car, first running the car at night to keep the heater on, then burning their tires when the car ran out of gas. He set out on foot by himself to try and find help on a Saturday morning, but perished sometime between Saturday and Wednesday. His family was rescued on Monday. The thing is him going out to look for help is what helped his wife and two daughters get rescued. A helicopter hired by his family spotted his foot prints in the snow, and his footprints led to his car, where his family was located.
As a father, I would have done the same thing with no hesitation. He made the ultimate sacrifice and it is really sad that he died. It has been on my mind since I heard the story of the family's disappearance. Sadly, he died less than a mile from a fishing lodge that was stacked with food to last for months. Hopefully, the state will erect road blocks on those logging roads that aren't plowed during the winter.
As a father, I would have done the same thing with no hesitation. He made the ultimate sacrifice and it is really sad that he died. It has been on my mind since I heard the story of the family's disappearance. Sadly, he died less than a mile from a fishing lodge that was stacked with food to last for months. Hopefully, the state will erect road blocks on those logging roads that aren't plowed during the winter.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Dennis Prager cries foul on Muslim Congressman's wish to swear in on the Koran
The first Muslim elected to the United States Congress, Keith Ellison, D-Minn. announced that he wants to lay his hand on the Koran when he takes his oath of office in January 2007. Some conservative neoclowns such as Dennis Prager are crying foul, stating that doing so would undermine the very fabric that the United States was built upon. I must vehemently disagree.
When this country was established, the founding fathers stated that the people of the nation would have the freedom to choose whatever religion they deemed fit, and that there would be a separation of church and state. It is called Freedom of Religion. After all, the founding fathers were escaping religious persecution in England, and in so sailing to America, they became free to practice whatever religion, or no religion they wished. The latter of which is called Freedom from Religion. Now the Conservative Right continues to push the bible down the throats of those who don't ascribe to it. Sound familiar? Well that is what is happening in Afghanistan and to a lesser extent, Iraq right now, the forcing of religious dogma on an unwilling populace. Prager, in his article insists that America is interested in only one book, the Bible. Hogwash. There are millions of Americans who don't read the Bible and could care less about the Bible. Many of these people practice other religions and worship different deities; Muhammad, Lao-Tzu, Buddha, the Sun, the Almighty Dollar bill.
Swearing into office is currently done with the Bible, but not everyone in this country reads or follows the teachings of that great book, hence Ellison's insistence that he allow to swear in with the Koran, his religion's great book. It shouldn’t be much of an issue that he wants to be sworn in with his hand on the Koran, but events such as 9/11 changed all that. It seems that the right wing conservative neoclowns of this country want the citizens of this country to bow down to the Bible, and insist that no other religious book matters to the people that make up the fabric of this great nation. What Dennis Prager and his ilk are pushing is a religious war of their own, on a changing American demographic. Prager claims that allowing Ellison to swear into office on the Koran will do more damage to the "unity of America to the value system that has formed this country than the terrorists of 9-11." America is a nation where its citizens, of which Ellison is one, has the right to practice whatever religion they deem fit, not a nation where religion is forced upon its citizens.
As one of our founding fathers, Thomas Jefferson said in the Virginia Statute for Religious Freedom in 1779:
"[N]o man shall be compelled to frequent or support any religious worship, place, or ministry whatsoever, nor shall be enforced, restrained, molested, or burthened in his body or goods, nor shall otherwise suffer, on account of his religious opinions or belief; but that all men shall be free to profess, and by argument to maintain, their opinions in matters of religion, and that the same shall in no wise diminish, enlarge, or affect their civil capacities."
When this country was established, the founding fathers stated that the people of the nation would have the freedom to choose whatever religion they deemed fit, and that there would be a separation of church and state. It is called Freedom of Religion. After all, the founding fathers were escaping religious persecution in England, and in so sailing to America, they became free to practice whatever religion, or no religion they wished. The latter of which is called Freedom from Religion. Now the Conservative Right continues to push the bible down the throats of those who don't ascribe to it. Sound familiar? Well that is what is happening in Afghanistan and to a lesser extent, Iraq right now, the forcing of religious dogma on an unwilling populace. Prager, in his article insists that America is interested in only one book, the Bible. Hogwash. There are millions of Americans who don't read the Bible and could care less about the Bible. Many of these people practice other religions and worship different deities; Muhammad, Lao-Tzu, Buddha, the Sun, the Almighty Dollar bill.
Swearing into office is currently done with the Bible, but not everyone in this country reads or follows the teachings of that great book, hence Ellison's insistence that he allow to swear in with the Koran, his religion's great book. It shouldn’t be much of an issue that he wants to be sworn in with his hand on the Koran, but events such as 9/11 changed all that. It seems that the right wing conservative neoclowns of this country want the citizens of this country to bow down to the Bible, and insist that no other religious book matters to the people that make up the fabric of this great nation. What Dennis Prager and his ilk are pushing is a religious war of their own, on a changing American demographic. Prager claims that allowing Ellison to swear into office on the Koran will do more damage to the "unity of America to the value system that has formed this country than the terrorists of 9-11." America is a nation where its citizens, of which Ellison is one, has the right to practice whatever religion they deem fit, not a nation where religion is forced upon its citizens.
As one of our founding fathers, Thomas Jefferson said in the Virginia Statute for Religious Freedom in 1779:
"[N]o man shall be compelled to frequent or support any religious worship, place, or ministry whatsoever, nor shall be enforced, restrained, molested, or burthened in his body or goods, nor shall otherwise suffer, on account of his religious opinions or belief; but that all men shall be free to profess, and by argument to maintain, their opinions in matters of religion, and that the same shall in no wise diminish, enlarge, or affect their civil capacities."
Monday, November 20, 2006
Uncle Ramon
My family and I paid a visit to my Uncle Ramon Sunday afternoon in Beverly Hills. He had flown into LA for a wedding and also to watch the Pacquiao/Morales fight. When I was young, I used to spend time at his house in Bacoor Cavite, and when he was in the States, he'd come to visit my mother, who is his niece. My mom wanted me to come so I went, because usually when he comes to town, I don't visit him so much anymore, but he is getting old, (he'll be 80 next year) and I still like to talk to him. I thought it would be fun.
My Uncle Ramon has led a very colorful life, in his 79 plus years and even though he calls himself "old and tired," he still gets up everyday to go to work in Makati city, he still combs his hair, and generally he is still handsome and very good looking in his old age.
I had several one on one conversations with B movie screen star Ramon Revilla, the man who I always call Uncle Ramon. People can say what they want about him. Playboy, ineffective politician, bad actor. But to me, he has always been a man who has taken care of me when I stayed in his house on Aguinaldo Highway in Bacoor. He has always been, and will be my Uncle Ramon.
We talked about everything and anything. We talked about Nascar, sports, his old amateur boxing days (He was a pugilist before he became a movie star, in part he says, to pay his college tuition, but when his mother found out, she told him to stop because they have plenty of money to pay tuition), surfing in the Philippines, where I had mentioned surfing at Matabunkay Beach in the 80s, he talked about Siargao, (a world class wave that has appeared in Surfer magazine several times) and how the waves were so high, and was astonished when I told him that I could ride them.
We talked about his early days, how he was "discovered" pumping gas at the family gas station in Imus, how he had told his mother to give the gas station to his brother, Carlos, my lolo, because he wanted to pursue his dream on the silver screen. He told me about his current work at the public estates authority, and how much of a bore his time in the senate was. And then he told me about his children. Not so much about them but how many he had. Pegged at 81. I grew up with his batch from the 60s to the 80s born to starlet Azucena Mortel. He told me that he has to continue working at his age not only to keep busy in his years, but also, he still has small children and needs to make sure that they are taken care of.
Then there was his revelation to me that even though he has 81 children, he has never held one of them in his arms when they were babies. I was pretty shocked when he told me that. I then asked him, "Not even Bong or Andeng?" And he replied, "No, not even one of my children."
Perplexed, I went on to ask him why. "I don't like to," he said. "They are too small, I am afraid I might break them." His niece Jacqueline was in the room and her husband Anthony was also in the room at the time, holding his newborn daughter. So I challenged him and told him, "Uncle Ramon, when your daughter Andrea has her first baby, I want you to hold your grandchild in your arms. Andrea will be thrilled." And he was hesitant. "I am scared," he said. and I said "No, you can do it." And then he replied to me, "I will try." I was thrilled to get that response from him. I cannot imagine a 79-year-old man with so many children, and he hasn't carried not one of his babies. He had put it off, claiming he was too masculine at first, then got down to it saying he was scared and might break the baby. He just doesn't know what it is like, and I am now hoping that Andrea will have a child soon so her dad can hold his grandchild in his arms. It will be a sight to see and I hope I am there to see it.
My Uncle Ramon has led a very colorful life, in his 79 plus years and even though he calls himself "old and tired," he still gets up everyday to go to work in Makati city, he still combs his hair, and generally he is still handsome and very good looking in his old age.
I had several one on one conversations with B movie screen star Ramon Revilla, the man who I always call Uncle Ramon. People can say what they want about him. Playboy, ineffective politician, bad actor. But to me, he has always been a man who has taken care of me when I stayed in his house on Aguinaldo Highway in Bacoor. He has always been, and will be my Uncle Ramon.
We talked about everything and anything. We talked about Nascar, sports, his old amateur boxing days (He was a pugilist before he became a movie star, in part he says, to pay his college tuition, but when his mother found out, she told him to stop because they have plenty of money to pay tuition), surfing in the Philippines, where I had mentioned surfing at Matabunkay Beach in the 80s, he talked about Siargao, (a world class wave that has appeared in Surfer magazine several times) and how the waves were so high, and was astonished when I told him that I could ride them.
We talked about his early days, how he was "discovered" pumping gas at the family gas station in Imus, how he had told his mother to give the gas station to his brother, Carlos, my lolo, because he wanted to pursue his dream on the silver screen. He told me about his current work at the public estates authority, and how much of a bore his time in the senate was. And then he told me about his children. Not so much about them but how many he had. Pegged at 81. I grew up with his batch from the 60s to the 80s born to starlet Azucena Mortel. He told me that he has to continue working at his age not only to keep busy in his years, but also, he still has small children and needs to make sure that they are taken care of.
Then there was his revelation to me that even though he has 81 children, he has never held one of them in his arms when they were babies. I was pretty shocked when he told me that. I then asked him, "Not even Bong or Andeng?" And he replied, "No, not even one of my children."
Perplexed, I went on to ask him why. "I don't like to," he said. "They are too small, I am afraid I might break them." His niece Jacqueline was in the room and her husband Anthony was also in the room at the time, holding his newborn daughter. So I challenged him and told him, "Uncle Ramon, when your daughter Andrea has her first baby, I want you to hold your grandchild in your arms. Andrea will be thrilled." And he was hesitant. "I am scared," he said. and I said "No, you can do it." And then he replied to me, "I will try." I was thrilled to get that response from him. I cannot imagine a 79-year-old man with so many children, and he hasn't carried not one of his babies. He had put it off, claiming he was too masculine at first, then got down to it saying he was scared and might break the baby. He just doesn't know what it is like, and I am now hoping that Andrea will have a child soon so her dad can hold his grandchild in his arms. It will be a sight to see and I hope I am there to see it.
Fiery tornado
Last night I had a major nightmare, so much so that I. . ., well anyway. It goes like this. I was in New York City writing at a writer's loft, when news of a fiery tornado had touched down in the city. The place I was in was a standard NYC flat, with living quarters on the first floor and an observation post/writing room on the second. It was really an airy affair that enabled you to go out and view the city lights. Well, anyway, some of us wanted to see where the tornado was heading so we went up to the deck to check it out. At first it seemed far away, but you could definitely see the fire laying waste to almost everything in its past. Then it got closer, and you could feel the heat. Soon it was upon us, just a few blocks away when the fiery winds started to scream and I had to force this girl out of the room to shut the ceiling door. The next thing we know, it is upon us and we all ran for cover in the bathroom, with some of us jumping into the shower. It got hot, then the wind suddenly died, and we escaped unscathed. But sadly the observation room was destroyed. We open the deck door and peered out, and found the deck and room half gone. The tornado had switched directions just at the last second sparing us and half the building. It was a pretty insane dream, as I could feel the heat and see the fire in the tornado. Pretty scary, it woke me up.
Monday, November 13, 2006
My punk Son
let me first say that I love both of my sons dearly. Both are two totally different individuals, and both get on my nerves every now and then. the one now on my DO not talk to list is Jeremy, my youngest. I have been asking him for weeks to get a study partner for Spanish class, yet he refuses to do so. In soccer, he refuses to high five one team mate, and because of this lack of sportsmanship, I feel he didn't make the all star team. He also thinks he knows more than the assitant coach, who has been around soccer a lot longer than Jeremy. He apparently doesn't know how to be a team member with this particular team, which I think has something like a 2-6 record. They suck really badly. But what really sucks is my son's disdain for one of his teammates. This particular fellow is a terrible soccer player, yet he has the most positive attitude on the team, the most vocal yet positive attitudes of all the player's I've seen on jeremy's four different teams. And what has gotten my ire with Jeremy, which caused me to give him the silent treatment (When I get pissed at someone, I won't talk to that person. Today is day two), is Jeremy's lack of respect for his team mate. He sucks, Jeremy says, and I tell him, he sucks but he has a positive attitude, something that Jeremy lacks. Which totally has me peeved. That and his lack of desire to do well in Spanish class. Oh well, if he doesn't make the grade in Spanish class, he will have nothing to whine about when I say we aren't going dirt biking, or fishing, or surfing, or any of the other fun things that father and son do together. "You want to go dirt biking? What are your grades like? They suck? well, too bad, we ain't going to the desert. Sorry, but I've been telling you for weeks, no monhts to get a study group going but you didn't listen. Conceited Jeremy is? Absolutely. And I am extremely disappointed in his behavior.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Irvine Lake
The boy and I went fishing at Irvine Lake on Sunday, hoping to land some of the bigger Rainbow trout that were planted there a few weeks ago. We left at around 430am just to get in line at the gate. good thing we left early, because the line formed fairly fast. When the gate opened at 6am, there were probably more than 60 cars waiting to get in. We were the 17th car. This has been the first time we fished Irvine Lake in about two years, and my boy wanted to try out his new Black Gold that he purchased in Hawaii. I just wanted to go fishing. The boy had packed all the rods that he wanted to bring, but decided he wanted to orphan an Old Garcia Conlon that he just fixed the tip on. He didn't want to bring it. he didn't trust it he said because some of the guides were showing rust. I said nonsense, and packed the 30 year old rod into the back of the truck. The Garcia is a fairly old, ultra light action rod that still does its job as we soon found out during the day we fished. I also brought along my old Daiwa Minispin, which I have had since the 1970s. This is a combo rod and reel that features a single ball bearing super ultra light reel matched to an ultra light rod. The boy has an identical one.
Anyway, we set up on the west shore, as that is where the reports stated all the fish were being caught. We baited up with some Powerbait and waited for the luck to play out. The first catch around us occurred when the guys a few yards down from us hooked into and landed a good sized sub 2lb Rainbow. That was around 7am or so. My boy finally hooked into a Rainbow that came unbuttoned right at the shore. Then about 30 minutes later, I hooked into a good sized 2lb Rainbow on Powerbait. Then about 40 minutes after that, I hooked into another bigger 3.7lb Rainbow on PowerBait. Then the boy gets a 2lb'er on PowerBait. The guy next to us helped land all the fish with his net. He also caught 4 trout during the course of the day and placed them into his basket. Then the boy hooked into a jumper, a whopping 4lb trout that jumped several times before we got it to the net. It was a good sized trout that fought pretty hard. Everything was caught on the dough. The funny thing is, three of the four fish were caught on the standby, the old Garcia Conlon that the boy wanted to leave at home, the rod with the cheap $19 Shimano ultralight reel spooled with four pound Yozuri Hybrid line that had been a nuisance on almost every reel we spooled the line onto. Twists and just basic crappy line. The other rods with regular 3lb line went untouched by the trout, though the Black Gold with 2lb line got a workout from the big trout the boy caught. So is it just dumb luck that the Garcia got the majority of the trout for the day, the line, or what. Who knows. All in all it was a pretty fun day at the lake, cold in the morning warming up when the sun came out, then the breeze hit, then glass in the afternoon. And the guy next to us safely released all his trout before he left. Plus, I also saw a raptor scoop a trout up right out of the lake. Don't know what kind of bird it was but it was pretty cool to see. the last time I saw that was in the early 1980s when I saw a Bald Eagle at lake Skinner do the same thing.
Anyway, we set up on the west shore, as that is where the reports stated all the fish were being caught. We baited up with some Powerbait and waited for the luck to play out. The first catch around us occurred when the guys a few yards down from us hooked into and landed a good sized sub 2lb Rainbow. That was around 7am or so. My boy finally hooked into a Rainbow that came unbuttoned right at the shore. Then about 30 minutes later, I hooked into a good sized 2lb Rainbow on Powerbait. Then about 40 minutes after that, I hooked into another bigger 3.7lb Rainbow on PowerBait. Then the boy gets a 2lb'er on PowerBait. The guy next to us helped land all the fish with his net. He also caught 4 trout during the course of the day and placed them into his basket. Then the boy hooked into a jumper, a whopping 4lb trout that jumped several times before we got it to the net. It was a good sized trout that fought pretty hard. Everything was caught on the dough. The funny thing is, three of the four fish were caught on the standby, the old Garcia Conlon that the boy wanted to leave at home, the rod with the cheap $19 Shimano ultralight reel spooled with four pound Yozuri Hybrid line that had been a nuisance on almost every reel we spooled the line onto. Twists and just basic crappy line. The other rods with regular 3lb line went untouched by the trout, though the Black Gold with 2lb line got a workout from the big trout the boy caught. So is it just dumb luck that the Garcia got the majority of the trout for the day, the line, or what. Who knows. All in all it was a pretty fun day at the lake, cold in the morning warming up when the sun came out, then the breeze hit, then glass in the afternoon. And the guy next to us safely released all his trout before he left. Plus, I also saw a raptor scoop a trout up right out of the lake. Don't know what kind of bird it was but it was pretty cool to see. the last time I saw that was in the early 1980s when I saw a Bald Eagle at lake Skinner do the same thing.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
I've never seen her do it
Jeremy and I surfed Huntington Beach at the apartments Saturday, as Newport has been flat for a while already. It wasn't the pier mind you, but the apartments, which is just north of the pier. but the surfers there are still the same, which reinforces my distaste for HB. The waves were pretty good, about 3 to 4 with occasional 5 ft faces. I was riding the Ole 9'6 and jeremy was body boarding his Rheopaipo. Anyway, Jeremy took off deep on this killer right, way overhead, and dropped in on a clean wave. It was so good that I wanted to drop in on him, but. . . well he is my son and I wanted him to enjoy the wave. Anyway, he makes a clean drop and I paddle wait for him to paddle back out and I see this guy talking to Jeremy. I was wondering what the guy was saying to Jeremy, because he got a clean wave with no one else taking off. Turns out the guy was telling jeremy that a chick on a longboard bailed on her board on the wave, and the board got dangerously close to hitting Jeremy. I paddled over to the guy to see what was up and he told me what happened. So I asked him who the girl was and he pointed her out. So I paddled over to the girl and her possee and proceeded to tell her, in a very nice way that she can't be bailing on her board when someone is riding the wave. She said sorry and I thought that was it, and then two of her guy friends came over and decided to inject themselves into the discussion, even though it was none of their business. One of them says whats the problem and I say there is no problem and the girl says there is no problem, but the guy wanted to be an asshole so I tell him what I told the girl, that she can't bail on her board when someone is riding the wave. That is rule number two, don't bail on your board when someone is riding it. Then the guy says, "well, I've been surfing with her for a long time and I've never seen her do that." And I say, Well she did and she has to hold onto her board no matter what, it doens't matter if she takes a pounding, she can't let go of her board." And I paddled away. I didn't get pissed at those idiots. the girl was cool about it but the two guys were total assholes, like it wasn't her fault. yeah fucking right. It is assholes like them who just make me hate living in Orange County.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Pray to Kelea
Sheesh, there is still absolutely no surf at my local break. I am at my wit's end. Actually, it has really become a bummer that the surf has been so shitty, the negativity is really getting at me, and I need to do something about it right now. Hmmm, I can look at all the cool pictures on the Internet that shows the various tubes in Hawaii. . . no, that ain't gonna do it. I can go surf Huntington. With that crowd where everyone wants to be the next kelly slater? screw that. . . What about watching Riding Giants on the big screen? Opps! I sent that projector back to InFocus months ago. Well what the F can I do? Look through some surf magazines? That is like thumbing through Penthouse. Really it is. Surfer Magazine always shows the killer surf spots around the world with perfect barrels, just like Penthouse showed beautiful, yet unobtainable women with perfect. . . well you know. I guess I just need to pray to Kelea for surf. What about it Kelea, can you send some waves? I need to get tubed!
Monday, October 16, 2006
no surf
I have been in a funk the last few days and I can only attribute it to lack of surf. it has been totally flat for more than a week, and I have only surfed once, in micro ankle slappers. When it gets like this, I always trip out. My dreams have been weird lately, like last night, Adrian's parents were over and his mom and dad were smoking in my house. Now what does that have to do with anything? Well, it is justa dream and you can't really think anything of them, nor can you control the outcome of them, although sometimes you do. lately I have been thinking about the past, and the things that I said and did in the past. Some say you should always look forward, and never look back, but oftentimes I find myself thinking alot about what my life was like 15-20 years ago and what it is like today. Yesterday I was over at my friend Mike's house and I made the mistake of saying he was 40 years old, and he really got on my case, "You can't add another year on me. I ain't yet 40," Exactly how he talks. But hey, I always thought he was older, but turns out not by a year. He was born in 67, like me and not 66, like I thought. he was just a year behind me in school but older by several months. Anyway, his wife is pregnant, and due in April, a month after jovi is due to give birth to our last child. I am trying to convince her to get a TL but she isn't quite interested yet, evn though I tell her that she is already going to be 40 when the baby comes out.
Am I ready for another baby? I am pushing 40, (well another year, My b-day is Oct. 23) can I keep up with another punk running around? I am hoping to god that I can be a better father than I am to the two punks that I have now. Fatherhood isn't a walk in the park. I can say though that I've been practicing for a long time and would like to think that I do good in the dad department, but sometimes I question if I am the best that I can be. Am I taking an active interest in their lives? Do I do my best? I try, but never have I gotten any feedback on how I've done. I just try to do the best for the situation at hand, and hope everything comes out the best. I also question lately if I am a good husband to my wife. that is another thing entirely. I try and do my best but sometimes I question myself, do I do the best I can? I don't know. It has been several days of confusion for me for all things going on in my life right now. I think about the what ifs, but know that the conclusions would always come back wrong, the what ifs, that is. I know what the outcome would have been when I got into it in the first place, and those are the reasons that I made the decision to quit. There is nothing like throwing something golden against a wall and having it bounce back in your face. Or blasting a bottle of Halston on a street in a rage. I am sorry for that.
Am I ready for another baby? I am pushing 40, (well another year, My b-day is Oct. 23) can I keep up with another punk running around? I am hoping to god that I can be a better father than I am to the two punks that I have now. Fatherhood isn't a walk in the park. I can say though that I've been practicing for a long time and would like to think that I do good in the dad department, but sometimes I question if I am the best that I can be. Am I taking an active interest in their lives? Do I do my best? I try, but never have I gotten any feedback on how I've done. I just try to do the best for the situation at hand, and hope everything comes out the best. I also question lately if I am a good husband to my wife. that is another thing entirely. I try and do my best but sometimes I question myself, do I do the best I can? I don't know. It has been several days of confusion for me for all things going on in my life right now. I think about the what ifs, but know that the conclusions would always come back wrong, the what ifs, that is. I know what the outcome would have been when I got into it in the first place, and those are the reasons that I made the decision to quit. There is nothing like throwing something golden against a wall and having it bounce back in your face. Or blasting a bottle of Halston on a street in a rage. I am sorry for that.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
All that Mushy stuff
I had a really weird dream last night. I dreamt that I met up a woman whom I had written off a long time ago. It was really strange because this woman in the dream was a lot more civil and friendly than I had previously remembered the last time there was an exchange between us. We had gone out to dinner and it was cold, and we cruised through some parts of town that you really wouldn't get caught cruising through, yet there we were cruising through it as if nothing happened. The main drag, sort of like Keeaumoku street in Honolulu, was alive with lots of lights and people just hanging out, lots of girlie girlie hostess bars. We went to a house and actually had a friendly conversation. There was a lot of hugging and "all that mushy" stuff but no kissing or anything like that, just what two long lost friends would do if they hadn't seen each other in years. I really don't know what to make of it, other than just a dream. I live my life. She lives her life. We are all happy and that is all that matters, in the dream of course.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
State of Denial
The Republican party, no surprise here, is a party of liars and hypocrites. On the one end they have a disgraced congressman Foley who resigned over alleged sexually explicit emails with House pages, 16 year old boys (and girls) who work a semester at the U.S. House of Representatives, running errands and other menial things for congressmen. The Congressman was supposedly a champion in pushing legislation designed to protect children from pedophiles and the like, but it turns out the congressman pushing the legislation in public was a sexual deviant in private.
Next we have the speaker of the house, Sen. Hastert, third in line to the presidency if in the fortunate time the president and VP meet their demise, denying that he knew of the emails.
Following the Speaker is the former chief of staff to the disgraced congressman Foley, who claims that he warned Hastert of the emails more than two years ago.
So who is lying here? Does it matter? While the politicians are denying this and denying that, what about the pages who were exposed to the disgraced congressman's instant messages and emails?
The Republican party is truly in a State of Denial
Next we have the speaker of the house, Sen. Hastert, third in line to the presidency if in the fortunate time the president and VP meet their demise, denying that he knew of the emails.
Following the Speaker is the former chief of staff to the disgraced congressman Foley, who claims that he warned Hastert of the emails more than two years ago.
So who is lying here? Does it matter? While the politicians are denying this and denying that, what about the pages who were exposed to the disgraced congressman's instant messages and emails?
The Republican party is truly in a State of Denial
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
The Amerikan
My friend Maria and I went Puerto Princesa, Palawan to deliver a box of Vietnamese language text books in 1985, and at the time I had a twisted vision that the island was a barren waste, decimated by loggers who failed to practice conservation efforts. I never realized how beautiful it was. After a week at Duchess Inn near the refugee camp, we wanted to see more. We didn't just want to leave the island and head back to the hustle that Manila is. We spent a day at White Beach and another two in the camp, just communicating with the friendly Vietnamese people.
After a week Maria and I were still looking for adventure, and the front desk girl at Duchess Inn, our home for the week, had told us about Tanabag. So Maria and I decided to go. After packing our backpacks and paying the bill, we sat down at the Inn for one last breakfast. The menu was the same: French bread baked at the camp, and honey, and fried eggs and coffee. The eggs were a deep yellow and tasted different from those back home. The honey and the bread melted in your mouth.
"I've always heard about the Batac Tribe of Palawan," Maria said, as she attempted to break the silence. "Huh?" I said as I savored my breakfast. "Yeah, I'd like to see this tribe too. I heard they move from place to place and take their house with them," I said. "Now where is it that we catch the jeep?" Maria got the directions from the front desk girl and after, we stopped at the palengke to get bottled water and fresh batteries for my Mag-Lite. Tanabag was a good two hours drive from Puerto Princesa, and I figured with stops along the way, we'd arrive around 3:30 p.m. We made reservations ahead of time, and because we were traveling light, we were able to load up on extra water and junkfoodstuffs.
The jeepney was pretty ragged looking, and it definitely had seen some better days. It was a rusting hulk with no tail lights and bald tires. A front fender was missing and the back seats were torn to pieces. The driver, an overweight man in his late 20s was busy adding oil to the engine as his charge collected the fares. It didn't concern me that the jeep was filled to capacity because I got used to the way they fill jeeps back in Manila. But when I began to see people climbing atop the jeep and on the front bonnet, I couldn't help but wonder how we were going to manage on this two hour ride. There must have been 22 people in and on the jeep, along with various bags, crates of live chickens, bushels of bok choy. Two 100 pound blocks of ice wrapped in burlap and sprinkled with sawdust were lashed to the back of the jeep, on each side of the entranceway. The jeep was fully loaded.
Unlike the jeeps of Manila, this jeep was sparsely decorated. The only paint on it was that of the familiar PAL logo and signage, and it was small. But it was the only thing visible, because the rest of the jeep was tin metal. It had no mirrors of any kind. And no radio.
As we left, the man at the jeep station looked and started to shake his head at the driver. The driver had done it again. He managed to squeeze as many and as much cargo and people as his jeep could hold, maximizing his trip for maximum cash.
At the first stop, two people got off, but three more got on, so I figured we were in for something. A thrifty jeepney driver and an old, rusty pile of shit of a jeep. Just as we were about to leave the outskirts of Puerto Princesa, the left rear tire blew out and we hobbled to a stop. I looked at my Casio. We were exactly eight minutes into our trip. I stared in awe as I counted 16 people climb off the roof of the jeep. The driver pulled off one of his two spare tires, which also were bald and replaced the flat. We were running again in about twenty minutes. It was humid and dusty, and it was hot.
The road leading out of the city was semi-paved with gravel and sand. It was hard packed from all the vehicles it has accommodated over the years. It was a surprisingly smooth ride for such primitive construction. No asphalt, no cement, no lane markers. Just dirt and gravel. As we passed, I looked at the ocean and the opposing jungle. On one side, it was blue and sparse and empty. Palm trees beckoned out toward the sea, and an occasional Nipa hut dotted the landscape. On the other side loomed a thick mass of greenery. Vegetation, tall trees, dense bush, and high mountains. A cool wind blew off the rain forest toward the sea. It was refreshing and smelled real clean. Pure oxygen.
An hour into the trip we got our second flat tire. It was very hot. We were turning a corner when a loud "pop" disabled the jeep once again. The jeep started listing to one side and the driver pulled under some coconut trees. Again everybody got out. The woman who was sitting atop the wheel well when the first blow out occurred was sitting in the same spot, and as she got out she was complaining that the driver should get new tires. "Maybe it's not my tires, but it's your bad luck," Totoy, the driver said. "I think you've put a curse on my jeep. You've been sitting atop the only tire that has blown out, and the tires are all bald," the driver said as he wrenched on the spare. "Ano, spellmaker ba ?"
"Don't blame me for you being so cheap. It's not me that is causing the delays, it's this piece of shit jeep. It's cursed with PAL," the woman laughed as she squatted on the side of the road and lit up a cigarette. She seemed one hundred years old, but she still had her wits about her. And she smoked her cigarette with the cherry in her mouth. Insane.
The sun was really doing a number on us. People were getting irritated. Totoy mumbled something to himself as he wrenched the second spare off the fender. His stomach, which obviously had downed many San Miguels in its day, hung a few inches outside his shirt as he worked the tire off. The crack of his ass shone as he worked the flat off the axle. He was grunting, somewhat like a pig as he fought with the tire, getting a handle on it as he sat in the dirty, dusty road.
A scorpion scampered by, and Totoy, with a deft agility that seemed incapable from such an overweight man, expertly threw the lug wrench at it, smashing its head. The tail was stinging the hot metal, and the scorpion slowly stopped its movement. Retrieving the wrench, Totoy was boasting like he was some ace shot. "Magaling iyon!," Totoy said as he cleaned the wrench with an oily rag he retrieved from his back pocket. "It never fails, my shot is always on the mark," Totoy said as he began tightening the lug nuts. "Yeah, right pare, but how come you don't have any children yet, your shot isn't so good, Walang heirs naman, sino ang inherit ang jeep ba? This piece of shit you call a jeep?" laughed his charge, a short, dark, ugly man with no front teeth. "Pu tang ina, get out and walk, ano ayo ang jeep ko? get out and walk you little shit," Totoy said as he chased his charge around the jeep. I looked down at the scorpion, looking for signs of life. Big black ants had already swarmed over it and were devouring it, feasting on an enemy. The voracity of the feasting ants was unparalleled, except for maybe a feeding frenzy of sharks I saw on the Discovery Channel. My how nature works. I looked up toward the sun. It was blazing, and I was hoping for relief, anything but this cursed heat.
"I'm thirsty, John," Maria said as we sat in the jeep. "Let's get some cokes," she said as we waited inside the jeep. It started to really bake in the jeep, and the people still in it made the smell very pungent. I jumped out of the jeep and walked over to the sari-sari store across the road and bought two Sprites and a double bag of Chippys. Little to snack on but better than sitting and baking in the back of the jeep.
The driver was finishing up on the tire when another jeepney stopped. This jeep had chrome all over the place, and the rims were shiny too. The driver was wearing a pair of vintage WWII goggles and a scarf, but no shirt. His muscles rippled as he pulled himself out of his seat and into the street at Totoy's feet. The driver looked at the jeepney and started to laugh. "Totoy, Ano ka, cutting corners again? Why don't you invest in some Sime Darbys? You won't be getting flats every weekend you come out here," the driver said as Totoy finished the job and leaned on the fender, wiping the sweat off his face and neck. "Ano pare, let me borrow your spare?" I need it just in case, I've got no more spares. "Ano Totoy, you got 500 pesos I could hold until I get it back?" "And when are you going to learn not to take ice on a day trip?" The driver said as he fondled a nearly empty and very wet ice bag. "Ice is gone," the driver said as he wrenched the spare off his fender and gave it to Totoy. "And don't be late," "And next time leave Waling in the market. She's bad luck," he laughed as Waling, the woman who sat on the wheel which was always getting flat, threw a rotted tomato at him as he accelerated the jeep past us. "Sigue make fun, I'm sitting in the front now, no more in the back," she said as she gathered her stuff and kicked a guy out of his seat and took his place. Nine kms down the road, the front tire blew out.
Sometime around 7 p.m., we arrived in Tanabag. Surprisingly, there weren't any mosquitoes, and the horizon was brilliant. Stars were literally lighting up the sky. It was a full moon, and the reflection off the calm China Sea was striking. I thanked the driver and we got off. Our two hour ride took nearly six hours. I was so dusty and dehydrated. It was a very long day. "Come on Johnny boy, lets get settled so we can wash up. I feel so, ano ba, so icky naman." Maria quipped as she tied her hair up.
We went to the office. A rusty Coleman lantern lit the way. Two women and a man were sitting on the bamboo rail on the porch, playing pusoy and drinking beer. "Ako ang reservations dito," Maria said as she settled down on the bench next to the younger girl. "Ano ang pangalan, miss?" "de La Cruz" Maria said as we went through the formalities. "Ah yes, Mr. John de La Cruz and guest," Sophie, as she introduced herself, said as she had us sign the guest log. I stared at her as she spoke, eyeing her body and her lips. She was a very hearty young woman, about 22. Big legs and calfs on a stout torso. Her body seemed very strong, and built, not like a Manila waif, but a woman of the province, a provinciana. "How long will you be staying Mr. de La Cruz?" Sophie asked as she poured me some fresh mango juice. "The fourth and fifth Nipa hut are open, you can have whichever one you prefer," she said as we gulped the sweet nectar that mango juice is. "The one at the end looks good, and we'll be here for a few days, at least until Sunday," I said as we finished the merienda and started to walk toward the last Nipa hut "If you need fresh water sir, go ahead and ask Ferdie he will go to the market for only twenty pesos. The water here is not potable, so I advise you to get bottled water if you don't already have some. It's OK to take a bath in though," she said as she walked us to the Nipa hut. Have a good night and don't worry, its very safe here in Tanabag."
After unpacking, Maria took a nap, and I, a bit tired from the trip, but also eager to check out the waves, went for a walk on the beach. The stars were so many and so far, it looked as if I was looking through a wide angle lens. They went all the way to the horizon. I saw no lights, no airplane trails, nothing. Just a deep black void filled with little shining specs of light. The Nipa huts were situated on a point, and to the left of the structures was a pond with palm trees and brush growing in the water and on a little mound in the middle. It was probably fed by a freshwater spring, and fed saltwater at high tide. The beach was rocky with smooth sand scattered in between and little strips of bamboo jutted out in a circular formation. The air smelled of salt, and the breeze, a bit nippy. As I walked, I thought of the rest of our god forsaken civilization. Of the wars over oil, over territory, over religion. And on this edge, this edge of Palawan, looking out to sea, I couldn't give a flying fuck. Because here, nothing mattered. Just a vast sea.
Here I'm told not to drink the water because it's not potable, but this brackish water that comes out of the shower head, this rusty smelling gift of life is safe to shower in. Back off the edge, I take the water for granted. I won't drink it out of a garden hose in my town, but that water is even cleaner than the water coming out of the shower heads here. But its the price I pay for this slice of life, this cosm of the world that many people will never see. Life moves slow here. News is a week, 10 days old before it gets here, if it ever gets here. I smell the jungle, see the stars, hear the ocean lap at the land as I walk the edge of it, and feel the force of life. These people, these Filipinos, they have nothing, as we see from the West. They have no cars, no VCRs, no compact discs, no answering machines, no dust busters, no ballet class, no credit cards, no auto repair, no microwaves, no alarms, no hair dryer, no bills, no insurance, no savings, no sense of the future. They live for today, because they know that tomorrow is not guaranteed. They, without the possessions we deem essential, they live without, and live their lives as if its the last day of their life. Nothing is ever a problem. Its too simple.
"Hey Johnny boy wake up! get your ass up!" Maria said as she snapped me with a wet towel. "Let's get breakfast before the window shuts on us." I forgot that out here, there is no refrigeration, and the only way to get any food is to have Ferdie take a jeep back to the local market to get fresh vegetables and anything else we want to eat for breakfast. It was only 7 a.m., but the sun was already working up its fury in the tropics. I opened the window and looked out. Again I saw the ocean. It looked even more surreal than last night. "Unreal, I thought as I peered out into the vast and mighty South China Sea. It was like a lake, but I knew the China Sea was very deceptive and if you weren't careful, it would swallow you and never give you up. The water was a clear green, like Squirt, and very calm. The lapping that put me to sleep last night still sounded, like clockwork.
We were at the farthest reaches of the coast. Already the nik-niks, little black sand flies, were biting at my legs, and as I continued to slap at them, Sophie walked up and sprayed me with a thick oil. "It's coconut oil. They can't bite through the layer of oil, and besides that, if they land they're doomed anyway, so keep spraying," she said as she wiped the oil onto my shoulders and arms. She gave us the bottle filled with the milky-white liquid, and Maria took over. As she wiped my back and neck down with the oil, Maria gave me a little primer about Palawan and the history that she knew of it. The essence of the oil brought back memories of the beaches back home in Huntington. The oil smelled just like a bar of white Sex Wax. "Coconut oil?" I asked as Maria finished lathering herself to a gleen. "Yeah, at least it isn't toxic chemicals like Black Flag di ba? Grabe, spraying chemicals on your skin like that. Simple coconut oil. No warning labels about do not inhale or ingest or use near flame. Just pure oil that mother nature intended to be a natural remedy against the nik-nik. "I heard the nik-nik is more terrible than the mosquito," Maria said as she put on a pair of Ray Bans. "I heard they suck your blood and when once gorged, they suck more until they are overflowing out of their little insect mouths," Maria said, adjusting the Ray Bans on her nose. "And if you let them bite you at first, you'll be regretting it for weeks." I didn't know whether to believe her or not. I chose not to, and later paid the price. Nothing in this world comes without a price.
We went to the main hut where breakfast was being served. Our first morning in Tanabag, and the stress of Manila was slowly emanating from my body...and my mind. We sat at a long table that seated about 10-15 people. With the exception of a group of three Americans and one Pinoy, the table was empty.
"So, with the exception of the Vietnam War, the Philippines has not really engaged in any significant military action after W.W.II. Perhaps our country can teach your country a lesson in the strategies of world relations." He was an American. Probably in his early thirties. He was wearing one of those baduy polyester Hawaiian-type shirts only Americans would wear. Probably bought it in Baclaran. He was about 5'9" and his brown hair was receding well above his forehead. Bathed in some cheap musk oil. A total asshole just by the way he smelled.
Although I caught only the tail end of what was probably a meaningless discussion on the aspects of American military power in the Asian area of the Pacific Rim, I knew the guy was a total all American, think he's a do gooder, brainwashed right wing, we had to destroy the city in order to save it, American.
"Actooaly I believe that Da Pilapines was in......"Its actually Gaspar, acktully, just like it sounds," the American said to his Pinoy paré. "It's not actooaly. Don't destroy the one good thing we gave your country. Learn how to speak English correctly. And it's the fillapeens, not Pilapeens. Fi Fi Fillapeens, Got it? "Yes Dick, Fillapeens," Gaspar said as he dejectedly avoided eye contact at me, as I was getting teed at this American. I couldn't help it but I had to intercede.
"Excuse me sir," I said in my most believable Manila-Boy accent. "But I couldn't help but overhear you making an attempt to correct your friend's use of the English language. May I make a suggestion as well?" Maria looked at me and mouthed "Don't do this." I continued. I was pissed. Even though I was an American just like this guy, Dick, was, I was also a Filipino, and I wasn't going to stand for this guy's ignorance. "Sir do you know where you are?" I asked, continuing to fake my accent. "Yes of course, we are in the Philippine Islands, discovered by Magellen in 1492, controlled by Spain for 400 years and won from Spain by the USA in 1898. This is the Philippines. Village of Tanabag. On the South China Sea. On the island of Palawan, capital Puerto Princesa." Dick did his homework but he just didn't get it. "Your facts are good Dick, can I call you Dick?" I said as my accent became thicker, as if it took on a life of its own. "Let me ask you very simply, do you know where you are?" Dick was beginning to get a bit annoyed at my seeming prodding of his intelligence. He was smart, but his instant arrogance for all things American just pissed me off. "Yes," Dick said, "We are in The Philippines." Very simply he answered my question with a bit of consternation. "Very good," I said as I prepared my roast. Maria was getting nervous, and I assured her from under the table I had everything under control. Gaspar was getting fidgety as well, and very angry by the cold looks he was directing to me. "And in this country called the Republic of the Philippines, what kind of people live here, in this island nation of some 7,107 islands?" Dick seemed confused, and angry that such a pest as I would challenge his seeming knowledge of the country. "The people of the Philippine Islands are called Filipinos, primarily of Malay and indigenous stock, with a smattering of Chinese, European, American, and Middle Eastern extract. Being in such a strategic location as the Philippine Islands are, brings a diaspora of peoples to these islands," Dick said. "You're right, Dick," I said, "But Filipinos mostly live in the Philippines. Not Americans. As a matter a fact, there are some 58 million Pinoys in these islands, and it is very likely that 57.9 million of those Pinoys have never been to the United States, let alone another country. So it seems," I said as I began to state my position, "that the Filipino use for your English is basically meaningless. I mean, you said that we get a whole consortium of peoples coming to this country, so may I ask, how would Gaspar react if the next group he brought to this little beach were from England, the birth place of the English lingo? Or from Australia or Ireland, or India, or all the other English speaking countries in this world? Why push your corrections on him. To me, his English is fine. To other Pinoys, it is fine, but to you, why do you have to humiliate him, belittle him in front of his fellow countrymen? I mean we are in the Philippines man, and as long as we are on this rock, we will speak English however we want to. I was pissed and Maria started to ask me to apologize to Dick. "I'm trying to do Gaspar a favor with his English," I don't need some sermon from some snot nose college boy from Manila. We give you guys much concessions and you people don't appreciate anything we give you. We give you a hell of a lot and you should thank us for doing so," Dick said as he looked at me as if he demanded me to apologize to him for insulting him, his country, and his language. "Yeah right," I said as I lost the my "accent." Do you even know what the Framers of the US Constitution were aiming for as they wrote that document? Well, they were looking for a way to secure freedom for the people of the country, to ensure that no one man or political party would have total control of the country. Let me tell you something Dick," I said as I stood facing him on the other side of the table.
"Your dollars cannot buy democracy in this country. It can't buy peace and it can't buy freedom. Wake up Dick, this country is hardly modeled after the USA. You people tried, but as in Vietnam, your country has failed miserably to ensure democracy in this country. You think that Marcos is an anti-communist? He's pulled a fast one on your country. Take a look around. He controls everything in this country. Let me ask you something, how come he is still in power? In the American system, power changes hands every four years, eight if the current president wins a second term. Marcos has been in power for 20 years. Twenty years. With your money. Your country's taxpayer dollars. Marcos is a tough cookie. You supply him with the guns and gold, he buys his goons, and enforces his iron will on us. And the US continues to support him. Why? Because of two reasons. Clark Air and Subic Naval. Your "assurances" that peace remains in the region." Dick was red and angry and drunk. Early morning and already drunk. Gaspar was pissed as well and was very offended by me getting in his friends face. "Ano ka, Pare, let's just leave it alone and forget this morning," Gaspar pleaded as he lit a cigarette. "Di ba le na lang, Ang sirah American yoon," Gaspar said as he looked on at Dick. I looked at him and asked him how he could take this guy's carabao shit, how he could handle getting his English corrected for every little "mistake" he made while speaking. "He pays me in dollars, I don't want to bite the hand that feeds me and feeds me well," Gaspar echoed. I couldn't argue with that. "I've just one more thing to say Gaspar, and we're outta here. "Oh Yeah, uh Dick, I forgot to tell you one last thing. Your country's presence here in the region to ensure stability can't even ensure stability in the very country that is playing host to your military machine." As I got up to leave, I shoved the man a fresh beer.
Maria, who was silent through most of the whole argument, looked at me with disgust and took off toward the beach. Ominous clouds began forming off the coast, and the change in the wind indicated rain. She was sitting on a piece of driftwood on the beach. When I reached her, she buried her face between her knees. She was crying. "Maria, what is it?" I asked as I tried to console her. "Get away from me!" she sobbed as I grabbed her and embraced her. "What's wrong Maria, what is it?" I couldn't figure.
"You just don't get it, do you Johnny-boy. You don't have a clue," she said as I wiped the tears from her eyes. I was trying to understand, but, as I recycled the events of the morning, I couldn't see where I could have possibly gone wrong. "Gosh Johnny-boy, you're just like that man, you are as American as him!" Maria said as she again let the river of tears flow down her cheeks. "Sheesh, even though you're Pinoy on the outside, you are as American as the idiots in Subic. We don't have what your country has. We don't have money, we don't have a democratic style of government, we don't have free education, and we don't have freeways crisscrossing the land, let alone the cars," Maria said as she composed herself. "You want to know what we do have? We've got crime, we've got poverty, we've got corruption, we've got pollution, we've got high birth rate, we've got no morals, we have no standards, we have 'love hotels', we have racism and discrimination, we have disease, we have starving children everywhere. Everywhere you go in this country, you can find children everywhere, scraping for food, surviving any which way they can. We are survivors Johnny-boy. We often times marry, not because of romance or love, but for survival. We may despise the man and his family we have married into, but we do it to survive. It's just like our marriage to your country. We may not like every condition your country puts on us when we receive your country's financial aid, but we do it to survive, just like the hookers you see on the streets in the city. We have no real culture. Our culture has been prostituted Johnny-boy. Our culture is John Wayne movies, Dynasty, and all those other American TV shows we watch.
Here, if you don't have it, you'll never get it, unless you prostitute yourself by marrying some man for his money. In America, anybody can climb the mountain, and when they reach the top, it's always golden," she said as I noticed a different Maria from the hardened one of the last couple of nights. She left me at the beach, wondering.
That night we walked on the beach. I sensed Maria also wanted to leave the country. I could feel her sense of despair. I held her there for a long time. She cried and cried, and held me tight. It felt good to be held and it felt good just to receive this human communication. I kissed her on the forehead as we looked out to sea. It was a calm night, and the waves were gently lapping against the shore. It was quiet the rest of the night, and as we walked back to our Nipa hut, we held hands and hugged, and talked and laughed. It seemed that Maria was happy to have let all her frustrations out, and I was happy to receive them into my mind. I never really understood the situation from a Pinay point of view, but Maria, with all her pride and dignity of being a woman, in this country no less, opened up a whole new realm of thought to me. She taught through explanation, and though she offered no conclusions, she did leave the door open a bit.
After a week Maria and I were still looking for adventure, and the front desk girl at Duchess Inn, our home for the week, had told us about Tanabag. So Maria and I decided to go. After packing our backpacks and paying the bill, we sat down at the Inn for one last breakfast. The menu was the same: French bread baked at the camp, and honey, and fried eggs and coffee. The eggs were a deep yellow and tasted different from those back home. The honey and the bread melted in your mouth.
"I've always heard about the Batac Tribe of Palawan," Maria said, as she attempted to break the silence. "Huh?" I said as I savored my breakfast. "Yeah, I'd like to see this tribe too. I heard they move from place to place and take their house with them," I said. "Now where is it that we catch the jeep?" Maria got the directions from the front desk girl and after, we stopped at the palengke to get bottled water and fresh batteries for my Mag-Lite. Tanabag was a good two hours drive from Puerto Princesa, and I figured with stops along the way, we'd arrive around 3:30 p.m. We made reservations ahead of time, and because we were traveling light, we were able to load up on extra water and junkfoodstuffs.
The jeepney was pretty ragged looking, and it definitely had seen some better days. It was a rusting hulk with no tail lights and bald tires. A front fender was missing and the back seats were torn to pieces. The driver, an overweight man in his late 20s was busy adding oil to the engine as his charge collected the fares. It didn't concern me that the jeep was filled to capacity because I got used to the way they fill jeeps back in Manila. But when I began to see people climbing atop the jeep and on the front bonnet, I couldn't help but wonder how we were going to manage on this two hour ride. There must have been 22 people in and on the jeep, along with various bags, crates of live chickens, bushels of bok choy. Two 100 pound blocks of ice wrapped in burlap and sprinkled with sawdust were lashed to the back of the jeep, on each side of the entranceway. The jeep was fully loaded.
Unlike the jeeps of Manila, this jeep was sparsely decorated. The only paint on it was that of the familiar PAL logo and signage, and it was small. But it was the only thing visible, because the rest of the jeep was tin metal. It had no mirrors of any kind. And no radio.
As we left, the man at the jeep station looked and started to shake his head at the driver. The driver had done it again. He managed to squeeze as many and as much cargo and people as his jeep could hold, maximizing his trip for maximum cash.
At the first stop, two people got off, but three more got on, so I figured we were in for something. A thrifty jeepney driver and an old, rusty pile of shit of a jeep. Just as we were about to leave the outskirts of Puerto Princesa, the left rear tire blew out and we hobbled to a stop. I looked at my Casio. We were exactly eight minutes into our trip. I stared in awe as I counted 16 people climb off the roof of the jeep. The driver pulled off one of his two spare tires, which also were bald and replaced the flat. We were running again in about twenty minutes. It was humid and dusty, and it was hot.
The road leading out of the city was semi-paved with gravel and sand. It was hard packed from all the vehicles it has accommodated over the years. It was a surprisingly smooth ride for such primitive construction. No asphalt, no cement, no lane markers. Just dirt and gravel. As we passed, I looked at the ocean and the opposing jungle. On one side, it was blue and sparse and empty. Palm trees beckoned out toward the sea, and an occasional Nipa hut dotted the landscape. On the other side loomed a thick mass of greenery. Vegetation, tall trees, dense bush, and high mountains. A cool wind blew off the rain forest toward the sea. It was refreshing and smelled real clean. Pure oxygen.
An hour into the trip we got our second flat tire. It was very hot. We were turning a corner when a loud "pop" disabled the jeep once again. The jeep started listing to one side and the driver pulled under some coconut trees. Again everybody got out. The woman who was sitting atop the wheel well when the first blow out occurred was sitting in the same spot, and as she got out she was complaining that the driver should get new tires. "Maybe it's not my tires, but it's your bad luck," Totoy, the driver said. "I think you've put a curse on my jeep. You've been sitting atop the only tire that has blown out, and the tires are all bald," the driver said as he wrenched on the spare. "Ano, spellmaker ba ?"
"Don't blame me for you being so cheap. It's not me that is causing the delays, it's this piece of shit jeep. It's cursed with PAL," the woman laughed as she squatted on the side of the road and lit up a cigarette. She seemed one hundred years old, but she still had her wits about her. And she smoked her cigarette with the cherry in her mouth. Insane.
The sun was really doing a number on us. People were getting irritated. Totoy mumbled something to himself as he wrenched the second spare off the fender. His stomach, which obviously had downed many San Miguels in its day, hung a few inches outside his shirt as he worked the tire off. The crack of his ass shone as he worked the flat off the axle. He was grunting, somewhat like a pig as he fought with the tire, getting a handle on it as he sat in the dirty, dusty road.
A scorpion scampered by, and Totoy, with a deft agility that seemed incapable from such an overweight man, expertly threw the lug wrench at it, smashing its head. The tail was stinging the hot metal, and the scorpion slowly stopped its movement. Retrieving the wrench, Totoy was boasting like he was some ace shot. "Magaling iyon!," Totoy said as he cleaned the wrench with an oily rag he retrieved from his back pocket. "It never fails, my shot is always on the mark," Totoy said as he began tightening the lug nuts. "Yeah, right pare, but how come you don't have any children yet, your shot isn't so good, Walang heirs naman, sino ang inherit ang jeep ba? This piece of shit you call a jeep?" laughed his charge, a short, dark, ugly man with no front teeth. "Pu tang ina, get out and walk, ano ayo ang jeep ko? get out and walk you little shit," Totoy said as he chased his charge around the jeep. I looked down at the scorpion, looking for signs of life. Big black ants had already swarmed over it and were devouring it, feasting on an enemy. The voracity of the feasting ants was unparalleled, except for maybe a feeding frenzy of sharks I saw on the Discovery Channel. My how nature works. I looked up toward the sun. It was blazing, and I was hoping for relief, anything but this cursed heat.
"I'm thirsty, John," Maria said as we sat in the jeep. "Let's get some cokes," she said as we waited inside the jeep. It started to really bake in the jeep, and the people still in it made the smell very pungent. I jumped out of the jeep and walked over to the sari-sari store across the road and bought two Sprites and a double bag of Chippys. Little to snack on but better than sitting and baking in the back of the jeep.
The driver was finishing up on the tire when another jeepney stopped. This jeep had chrome all over the place, and the rims were shiny too. The driver was wearing a pair of vintage WWII goggles and a scarf, but no shirt. His muscles rippled as he pulled himself out of his seat and into the street at Totoy's feet. The driver looked at the jeepney and started to laugh. "Totoy, Ano ka, cutting corners again? Why don't you invest in some Sime Darbys? You won't be getting flats every weekend you come out here," the driver said as Totoy finished the job and leaned on the fender, wiping the sweat off his face and neck. "Ano pare, let me borrow your spare?" I need it just in case, I've got no more spares. "Ano Totoy, you got 500 pesos I could hold until I get it back?" "And when are you going to learn not to take ice on a day trip?" The driver said as he fondled a nearly empty and very wet ice bag. "Ice is gone," the driver said as he wrenched the spare off his fender and gave it to Totoy. "And don't be late," "And next time leave Waling in the market. She's bad luck," he laughed as Waling, the woman who sat on the wheel which was always getting flat, threw a rotted tomato at him as he accelerated the jeep past us. "Sigue make fun, I'm sitting in the front now, no more in the back," she said as she gathered her stuff and kicked a guy out of his seat and took his place. Nine kms down the road, the front tire blew out.
Sometime around 7 p.m., we arrived in Tanabag. Surprisingly, there weren't any mosquitoes, and the horizon was brilliant. Stars were literally lighting up the sky. It was a full moon, and the reflection off the calm China Sea was striking. I thanked the driver and we got off. Our two hour ride took nearly six hours. I was so dusty and dehydrated. It was a very long day. "Come on Johnny boy, lets get settled so we can wash up. I feel so, ano ba, so icky naman." Maria quipped as she tied her hair up.
We went to the office. A rusty Coleman lantern lit the way. Two women and a man were sitting on the bamboo rail on the porch, playing pusoy and drinking beer. "Ako ang reservations dito," Maria said as she settled down on the bench next to the younger girl. "Ano ang pangalan, miss?" "de La Cruz" Maria said as we went through the formalities. "Ah yes, Mr. John de La Cruz and guest," Sophie, as she introduced herself, said as she had us sign the guest log. I stared at her as she spoke, eyeing her body and her lips. She was a very hearty young woman, about 22. Big legs and calfs on a stout torso. Her body seemed very strong, and built, not like a Manila waif, but a woman of the province, a provinciana. "How long will you be staying Mr. de La Cruz?" Sophie asked as she poured me some fresh mango juice. "The fourth and fifth Nipa hut are open, you can have whichever one you prefer," she said as we gulped the sweet nectar that mango juice is. "The one at the end looks good, and we'll be here for a few days, at least until Sunday," I said as we finished the merienda and started to walk toward the last Nipa hut "If you need fresh water sir, go ahead and ask Ferdie he will go to the market for only twenty pesos. The water here is not potable, so I advise you to get bottled water if you don't already have some. It's OK to take a bath in though," she said as she walked us to the Nipa hut. Have a good night and don't worry, its very safe here in Tanabag."
After unpacking, Maria took a nap, and I, a bit tired from the trip, but also eager to check out the waves, went for a walk on the beach. The stars were so many and so far, it looked as if I was looking through a wide angle lens. They went all the way to the horizon. I saw no lights, no airplane trails, nothing. Just a deep black void filled with little shining specs of light. The Nipa huts were situated on a point, and to the left of the structures was a pond with palm trees and brush growing in the water and on a little mound in the middle. It was probably fed by a freshwater spring, and fed saltwater at high tide. The beach was rocky with smooth sand scattered in between and little strips of bamboo jutted out in a circular formation. The air smelled of salt, and the breeze, a bit nippy. As I walked, I thought of the rest of our god forsaken civilization. Of the wars over oil, over territory, over religion. And on this edge, this edge of Palawan, looking out to sea, I couldn't give a flying fuck. Because here, nothing mattered. Just a vast sea.
Here I'm told not to drink the water because it's not potable, but this brackish water that comes out of the shower head, this rusty smelling gift of life is safe to shower in. Back off the edge, I take the water for granted. I won't drink it out of a garden hose in my town, but that water is even cleaner than the water coming out of the shower heads here. But its the price I pay for this slice of life, this cosm of the world that many people will never see. Life moves slow here. News is a week, 10 days old before it gets here, if it ever gets here. I smell the jungle, see the stars, hear the ocean lap at the land as I walk the edge of it, and feel the force of life. These people, these Filipinos, they have nothing, as we see from the West. They have no cars, no VCRs, no compact discs, no answering machines, no dust busters, no ballet class, no credit cards, no auto repair, no microwaves, no alarms, no hair dryer, no bills, no insurance, no savings, no sense of the future. They live for today, because they know that tomorrow is not guaranteed. They, without the possessions we deem essential, they live without, and live their lives as if its the last day of their life. Nothing is ever a problem. Its too simple.
"Hey Johnny boy wake up! get your ass up!" Maria said as she snapped me with a wet towel. "Let's get breakfast before the window shuts on us." I forgot that out here, there is no refrigeration, and the only way to get any food is to have Ferdie take a jeep back to the local market to get fresh vegetables and anything else we want to eat for breakfast. It was only 7 a.m., but the sun was already working up its fury in the tropics. I opened the window and looked out. Again I saw the ocean. It looked even more surreal than last night. "Unreal, I thought as I peered out into the vast and mighty South China Sea. It was like a lake, but I knew the China Sea was very deceptive and if you weren't careful, it would swallow you and never give you up. The water was a clear green, like Squirt, and very calm. The lapping that put me to sleep last night still sounded, like clockwork.
We were at the farthest reaches of the coast. Already the nik-niks, little black sand flies, were biting at my legs, and as I continued to slap at them, Sophie walked up and sprayed me with a thick oil. "It's coconut oil. They can't bite through the layer of oil, and besides that, if they land they're doomed anyway, so keep spraying," she said as she wiped the oil onto my shoulders and arms. She gave us the bottle filled with the milky-white liquid, and Maria took over. As she wiped my back and neck down with the oil, Maria gave me a little primer about Palawan and the history that she knew of it. The essence of the oil brought back memories of the beaches back home in Huntington. The oil smelled just like a bar of white Sex Wax. "Coconut oil?" I asked as Maria finished lathering herself to a gleen. "Yeah, at least it isn't toxic chemicals like Black Flag di ba? Grabe, spraying chemicals on your skin like that. Simple coconut oil. No warning labels about do not inhale or ingest or use near flame. Just pure oil that mother nature intended to be a natural remedy against the nik-nik. "I heard the nik-nik is more terrible than the mosquito," Maria said as she put on a pair of Ray Bans. "I heard they suck your blood and when once gorged, they suck more until they are overflowing out of their little insect mouths," Maria said, adjusting the Ray Bans on her nose. "And if you let them bite you at first, you'll be regretting it for weeks." I didn't know whether to believe her or not. I chose not to, and later paid the price. Nothing in this world comes without a price.
We went to the main hut where breakfast was being served. Our first morning in Tanabag, and the stress of Manila was slowly emanating from my body...and my mind. We sat at a long table that seated about 10-15 people. With the exception of a group of three Americans and one Pinoy, the table was empty.
"So, with the exception of the Vietnam War, the Philippines has not really engaged in any significant military action after W.W.II. Perhaps our country can teach your country a lesson in the strategies of world relations." He was an American. Probably in his early thirties. He was wearing one of those baduy polyester Hawaiian-type shirts only Americans would wear. Probably bought it in Baclaran. He was about 5'9" and his brown hair was receding well above his forehead. Bathed in some cheap musk oil. A total asshole just by the way he smelled.
Although I caught only the tail end of what was probably a meaningless discussion on the aspects of American military power in the Asian area of the Pacific Rim, I knew the guy was a total all American, think he's a do gooder, brainwashed right wing, we had to destroy the city in order to save it, American.
"Actooaly I believe that Da Pilapines was in......"Its actually Gaspar, acktully, just like it sounds," the American said to his Pinoy paré. "It's not actooaly. Don't destroy the one good thing we gave your country. Learn how to speak English correctly. And it's the fillapeens, not Pilapeens. Fi Fi Fillapeens, Got it? "Yes Dick, Fillapeens," Gaspar said as he dejectedly avoided eye contact at me, as I was getting teed at this American. I couldn't help it but I had to intercede.
"Excuse me sir," I said in my most believable Manila-Boy accent. "But I couldn't help but overhear you making an attempt to correct your friend's use of the English language. May I make a suggestion as well?" Maria looked at me and mouthed "Don't do this." I continued. I was pissed. Even though I was an American just like this guy, Dick, was, I was also a Filipino, and I wasn't going to stand for this guy's ignorance. "Sir do you know where you are?" I asked, continuing to fake my accent. "Yes of course, we are in the Philippine Islands, discovered by Magellen in 1492, controlled by Spain for 400 years and won from Spain by the USA in 1898. This is the Philippines. Village of Tanabag. On the South China Sea. On the island of Palawan, capital Puerto Princesa." Dick did his homework but he just didn't get it. "Your facts are good Dick, can I call you Dick?" I said as my accent became thicker, as if it took on a life of its own. "Let me ask you very simply, do you know where you are?" Dick was beginning to get a bit annoyed at my seeming prodding of his intelligence. He was smart, but his instant arrogance for all things American just pissed me off. "Yes," Dick said, "We are in The Philippines." Very simply he answered my question with a bit of consternation. "Very good," I said as I prepared my roast. Maria was getting nervous, and I assured her from under the table I had everything under control. Gaspar was getting fidgety as well, and very angry by the cold looks he was directing to me. "And in this country called the Republic of the Philippines, what kind of people live here, in this island nation of some 7,107 islands?" Dick seemed confused, and angry that such a pest as I would challenge his seeming knowledge of the country. "The people of the Philippine Islands are called Filipinos, primarily of Malay and indigenous stock, with a smattering of Chinese, European, American, and Middle Eastern extract. Being in such a strategic location as the Philippine Islands are, brings a diaspora of peoples to these islands," Dick said. "You're right, Dick," I said, "But Filipinos mostly live in the Philippines. Not Americans. As a matter a fact, there are some 58 million Pinoys in these islands, and it is very likely that 57.9 million of those Pinoys have never been to the United States, let alone another country. So it seems," I said as I began to state my position, "that the Filipino use for your English is basically meaningless. I mean, you said that we get a whole consortium of peoples coming to this country, so may I ask, how would Gaspar react if the next group he brought to this little beach were from England, the birth place of the English lingo? Or from Australia or Ireland, or India, or all the other English speaking countries in this world? Why push your corrections on him. To me, his English is fine. To other Pinoys, it is fine, but to you, why do you have to humiliate him, belittle him in front of his fellow countrymen? I mean we are in the Philippines man, and as long as we are on this rock, we will speak English however we want to. I was pissed and Maria started to ask me to apologize to Dick. "I'm trying to do Gaspar a favor with his English," I don't need some sermon from some snot nose college boy from Manila. We give you guys much concessions and you people don't appreciate anything we give you. We give you a hell of a lot and you should thank us for doing so," Dick said as he looked at me as if he demanded me to apologize to him for insulting him, his country, and his language. "Yeah right," I said as I lost the my "accent." Do you even know what the Framers of the US Constitution were aiming for as they wrote that document? Well, they were looking for a way to secure freedom for the people of the country, to ensure that no one man or political party would have total control of the country. Let me tell you something Dick," I said as I stood facing him on the other side of the table.
"Your dollars cannot buy democracy in this country. It can't buy peace and it can't buy freedom. Wake up Dick, this country is hardly modeled after the USA. You people tried, but as in Vietnam, your country has failed miserably to ensure democracy in this country. You think that Marcos is an anti-communist? He's pulled a fast one on your country. Take a look around. He controls everything in this country. Let me ask you something, how come he is still in power? In the American system, power changes hands every four years, eight if the current president wins a second term. Marcos has been in power for 20 years. Twenty years. With your money. Your country's taxpayer dollars. Marcos is a tough cookie. You supply him with the guns and gold, he buys his goons, and enforces his iron will on us. And the US continues to support him. Why? Because of two reasons. Clark Air and Subic Naval. Your "assurances" that peace remains in the region." Dick was red and angry and drunk. Early morning and already drunk. Gaspar was pissed as well and was very offended by me getting in his friends face. "Ano ka, Pare, let's just leave it alone and forget this morning," Gaspar pleaded as he lit a cigarette. "Di ba le na lang, Ang sirah American yoon," Gaspar said as he looked on at Dick. I looked at him and asked him how he could take this guy's carabao shit, how he could handle getting his English corrected for every little "mistake" he made while speaking. "He pays me in dollars, I don't want to bite the hand that feeds me and feeds me well," Gaspar echoed. I couldn't argue with that. "I've just one more thing to say Gaspar, and we're outta here. "Oh Yeah, uh Dick, I forgot to tell you one last thing. Your country's presence here in the region to ensure stability can't even ensure stability in the very country that is playing host to your military machine." As I got up to leave, I shoved the man a fresh beer.
Maria, who was silent through most of the whole argument, looked at me with disgust and took off toward the beach. Ominous clouds began forming off the coast, and the change in the wind indicated rain. She was sitting on a piece of driftwood on the beach. When I reached her, she buried her face between her knees. She was crying. "Maria, what is it?" I asked as I tried to console her. "Get away from me!" she sobbed as I grabbed her and embraced her. "What's wrong Maria, what is it?" I couldn't figure.
"You just don't get it, do you Johnny-boy. You don't have a clue," she said as I wiped the tears from her eyes. I was trying to understand, but, as I recycled the events of the morning, I couldn't see where I could have possibly gone wrong. "Gosh Johnny-boy, you're just like that man, you are as American as him!" Maria said as she again let the river of tears flow down her cheeks. "Sheesh, even though you're Pinoy on the outside, you are as American as the idiots in Subic. We don't have what your country has. We don't have money, we don't have a democratic style of government, we don't have free education, and we don't have freeways crisscrossing the land, let alone the cars," Maria said as she composed herself. "You want to know what we do have? We've got crime, we've got poverty, we've got corruption, we've got pollution, we've got high birth rate, we've got no morals, we have no standards, we have 'love hotels', we have racism and discrimination, we have disease, we have starving children everywhere. Everywhere you go in this country, you can find children everywhere, scraping for food, surviving any which way they can. We are survivors Johnny-boy. We often times marry, not because of romance or love, but for survival. We may despise the man and his family we have married into, but we do it to survive. It's just like our marriage to your country. We may not like every condition your country puts on us when we receive your country's financial aid, but we do it to survive, just like the hookers you see on the streets in the city. We have no real culture. Our culture has been prostituted Johnny-boy. Our culture is John Wayne movies, Dynasty, and all those other American TV shows we watch.
Here, if you don't have it, you'll never get it, unless you prostitute yourself by marrying some man for his money. In America, anybody can climb the mountain, and when they reach the top, it's always golden," she said as I noticed a different Maria from the hardened one of the last couple of nights. She left me at the beach, wondering.
That night we walked on the beach. I sensed Maria also wanted to leave the country. I could feel her sense of despair. I held her there for a long time. She cried and cried, and held me tight. It felt good to be held and it felt good just to receive this human communication. I kissed her on the forehead as we looked out to sea. It was a calm night, and the waves were gently lapping against the shore. It was quiet the rest of the night, and as we walked back to our Nipa hut, we held hands and hugged, and talked and laughed. It seemed that Maria was happy to have let all her frustrations out, and I was happy to receive them into my mind. I never really understood the situation from a Pinay point of view, but Maria, with all her pride and dignity of being a woman, in this country no less, opened up a whole new realm of thought to me. She taught through explanation, and though she offered no conclusions, she did leave the door open a bit.
Palawan plane ride
(Dunkin Donuts) The aswang- With two women in Palawan and the aswang and how hot it was that night. Nipa Hut on the mud flat Passion can turn you into its slave
Tuesday night Gabriela, Maria and I went to Dunkin Donuts on Pasay Rd. in Makati. Gabriela and I were craving chocolate donuts, but we didn't have any Pesos handy. So we called Maria. Maria, being of a somewhat affluent mother, always had some money on hand. "Ano ka, you only call me cause you don't have money?" Maria said as we talked to her on the phone. "Sigue, come pick me up. I want to get out of the house anyway," she quipped as Gabriela and I high fived our apparent fix. It was past midnight. It is said that Manila is very dangerous at night, and being a foreigner or balikbayan it was doubly dangerous. Or so they say. The ride to Maria's was a bumpy one, especially in a VW bug with bald tires. Gabriela had sold the bug to her roommate, but since she was out of town, we pretty much had free use of it. As we went through San Antonio Village, I noticed that the night life was pretty much still happening, kids playing in the street, grown men playing chess, even some teens shooting hoops.
We got to Maria's at 1 a.m. Dunkin's was another ten minutes from Maria's place. "Hoy, pare, What's up duude?!" Maria said as I met her at her gate. "We need you Maria," I said as we gave each other a customary hug and kiss on the cheek. "You ready for our trip to Palawan?" I said as I lifted the front seat so she could squeeze in the back. "I've got a ton of books for the Vietnamese refugee camp on Palawan." "It would be lovely to have you," I said as I played like I was deeply interested in her."Bastos talaga " Maria said as she blocked my pseudo advances toward her. "You Americans can think you can score with any Filipina, let me tell you something Johnny boy, not with me, no way," Maria said in her best Olongapo girl accent. "If you ain't a Navy, you ain't gonna get me," she said as we laughed in the car.
It made me wonder, that little scenario we pulled in the back of the VW. Here was a sophisticated Manila girl, talking shit on her fellow Filipina, but it was something that wasn't really funny, but it made me think just the same. I was an American, yet I was a Filipino. The Americans had maintained a presence in the Philippines since 1898, when they defeated Spain, and later, Emilio Aguinaldo in the Philippine American War. The Americans have maintained US military installations in the Philippines ever since, William Howard Taft couldn't even find the islands on a map. I read somewhere that the Olongapo girl, or at least what is perceived as the Olongapo girl, is a Filipina prostitute, who goes with and often marries Americans to get out of the country. Some however don't really want to leave the country, but rather, enjoy just plain getting fucked, with whomever and wherever they can get it. They are supposedly largely uneducated, and speak English with a high degree of unsophistication. Their intonations are usually high pitched, and their grasp of the American English language is limited to how the servicemen speak, usually down at the gutter level. A Manila version of the Olongapo girl, the Mabini girl, can be found in Mabini, near the U.S. Embassy on Roxas Blvd. But obviously they were trying to improve their lot, and I couldn't find fault in that.
We got to Dunkin Donuts without incident, sans a cigarette vendor who ran off with my 5 peso bill. About three Dunkin Donut employees were outside the store, on strike. They had a banner across the sidewalk and were trying to solicit donations from passersby. "Kumusta ka ang pangalan kay Jesus DeLeon, nag we welga kami para sa mataas na sweldo namin ," Jesus said as I got out of the VW. "Please don't cross the picket line," he pleaded as we all got out to go into the store. "It just makes things harder for us."
When Gabriela started to explain what was going on, Jesus overheard and walked over, and explained to me in very proficient English what they were trying to accomplish. "You from the States?" Jesus asked as we shook hands. "California" I said as I lit up a blue seal. "I haven't been here since 1986, and I am just hanging out," I said as I held Maria's arm. "Why you on strike?" "We're on strike because these fucking intsik owners won't raise our salaries by a measly 25 pesos a day. 25 pesos, that's about $1.25 in dollars. What's your minimum wage in the States? $4.00 an hour $5.00 an hour? An hour's worth of your wages is a whole days of our wages. We make about $5 a day. That's one meal for one person at McDonalds. " Can you imagine, they don't even want to raise us 25 pesos a day. That's one donut."
I could understand his plight, and it made me think hard about working and money and the whole trip. This guy was a college graduate, and he's frying donuts for a living. I shuddered the thought. We crossed the line regardless. Once inside the store, the remaining employees were eager to help us. I ordered a chocolate donut and a ham and cheese croissant. Maria ordered the same thing. Gabriela just got two chocolate donuts. As we left the store, I gave Jesus 20 pesos for his efforts and to soothe my conscience. The donut was good but the croissant was a little greasy, and the ham seemed a little peculiar. But I was hungry and ate the whole thing. Only later would I find that crossing the strike line at Dunkin Donuts a mistake.
The rest of the night was uneventful. We listened to the radio and kicked back with Jazz FM. We packed our bags because we were leaving for Palawan at 7 a.m. It was somewhat difficult to coax the two girls to take the trip with me, but when I offered to pay for the tickets, they were eager to accompany me. It was all for good cause anyway.
Friday morning was a little hectic. As I called the taxi and prepared our supplies, the women were busy taking a bath and fixing their bags. We left for Manila Domestic at 8:30 in hopes of arriving by 10 am. We hit traffic on Buendia. The boulevard was thick with jeepneys, taxis, and busses. The air, a dusty dirty blanket of black soot. A mestizo in a shiny new Mercedes was not letting us merge into the left turn lane onto Baltao St. I was getting peeved, coming from the freeways and highways of Southern California, I looked at the driver and gave him the "What's up!?" look of inconsideration. He looked back and flipped me off. The universal language of fuck off. It sends the message so simple, yet so elegantly. The taxi driver laughed and made his own turn lane out of the number one lane. "Watch this" the driver said as he effectively cut in front of the Mercedes. The taxi driver laughed as he explained the driving finesse of the Philippine wealthy. "Because they have the money, and because they live in Forbes Park or Dasmariñas village, or even Ayala Alabang, they think they own the road," Gaspar said. "And you know something, I think they do." "The only way for the rest of us to redeem ourselves is on the street. Us taxi drivers, it explains why some of us drive like we do. Others, the mechanics, they get them when the rich bring their cars in for service. And still others, like the car nappers, they just rob them of their cars. But it really doesn't faze the rich too much, because they have millions."
We finally arrived at Manila Domestic Airport just after 10 a.m. It was much smaller than Ninoy Aquino International, and there wasn't a crowd of people waiting outside the gate. The lobby was cleaner and looked better maintained. We got our boarding passes from the PAL ticket agent. "Thank you Mr. Virata," the agent said as he took our check-in bags. he didn't pay any attention to the beautiful woman that were accompanying me on the plane, and for this, he received two strikes. He was strikingly tall for a Filipino, about 6 ft 3 inches. He was very well groomed and nattily dressed. His face was finely chiseled, with high cheek bones and a prominent nose, and a strong chin. But there was something about him that struck me as peculiar. I couldn't figure it out until we were in flight.
The trip to Palawan took about an hour. It was the first time I flew to outer islands in the Philippines and I absolutely loved the view from the 737. I always loved the view of the islands from the plane. I could differentiate from the deep and shallow parts of the ocean. The waters were a very light green around the dozens of islands I could see from the plane, and then dropped off to a very dark blue. Sometimes a reef stretched from one island to another, with only a very narrow strip of blue separating them. All separate islands, yet all related. The islands themselves were a thick mass of green, with an occasional brown patch of road snaking through brush. From above, the islands seem at peace, everything together and in sync.
I truly wondered what God was thinking when he created the island chain that is called the Philippines. Because he created a beautiful country. It only seems that the people fucked everything up.
Pablo, the checker at the counter was now the flight attendant. As he served coffee and soda, I noticed that he was very effeminate as he placed the napkin and poured the soda in the clear, plastic cup. He was very delicate as he passed the snacks out, and he was especially gentle with the manongs on the plane.
"Mr. Virata, would you care for anything to drink?" he asked me as he folded my table out. "Yes I would like a Sarsi and a 7up," I said as I put my headphones on and watched him move. Gabriela looked at Maria and were whispering about something, and laughed. I didn't pay them any mind, because they were always making chismis, and because I couldn't understand Tagalog, they would say, "too bad, bummer man," their favorite expression. Pablo looked and acted like the guy who cut my hair in Makati, and I realized the peculiar thing about him was that he was gay as well. He was very good looking, and he smiled a lot. His job suited him well. He did his job well. Women in the States would drool over Pablo.
"Tita, did you drop the Ralph Lauren or what?" Gabriela turned to Maria as she lit up a cigarette. Being in somewhat cramped corners amplified everything around you, and the strong scent of perfume, especially when it is poured on, like the woman in the seat behind us poured it on, can make you feel uneasy in the nose and throat, and in the head as well. The smell was overwhelming, and Gabriela, being sensitive to all things unnatural, like anti-perspirant, lipstick, and makeup and perfume, was really getting worked over real good from the woman in the seat behind us.
She was an overweight older lady wearing a tight, loud, minidress and black pumps. Her flabs were hanging out of the dress. Her jewelry, faux gold and piled on. Her face was distorted through all the makeup, and her perfume, well it was on so strong it made Gabriela want to puke. The woman in the seat behind us, she was a typical traveling Filipina. She was probably a "green card holder," and was returning from the U.S., because only in the U.S. does an ugly Filipina wear so much in excess, in excess to the point that everything, from the faux jewelry, to the black pumps, to the makeup, to the cheap perfume, can be found in any major magazine that advertises ladies cheap health and beauty products. She had a fake Louis Vuitton handbag, and long fake fingernails, and she was reading Cosmopolitan, the magazine for fake women with fake tits. She was the essence of the unstylish Filipina. A recent returnee that buys not out of necessity, but out of the fact that her friends in her barkada purchased the same junk when they had gone abroad. She, the type that would go far out into the desert of California, halfway to Las Vegas, just to shop at the Polo Shop, just because that is where her friends went when they came to the States. She, the type that would buy desert property in Las Vegas if her friends did, just to gain the acceptance of her peers, the same peers who talk behind her back about her philandering husband, or her daughter who has had multiple abortions, or her son, who is always high on Shabu. She, the type who is caught up in the act of catching up, but will never catch up nor will she be the one who sets the standards of the Filipina mind. The material mind that sometimes pervades the Filipina mind. Just to impress the "friends" at the country club or at the mahjong table. She, the woman in the seat behind us.
"Excuse me miss, do you think you can put your seatback forward so I can have a little room to move out of my seat, its very uncomfortable for me and you reclining your seatback has made it more so for me," The woman in the seat behind us said as she moved about, trying to position her bulging body into the minuscule seat. Her movements caused our row of seats to move a little more than a normal plane ride would move a seat.
"I'm sorry miss, but I cannot move my seat upright because it would cause me discomfort. I'm sorry," Gabriela said as she whispered something to the fact as to how this woman had the nerve.
"Miss, I'm asking you nicely, do you think you can move your seatback upright so I can move about a bit, It's very hard for me to position my reading light, and I want to read my magazines," the woman in the seat behind us said as she continued to pursue her goal of getting her way. It was getting a bit interesting, and I wanted to see which of these two very different Filipina women would prevail in getting what they wanted. I was rooting for Gabriela, but the woman in the seat behind us was very persistent. "You know if you were my daughter, I would have taught you some respect for your elders," the woman in the seat behind us said a matter of factly as she finally settled into her seat, a full 15 minutes into what was a one hour flight. "So what, are you saying my parents didn't teach me manners?" Gabriela said as she stood up preparing to get into a verbal confrontation with the woman in the seat behind us.
"Speak for yourself, Puta. have you looked in a mirror lately?" I mean just look at your pathetic self. Look at that bag, and those baduy shoes, where did you go shopping, Baclaran for those shoes? and what about that ugly face, who does your makeup? and where did you get that dress, K Mart?" At this time Pablo came about and tried to break up the verbal abuse. "Excuse me girls, but we are on a plane here and you both need to be considerate of others. Please, miss, and ma'am, let's stop this now," Pablo said as he maneuvered behind me to give him space to move Gabriela's seatback forward. "This is just twenty more minutes flight and soon we'll be on the ground so please, lets work to be considerate of the others flying today." At this point, Pablo got some reinforcements in a stunning flight attendant and the purser. "Diyos ko naman!, ang hirap hirap talaga," Gabriela fumed as she reluctantly settled back into her seat. Pablo had given the woman in the seat behind us what she wanted, and although she was so gaudy and baduy, Pablo was right in doing so.
Tuesday night Gabriela, Maria and I went to Dunkin Donuts on Pasay Rd. in Makati. Gabriela and I were craving chocolate donuts, but we didn't have any Pesos handy. So we called Maria. Maria, being of a somewhat affluent mother, always had some money on hand. "Ano ka, you only call me cause you don't have money?" Maria said as we talked to her on the phone. "Sigue, come pick me up. I want to get out of the house anyway," she quipped as Gabriela and I high fived our apparent fix. It was past midnight. It is said that Manila is very dangerous at night, and being a foreigner or balikbayan it was doubly dangerous. Or so they say. The ride to Maria's was a bumpy one, especially in a VW bug with bald tires. Gabriela had sold the bug to her roommate, but since she was out of town, we pretty much had free use of it. As we went through San Antonio Village, I noticed that the night life was pretty much still happening, kids playing in the street, grown men playing chess, even some teens shooting hoops.
We got to Maria's at 1 a.m. Dunkin's was another ten minutes from Maria's place. "Hoy, pare, What's up duude?!" Maria said as I met her at her gate. "We need you Maria," I said as we gave each other a customary hug and kiss on the cheek. "You ready for our trip to Palawan?" I said as I lifted the front seat so she could squeeze in the back. "I've got a ton of books for the Vietnamese refugee camp on Palawan." "It would be lovely to have you," I said as I played like I was deeply interested in her."Bastos talaga " Maria said as she blocked my pseudo advances toward her. "You Americans can think you can score with any Filipina, let me tell you something Johnny boy, not with me, no way," Maria said in her best Olongapo girl accent. "If you ain't a Navy, you ain't gonna get me," she said as we laughed in the car.
It made me wonder, that little scenario we pulled in the back of the VW. Here was a sophisticated Manila girl, talking shit on her fellow Filipina, but it was something that wasn't really funny, but it made me think just the same. I was an American, yet I was a Filipino. The Americans had maintained a presence in the Philippines since 1898, when they defeated Spain, and later, Emilio Aguinaldo in the Philippine American War. The Americans have maintained US military installations in the Philippines ever since, William Howard Taft couldn't even find the islands on a map. I read somewhere that the Olongapo girl, or at least what is perceived as the Olongapo girl, is a Filipina prostitute, who goes with and often marries Americans to get out of the country. Some however don't really want to leave the country, but rather, enjoy just plain getting fucked, with whomever and wherever they can get it. They are supposedly largely uneducated, and speak English with a high degree of unsophistication. Their intonations are usually high pitched, and their grasp of the American English language is limited to how the servicemen speak, usually down at the gutter level. A Manila version of the Olongapo girl, the Mabini girl, can be found in Mabini, near the U.S. Embassy on Roxas Blvd. But obviously they were trying to improve their lot, and I couldn't find fault in that.
We got to Dunkin Donuts without incident, sans a cigarette vendor who ran off with my 5 peso bill. About three Dunkin Donut employees were outside the store, on strike. They had a banner across the sidewalk and were trying to solicit donations from passersby. "Kumusta ka ang pangalan kay Jesus DeLeon, nag we welga kami para sa mataas na sweldo namin ," Jesus said as I got out of the VW. "Please don't cross the picket line," he pleaded as we all got out to go into the store. "It just makes things harder for us."
When Gabriela started to explain what was going on, Jesus overheard and walked over, and explained to me in very proficient English what they were trying to accomplish. "You from the States?" Jesus asked as we shook hands. "California" I said as I lit up a blue seal. "I haven't been here since 1986, and I am just hanging out," I said as I held Maria's arm. "Why you on strike?" "We're on strike because these fucking intsik owners won't raise our salaries by a measly 25 pesos a day. 25 pesos, that's about $1.25 in dollars. What's your minimum wage in the States? $4.00 an hour $5.00 an hour? An hour's worth of your wages is a whole days of our wages. We make about $5 a day. That's one meal for one person at McDonalds. " Can you imagine, they don't even want to raise us 25 pesos a day. That's one donut."
I could understand his plight, and it made me think hard about working and money and the whole trip. This guy was a college graduate, and he's frying donuts for a living. I shuddered the thought. We crossed the line regardless. Once inside the store, the remaining employees were eager to help us. I ordered a chocolate donut and a ham and cheese croissant. Maria ordered the same thing. Gabriela just got two chocolate donuts. As we left the store, I gave Jesus 20 pesos for his efforts and to soothe my conscience. The donut was good but the croissant was a little greasy, and the ham seemed a little peculiar. But I was hungry and ate the whole thing. Only later would I find that crossing the strike line at Dunkin Donuts a mistake.
The rest of the night was uneventful. We listened to the radio and kicked back with Jazz FM. We packed our bags because we were leaving for Palawan at 7 a.m. It was somewhat difficult to coax the two girls to take the trip with me, but when I offered to pay for the tickets, they were eager to accompany me. It was all for good cause anyway.
Friday morning was a little hectic. As I called the taxi and prepared our supplies, the women were busy taking a bath and fixing their bags. We left for Manila Domestic at 8:30 in hopes of arriving by 10 am. We hit traffic on Buendia. The boulevard was thick with jeepneys, taxis, and busses. The air, a dusty dirty blanket of black soot. A mestizo in a shiny new Mercedes was not letting us merge into the left turn lane onto Baltao St. I was getting peeved, coming from the freeways and highways of Southern California, I looked at the driver and gave him the "What's up!?" look of inconsideration. He looked back and flipped me off. The universal language of fuck off. It sends the message so simple, yet so elegantly. The taxi driver laughed and made his own turn lane out of the number one lane. "Watch this" the driver said as he effectively cut in front of the Mercedes. The taxi driver laughed as he explained the driving finesse of the Philippine wealthy. "Because they have the money, and because they live in Forbes Park or Dasmariñas village, or even Ayala Alabang, they think they own the road," Gaspar said. "And you know something, I think they do." "The only way for the rest of us to redeem ourselves is on the street. Us taxi drivers, it explains why some of us drive like we do. Others, the mechanics, they get them when the rich bring their cars in for service. And still others, like the car nappers, they just rob them of their cars. But it really doesn't faze the rich too much, because they have millions."
We finally arrived at Manila Domestic Airport just after 10 a.m. It was much smaller than Ninoy Aquino International, and there wasn't a crowd of people waiting outside the gate. The lobby was cleaner and looked better maintained. We got our boarding passes from the PAL ticket agent. "Thank you Mr. Virata," the agent said as he took our check-in bags. he didn't pay any attention to the beautiful woman that were accompanying me on the plane, and for this, he received two strikes. He was strikingly tall for a Filipino, about 6 ft 3 inches. He was very well groomed and nattily dressed. His face was finely chiseled, with high cheek bones and a prominent nose, and a strong chin. But there was something about him that struck me as peculiar. I couldn't figure it out until we were in flight.
The trip to Palawan took about an hour. It was the first time I flew to outer islands in the Philippines and I absolutely loved the view from the 737. I always loved the view of the islands from the plane. I could differentiate from the deep and shallow parts of the ocean. The waters were a very light green around the dozens of islands I could see from the plane, and then dropped off to a very dark blue. Sometimes a reef stretched from one island to another, with only a very narrow strip of blue separating them. All separate islands, yet all related. The islands themselves were a thick mass of green, with an occasional brown patch of road snaking through brush. From above, the islands seem at peace, everything together and in sync.
I truly wondered what God was thinking when he created the island chain that is called the Philippines. Because he created a beautiful country. It only seems that the people fucked everything up.
Pablo, the checker at the counter was now the flight attendant. As he served coffee and soda, I noticed that he was very effeminate as he placed the napkin and poured the soda in the clear, plastic cup. He was very delicate as he passed the snacks out, and he was especially gentle with the manongs on the plane.
"Mr. Virata, would you care for anything to drink?" he asked me as he folded my table out. "Yes I would like a Sarsi and a 7up," I said as I put my headphones on and watched him move. Gabriela looked at Maria and were whispering about something, and laughed. I didn't pay them any mind, because they were always making chismis, and because I couldn't understand Tagalog, they would say, "too bad, bummer man," their favorite expression. Pablo looked and acted like the guy who cut my hair in Makati, and I realized the peculiar thing about him was that he was gay as well. He was very good looking, and he smiled a lot. His job suited him well. He did his job well. Women in the States would drool over Pablo.
"Tita, did you drop the Ralph Lauren or what?" Gabriela turned to Maria as she lit up a cigarette. Being in somewhat cramped corners amplified everything around you, and the strong scent of perfume, especially when it is poured on, like the woman in the seat behind us poured it on, can make you feel uneasy in the nose and throat, and in the head as well. The smell was overwhelming, and Gabriela, being sensitive to all things unnatural, like anti-perspirant, lipstick, and makeup and perfume, was really getting worked over real good from the woman in the seat behind us.
She was an overweight older lady wearing a tight, loud, minidress and black pumps. Her flabs were hanging out of the dress. Her jewelry, faux gold and piled on. Her face was distorted through all the makeup, and her perfume, well it was on so strong it made Gabriela want to puke. The woman in the seat behind us, she was a typical traveling Filipina. She was probably a "green card holder," and was returning from the U.S., because only in the U.S. does an ugly Filipina wear so much in excess, in excess to the point that everything, from the faux jewelry, to the black pumps, to the makeup, to the cheap perfume, can be found in any major magazine that advertises ladies cheap health and beauty products. She had a fake Louis Vuitton handbag, and long fake fingernails, and she was reading Cosmopolitan, the magazine for fake women with fake tits. She was the essence of the unstylish Filipina. A recent returnee that buys not out of necessity, but out of the fact that her friends in her barkada purchased the same junk when they had gone abroad. She, the type that would go far out into the desert of California, halfway to Las Vegas, just to shop at the Polo Shop, just because that is where her friends went when they came to the States. She, the type that would buy desert property in Las Vegas if her friends did, just to gain the acceptance of her peers, the same peers who talk behind her back about her philandering husband, or her daughter who has had multiple abortions, or her son, who is always high on Shabu. She, the type who is caught up in the act of catching up, but will never catch up nor will she be the one who sets the standards of the Filipina mind. The material mind that sometimes pervades the Filipina mind. Just to impress the "friends" at the country club or at the mahjong table. She, the woman in the seat behind us.
"Excuse me miss, do you think you can put your seatback forward so I can have a little room to move out of my seat, its very uncomfortable for me and you reclining your seatback has made it more so for me," The woman in the seat behind us said as she moved about, trying to position her bulging body into the minuscule seat. Her movements caused our row of seats to move a little more than a normal plane ride would move a seat.
"I'm sorry miss, but I cannot move my seat upright because it would cause me discomfort. I'm sorry," Gabriela said as she whispered something to the fact as to how this woman had the nerve.
"Miss, I'm asking you nicely, do you think you can move your seatback upright so I can move about a bit, It's very hard for me to position my reading light, and I want to read my magazines," the woman in the seat behind us said as she continued to pursue her goal of getting her way. It was getting a bit interesting, and I wanted to see which of these two very different Filipina women would prevail in getting what they wanted. I was rooting for Gabriela, but the woman in the seat behind us was very persistent. "You know if you were my daughter, I would have taught you some respect for your elders," the woman in the seat behind us said a matter of factly as she finally settled into her seat, a full 15 minutes into what was a one hour flight. "So what, are you saying my parents didn't teach me manners?" Gabriela said as she stood up preparing to get into a verbal confrontation with the woman in the seat behind us.
"Speak for yourself, Puta. have you looked in a mirror lately?" I mean just look at your pathetic self. Look at that bag, and those baduy shoes, where did you go shopping, Baclaran for those shoes? and what about that ugly face, who does your makeup? and where did you get that dress, K Mart?" At this time Pablo came about and tried to break up the verbal abuse. "Excuse me girls, but we are on a plane here and you both need to be considerate of others. Please, miss, and ma'am, let's stop this now," Pablo said as he maneuvered behind me to give him space to move Gabriela's seatback forward. "This is just twenty more minutes flight and soon we'll be on the ground so please, lets work to be considerate of the others flying today." At this point, Pablo got some reinforcements in a stunning flight attendant and the purser. "Diyos ko naman!, ang hirap hirap talaga," Gabriela fumed as she reluctantly settled back into her seat. Pablo had given the woman in the seat behind us what she wanted, and although she was so gaudy and baduy, Pablo was right in doing so.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Ewa of Threes and the Green Sea Turtle
We went to Hawaii for two weeks in August, four days on Kauai and the rest in Manoa Valley, where our family home is. Kauai was a bit to much for me, and as usual, I got dizzy for the first few days and was basically useless. Yes, like riding a bus, I got sick driving the POS rental car as well as driving up to Koke'e, which is all winding roads like Baguio or Big Bear.
Anyway, Kauai is a bit too rural for me and the island is too full of tourists for my taste. Oahu was another story. Jeremy and I paddled out at Ala Moana Bowls and caught some pretty good waves on the first day, while the rest of the surf sessions were at Waiks. As for the surfing, I surfed threes for the most part all the time and decided to just paddle right past Queens and Canoes. While we lived on Oahu, I tended to avoid paddling out to Threes,as it was just too far of a paddle. but on this trip, it became my new favorite wave (Bowls will always be my favorite, but for Waiks, Threes is it). Everytime I surfed it I caught my share of waves, but it was the last night of our vacation that I really caught it good. Around 4:30pm I paddled out to an already crowded lineup at Threes, and having just an 8-oh while everyone else was riding a 9 oh or bigger, I wasn't able to catch much, not to mention the haole surfers who just dropped in, as well as the Tandem Haole kook who didn't know how to share waves, taking off on everything on his tandem board. I just got sick of it. I noticed there was a little right peeler right off the Sheraton Waikiki Hotel, which was about a 30 meter paddle toward Bowls, Ewa side. I decided what the heck, there is no one on it, and I might get lucky. How did I. I proceeded to surf that spot, all by myself for about 2 1/2 hours, catching all the waves I wanted to catch. After a particularly good ride, I then just thought to myself, Why did I leave this beautiful place? I then asked for a sign from God, asking how I can get back to Hawaii. And at that moment, a Hawaiian Green Sea Turtle surfaced right next to me, and as it dived down, a set rolled through, of which I proceeded to catch three waves in a row. At this time it was past 8pm and dark, so I started the long paddle back to shore, praying that a bad sign, like a shark, didn't pop up. So, Jeremy came up with the notion that the three waves equals three more years until we move back.
I can't wait. Next time it will be for good.
Anyway, Kauai is a bit too rural for me and the island is too full of tourists for my taste. Oahu was another story. Jeremy and I paddled out at Ala Moana Bowls and caught some pretty good waves on the first day, while the rest of the surf sessions were at Waiks. As for the surfing, I surfed threes for the most part all the time and decided to just paddle right past Queens and Canoes. While we lived on Oahu, I tended to avoid paddling out to Threes,as it was just too far of a paddle. but on this trip, it became my new favorite wave (Bowls will always be my favorite, but for Waiks, Threes is it). Everytime I surfed it I caught my share of waves, but it was the last night of our vacation that I really caught it good. Around 4:30pm I paddled out to an already crowded lineup at Threes, and having just an 8-oh while everyone else was riding a 9 oh or bigger, I wasn't able to catch much, not to mention the haole surfers who just dropped in, as well as the Tandem Haole kook who didn't know how to share waves, taking off on everything on his tandem board. I just got sick of it. I noticed there was a little right peeler right off the Sheraton Waikiki Hotel, which was about a 30 meter paddle toward Bowls, Ewa side. I decided what the heck, there is no one on it, and I might get lucky. How did I. I proceeded to surf that spot, all by myself for about 2 1/2 hours, catching all the waves I wanted to catch. After a particularly good ride, I then just thought to myself, Why did I leave this beautiful place? I then asked for a sign from God, asking how I can get back to Hawaii. And at that moment, a Hawaiian Green Sea Turtle surfaced right next to me, and as it dived down, a set rolled through, of which I proceeded to catch three waves in a row. At this time it was past 8pm and dark, so I started the long paddle back to shore, praying that a bad sign, like a shark, didn't pop up. So, Jeremy came up with the notion that the three waves equals three more years until we move back.
I can't wait. Next time it will be for good.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Survivor
If you watch the "reality" show, Survivor, my cousin Brad Virata will be on it this season. I can't tell you the outcome of the show or I would have to kill you, but watch it if you like. personally, I would like to see an epsiode of Survivor whereby the cast is dropped off in the middle of Baghdad and given directions to find the WMD and then make their way to Kuwait, but that is another thing.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Not much to say today. . .but
I figured I should at least attempt to update this blog. Went out on the Kuumu kai to try and nail some of the dodo's that have been swimming off the coast, but to no avail, we couldn't find a patty from here to dana point. Actually we did find just one that had a bit of size, but there was a seal on it, so there wouldn't be any dodo's under it. The water has been insanely warm the last few weeks. It was 81 degrees in HB two weeks ago, which is hawaiian water temps. It ahs cooled down considerably though, probably in the mid 60s. The month of July was an absolute furnace on the West coast. It was hot to very hot for about three weeks. We drove up to SanFrancisco twice, once for a funeral, and the second time for an AMD press event, and it was 115 degrees in some places. The funthing though we got to see the Golden gate Bridge from a different angle and even cruised down Lombard street.
The picture below is a picture of the leopard shark that we caught the last time we went fishing. Jeremy hooked it and it was pulling line so he handed off to me and Ibrought it in. It took about thirty minutes to bring it in as it took me around the boat two times. We were fishing in about four feet of water using live sardines. We were hooking these things all afternoon but they kept breaking off the 20lb line. This was one of two we got to the boat. All fished were released except the sand bass and spotted bay bass that wer caught.
The picture below is a picture of the leopard shark that we caught the last time we went fishing. Jeremy hooked it and it was pulling line so he handed off to me and Ibrought it in. It took about thirty minutes to bring it in as it took me around the boat two times. We were fishing in about four feet of water using live sardines. We were hooking these things all afternoon but they kept breaking off the 20lb line. This was one of two we got to the boat. All fished were released except the sand bass and spotted bay bass that wer caught.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Topless woman frolicks in Newport Surf
An interesting event happened in the surf at Blackies Monday morning. While the surf was a miserable 1ft ankle slaps, there was a bit more of a rise in the surf, as a woman in her 20s frolicked in the surf, topless. Yes a genuine topless woman with perky tits hitting the waves. She was in the water for about 15 minutes, frolicking about. Jeremy got to see his first topless woman at Newport, and so did I and a fellow surfer Dave and his friend. What a trip. Now mind you other countries such as France and Brazil are familiar with topless sunbathers, but not conservative OC, and especially not ultra conservative Newport Beach. I then told Jeremy, erroneously, that they only sold bikini bottoms in France and he believed it until that night when we had dinner at Thai Princess. It was such a distraction, that Dave, one of the locals at Newport lost his board to get a better look. She murmured something to him that he didn't repeat, but I know that Dave hardly ever loses his board, and on that day it was next to impossible given the lack of waves. At any rate, we all took a long hard look at the topless woman and we all enjoyed it, despite the crappy surf.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Overseas Filipino Worker
Imagine an OFW gaining support from fellow OFWs and running for president of the Philippines. That might just be the ticket in moving the country forward. How much money do OFWs send back to the Philippines in remittances. Are their remittances the #1 driver of the Philippine economy? How many Filipinos work abroad each year while the Philippines continues its slide backward? Ok here are the statistics
10.7 billion in remittances back to the Philippines, equal to about 12 percent of the country's GDP
9 million Filipinos working abroad, or more than 1 in 10 Filipinos
Three thousand one hundred Filipinos leave the country each day seeking work abroad
2.5 million Filipinos work in the USA
more than 1 million in Saudi Arabia
That is quite a major voting force. There have been rumblings to deny these folks the right to vote in elections. Imagine if one of these overseas foreign workers became popular enough to rally other OFWs to vote for one of their own? And what if that person was elected and had a real agenda, rather than an agenda of corruption ajnd enrichment of the trapos in power? COuld that person turn the country around and reverse the spiral into the abyss of non-factor when it comes to the global ecomony? because that is going to be the case if the country doesnt get its act together, and why not a person who helps to build other countries who can lead the Philippines?
The country is a total joke, it is exporting people to other countries, it has to beg other countries to rescue their people from Lebanon, yet it gladly sends them off, as long as they send their money back to line the coffers of the politicians. I've got Filipino friends who are "caregivers" to the elderly in ritzy newport Beach, NYC, and LA. I know a filipina who is an assistant to the director of Seabiscuit; Countless others work menial jobs here in So. CAL, though others are professionals. Filipinos are fast becoming the mexicans of the world, performing the most menial of jobs to earn money to send to their families. The country sits back while other countries in the region enjoy the fruits of a global economy. I've said it before, but Vietnam will surpass the Philippines economically and will be a new tiger before the Philippines
That is quite a major voting force. There have been rumblings to deny these folks the right to vote in elections. Imagine if one of these overseas foreign workers became popular enough to rally other OFWs to vote for one of their own? And what if that person was elected and had a real agenda, rather than an agenda of corruption ajnd enrichment of the trapos in power? COuld that person turn the country around and reverse the spiral into the abyss of non-factor when it comes to the global ecomony? because that is going to be the case if the country doesnt get its act together, and why not a person who helps to build other countries who can lead the Philippines?
The country is a total joke, it is exporting people to other countries, it has to beg other countries to rescue their people from Lebanon, yet it gladly sends them off, as long as they send their money back to line the coffers of the politicians. I've got Filipino friends who are "caregivers" to the elderly in ritzy newport Beach, NYC, and LA. I know a filipina who is an assistant to the director of Seabiscuit; Countless others work menial jobs here in So. CAL, though others are professionals. Filipinos are fast becoming the mexicans of the world, performing the most menial of jobs to earn money to send to their families. The country sits back while other countries in the region enjoy the fruits of a global economy. I've said it before, but Vietnam will surpass the Philippines economically and will be a new tiger before the Philippines
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Daddy again
It is official. I am going to be a daddy again. The baby is due the first week of March 2007. When my wife took the first and second pregnancy test and it came back positive, I felt, well maybe it was a false positive. Whent the third came back positive, and the fourth was backed up by the OB/GYN, it sunk in that yes, a new addition is coming to the family. Over the years I began to think that my little guys stopped swimming or perhaps, they just swam in circles and no longer swam upstream. I thought this so. And we haven't used any form of birth control in ages, perhaps two total years since Jeremy was born. But God finds a way. Anyone have any name suggestions?
Jovi called me on the drive home from San Francisco, where we went to my cousin Ernest Trias' step dad's funeral. I didn't know that Ernese had such a large extended family, and that his step dad was such a funny guy. I only met Tino a few times over the years since Ernest's mom married him back in 82, around the time Ernest and his sister Marleen moved to the states from the Philippines. I found him to be a funny guy even then, but the photo and video montage that was screened at the reception was testament to that, as was the Eulogy delivered by one of his four (or is it five) sons. The funniest story was about their trip to Yosemite, where his sons convinced the family to let them go fishing in Yosemite, with the ages of the boys ranging from 7 years old to barely 18. And when they asked Tino for permission, Tino asked, "eh, What kind of fish do they catch in Yosemite, mackeral?" I was absolutely ROTFLMAO. It was so funny because his son totally captured the way Tino spoke.
Tino got a US Navy burial, complete with Taps, the folding of the U.S. flag, and everything. He was buried in the same cemetery as my grandfather, who served in World War II with the US Navy at Pearl Harbor. We visited his grave and took pictures with my two boys. I never got to meet my grandfather as he died before I was born.
This marked the first time the boys went to San Francisco, and even though we only got a day to drive around, we did visit Sam Wo, the Golden Gate Bridge, and Ft. Baker Pier, where they were crabbing. The Chinese guy below wanted us to stay and taste the crab they were cooking right on the pier.
We also visited the house my dad first bought in 1958 at 260 Bradford Street. It was a small house, all of 1200 square feet, on a hill, that shared a common wall with the neighbors. The Bernal Heights neighborhood that it is located has been cleaned up considerably since the early 1980s-90s, when it was a somewhat depressed neighborhood. It has cleaned up well thanks to the tech industry that has revitalized the city.
Jovi called me on the drive home from San Francisco, where we went to my cousin Ernest Trias' step dad's funeral. I didn't know that Ernese had such a large extended family, and that his step dad was such a funny guy. I only met Tino a few times over the years since Ernest's mom married him back in 82, around the time Ernest and his sister Marleen moved to the states from the Philippines. I found him to be a funny guy even then, but the photo and video montage that was screened at the reception was testament to that, as was the Eulogy delivered by one of his four (or is it five) sons. The funniest story was about their trip to Yosemite, where his sons convinced the family to let them go fishing in Yosemite, with the ages of the boys ranging from 7 years old to barely 18. And when they asked Tino for permission, Tino asked, "eh, What kind of fish do they catch in Yosemite, mackeral?" I was absolutely ROTFLMAO. It was so funny because his son totally captured the way Tino spoke.
Tino got a US Navy burial, complete with Taps, the folding of the U.S. flag, and everything. He was buried in the same cemetery as my grandfather, who served in World War II with the US Navy at Pearl Harbor. We visited his grave and took pictures with my two boys. I never got to meet my grandfather as he died before I was born.
This marked the first time the boys went to San Francisco, and even though we only got a day to drive around, we did visit Sam Wo, the Golden Gate Bridge, and Ft. Baker Pier, where they were crabbing. The Chinese guy below wanted us to stay and taste the crab they were cooking right on the pier.
We also visited the house my dad first bought in 1958 at 260 Bradford Street. It was a small house, all of 1200 square feet, on a hill, that shared a common wall with the neighbors. The Bernal Heights neighborhood that it is located has been cleaned up considerably since the early 1980s-90s, when it was a somewhat depressed neighborhood. It has cleaned up well thanks to the tech industry that has revitalized the city.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Scary Thought: American Empire
America is desperately trying to mold itself into the image of the Britain of old, where the sun never set on the empire. This time it appears the country will start with Iraq and then march on to any country that it deems contributing to the continual dominance of the world's only super power. Those areas of the world that are seen as unnecessary to America's rise will initially go ignored. Places such as Darfur in the Sudan, where disease and war continue to reduce those populations. But it is these countries where resistance to American hemegony will take root and it will be in these countries where America will bring its next wars. It is already being seen in Iraq, where the USA is building sprawling military complexes, complexes whereby the US military will hunker down and maintain a huge presence for the foreseeable future, to ensure the free flowing of oil to the country. It was never about WMDs, that has proven false, it was never about deposing a dictator, it was always about the oil, and the buildup of the US military in a region that is full of it.
Countries that rely on oil today will suffer, as the US gains a hold and controls the flow of that oil. Countries that have already switched to alternative fuels, such as Alcool in Brazil will not have to worry about the future rationing of oil that will be controlled not by OPEC, but the USA. Venezuela is next. Bring them home? Hell no, Not with Bush III waiting on deck and the Mexican Bush in the dugout.
Countries that rely on oil today will suffer, as the US gains a hold and controls the flow of that oil. Countries that have already switched to alternative fuels, such as Alcool in Brazil will not have to worry about the future rationing of oil that will be controlled not by OPEC, but the USA. Venezuela is next. Bring them home? Hell no, Not with Bush III waiting on deck and the Mexican Bush in the dugout.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Soccer Travails
Jeremy dislocated his wrist at the growth plate last weekend during a soccer tournament in San Bernardino. It was during a big tournament sponsored by the LA Galaxy amd he did it during the first of three games. I suspect it got fractured during a sideways bicycle kick stunt that he pulled off during the game, falling on his wrist, because just a few minutes later, he fell on it and that is when it popped. Tina, the soccer mom who drove us to the game, drove us to the hospital emergency room where we waited for the doctor to snap it back into place. They had to put Jeremy under to perform the operation, and he wasn't too happy about it. I was there for the whole thing and I was a bit scared as well, based on what the nurse told me could happen. Thankfully nothing did, but it was really hard to watch him watch the meds go into his vein and then him slowing going under. The entire procedure to fix his wrist took probably 30 seconds, it was just the waking up part that took long, a whole 15 minutes for him to wake up.
Now he has a cast on his arm. I don't want to see him in an emergency room anymore. It is really scary, on top of the fact that there were all kinds of people in the ER as well. But he had a Dr. and nurse who knew what they weer doing so that was good, and it was a pretty common occurrence. Its the fact that they ahd to put him under with powerful drugs that concerned me the most for a seemingly simple procedure. The only reason why they put him under though because the pain would have been unbearable for him. His season is over though until the Fall. He wants to play in summer tournaments, but I think I'll convince him to wait til the Fall. Also, he won't play in any tournament when his team doesn't have a m,inimum of three reserves, because during the first half of the only game he played in, he was breathing hard, I never saw him run so much, while the other team subbed out three players at a time, so they always had fresh players on the field.
Now he has a cast on his arm. I don't want to see him in an emergency room anymore. It is really scary, on top of the fact that there were all kinds of people in the ER as well. But he had a Dr. and nurse who knew what they weer doing so that was good, and it was a pretty common occurrence. Its the fact that they ahd to put him under with powerful drugs that concerned me the most for a seemingly simple procedure. The only reason why they put him under though because the pain would have been unbearable for him. His season is over though until the Fall. He wants to play in summer tournaments, but I think I'll convince him to wait til the Fall. Also, he won't play in any tournament when his team doesn't have a m,inimum of three reserves, because during the first half of the only game he played in, he was breathing hard, I never saw him run so much, while the other team subbed out three players at a time, so they always had fresh players on the field.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Kodak V570
I've been testing out a new camera from Kodak which features dual lenses on one camera. It is really intersting the way kodak has done it, but its a point and shoot digital camera that has two built in lenses. Accessing the second ultra wide angle lens is automatic. You just hit the zoom /ultra wide button and the camera switches automaticall. And the colors are really good. Here are some pics.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Gillian Virata
Today I had an email conversation with Gillian Virata, daughter of Cesar and Joy Virata. It was really weird, because she sent an email to me, meant for someone else, detailing her plane itinerary from LA to Vegas. I then sent her the following email back:
Hi Gi,
It would be nice to meet you at LAX or Vegas, but I have no idea who you are. You might want to check your email address book so you can inform the Virata that (who) you are really trying to reach. BTW, are you a student at George Washington University? Just curious what you are studying.
John Bautista Virata
She then responded:
Hi John,
Sorry about that.
I finished a mid-career master's degree at GWU in Jan. 2005 in
International Policy and Practice. You write about cameras?
Gillian Virata
Which got me to thinking. Here is this woman in her 40s, who graduated from college in 1976 and writes about such worldy things as The Effects of U.S Sugar Policy
, has two masters degrees from U.S. colleges, andasks me, you write about cameras? Now I am not sure if that is a putdown from some intellectual, but it got me to thinking, what has my writing come down to? Yes I do write about cameras. That is what I do for a living. But at one point in my life, the only thing I liked to write were love letters, and Philippine political topics.
I write about cameras. I went to journalism school to "write about cameras"?
Hi Gi,
It would be nice to meet you at LAX or Vegas, but I have no idea who you are. You might want to check your email address book so you can inform the Virata that (who) you are really trying to reach. BTW, are you a student at George Washington University? Just curious what you are studying.
John Bautista Virata
She then responded:
Hi John,
Sorry about that.
I finished a mid-career master's degree at GWU in Jan. 2005 in
International Policy and Practice. You write about cameras?
Gillian Virata
Which got me to thinking. Here is this woman in her 40s, who graduated from college in 1976 and writes about such worldy things as The Effects of U.S Sugar Policy
, has two masters degrees from U.S. colleges, andasks me, you write about cameras? Now I am not sure if that is a putdown from some intellectual, but it got me to thinking, what has my writing come down to? Yes I do write about cameras. That is what I do for a living. But at one point in my life, the only thing I liked to write were love letters, and Philippine political topics.
I write about cameras. I went to journalism school to "write about cameras"?
Good Surf
We finally got some good surf this past week. I stayed away from Newport because there was a sewage spill a few weeks back and the beaches were closed. Yep, can you believe it? A freakin sewage spill in Newport beach. Really there is no excuse for such a spill, bt alas, we had one right in our own backyard. Som it was stay out of the water, which totally sucks.
Well it cleaned up and thankfully we have some swell in. Yesterday I went before work and caught some pretty decent surf all to myself. That is another rarity. A bunch of lcoals were surfing the second jetty, because at the time that is the only place where the swell angle was hitting the beach. ewport is weird because it gets shadowed by Catalina Island, and when the swell is the wrong direction, Blackie's doesn't break and is totally flat. But if you walk down two jetties, the waves break. So I walked down and initially paddled out to the corner where all the other surfers were vying for the wave that peaked off the rocks. After just a few waves jockying with the other surfers, I paddled over to the other side of the jetty where nobody was surfing. I was the only one out and I was getting waves all to myself. It was really incredible,m and as I looked at the mad crowd on the other side of the rocks, I was saying, suckers.
The next morning, I met up with Dave, one of the local guys who surfs Newport. Dave was telling me that a bunch of the other surfers were watching me catch all those waves all by myself, yet didn't bother to paddle over. I told him I had a blast all by myself. So today, me and Dave and a several others took turns catching waves off the 32nd street jetty. At one point, during a lull, I paddled over to the other side of the pack, and as I was paddling, a macking set wave came in and guess what, I was the only one deep in position to catch it, and I picked it off, in front of Dano, a local shaper who shapes longboards for a lot of Newport regulars. Dano might have been in position had I not been there, but what can he do, I paddled for it and caught it, a killer left that was an a-frame shape. Almost perfect shape. I rode it all the way down the beach, and upon padding out, some of the guys were congratulating me on a good ride. Then I paddled back to my spot off the rocks. I was wondering to myself, should have I paddled over? Hell yes. It was a fair and square ride. I didn't snake anyone and the wave came straight to me. It was the wave of the day no doubt. And not to be too cocky, on another wave, I pearled pretty ahrd, so much that I did a complete 360 underwater and got water in my ears from the thrashing, but that one wave was just da kine.
laters brah
Well it cleaned up and thankfully we have some swell in. Yesterday I went before work and caught some pretty decent surf all to myself. That is another rarity. A bunch of lcoals were surfing the second jetty, because at the time that is the only place where the swell angle was hitting the beach. ewport is weird because it gets shadowed by Catalina Island, and when the swell is the wrong direction, Blackie's doesn't break and is totally flat. But if you walk down two jetties, the waves break. So I walked down and initially paddled out to the corner where all the other surfers were vying for the wave that peaked off the rocks. After just a few waves jockying with the other surfers, I paddled over to the other side of the jetty where nobody was surfing. I was the only one out and I was getting waves all to myself. It was really incredible,m and as I looked at the mad crowd on the other side of the rocks, I was saying, suckers.
The next morning, I met up with Dave, one of the local guys who surfs Newport. Dave was telling me that a bunch of the other surfers were watching me catch all those waves all by myself, yet didn't bother to paddle over. I told him I had a blast all by myself. So today, me and Dave and a several others took turns catching waves off the 32nd street jetty. At one point, during a lull, I paddled over to the other side of the pack, and as I was paddling, a macking set wave came in and guess what, I was the only one deep in position to catch it, and I picked it off, in front of Dano, a local shaper who shapes longboards for a lot of Newport regulars. Dano might have been in position had I not been there, but what can he do, I paddled for it and caught it, a killer left that was an a-frame shape. Almost perfect shape. I rode it all the way down the beach, and upon padding out, some of the guys were congratulating me on a good ride. Then I paddled back to my spot off the rocks. I was wondering to myself, should have I paddled over? Hell yes. It was a fair and square ride. I didn't snake anyone and the wave came straight to me. It was the wave of the day no doubt. And not to be too cocky, on another wave, I pearled pretty ahrd, so much that I did a complete 360 underwater and got water in my ears from the thrashing, but that one wave was just da kine.
laters brah
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Mexican mafia
Not really, but the illegal aliens in the United States have mobilized and marched on May 1, DEMANDING amnesty AND citizenship. Imagine that, they break the law and come here illegally without papers, settle and find jobs, and because they "work", they demand that they become citizens, while other people all over the world can't even get visas to come here or have to wait 15 to 20 years for a relative's petition to be approved so they can come here, yet the mexicans who are here are demanding citizenship?
Picture at left. Since when could only illegals make burritos? I can make a burrito and I ain't even mexican.
That is really galling, but hey, they are mexicans and many of them can be like that.
When they boycotted school and work on May 1, the freeways in Southern California were traffic free, so I am imagining that their marching that day in LA and elsewhere throughout the USA unclogged the freeways. So is all the traffic caused by illegal immigrants who shouldn't be here in the first place? Makes you wonder. All I know it was smooth sailing on the 405.
They claim that they do jobs that ordinary Americans won't do, but do they do their jobs correctly? Would you want your house built by illegal mexican labor? American business is ADDICTED to Cheap labor. That million dollar house in Orange County was probably built by illegal Mexican labor. The skilled Americans won't work for as cheap as the unskilled mexicans in construction any more.
My friend Mike has been doing construction since he dropped out of high school, and he has witnessed how the Mexicans come in and just wreaked havoc on the carpenter's trade. So much for carpenter unions. It became so bad for him that he had to start his own business, yet guess what, he employs illegals as well, because they are cheap. It is the same that happened during the 20s and 30s when the Filipinos were brought over to America to work the fields. Once they organized and demanded better wages and work conditions, the farm owners just moved to Mexicans who were cheaper. So now that the mexicans are here doing the jobs that "Americans" won't do, what immigrant group will be next? The Africans from Darfur? The Indians? The Chinese?
This country is a nation of laws, and the illegal immigrants don't have the right to demand citizenship or Amnesty, because they jumped the fence to get here, ahead of all the other potential immigrants, to be here. They should wait in line along with all the rest of the world who wants to live in American and become citizens. Thi isn't a racist issue. It is an issue about the rule of law. Citizenship is earned, it can't be demanded.
Picture at left. Since when could only illegals make burritos? I can make a burrito and I ain't even mexican.
That is really galling, but hey, they are mexicans and many of them can be like that.
When they boycotted school and work on May 1, the freeways in Southern California were traffic free, so I am imagining that their marching that day in LA and elsewhere throughout the USA unclogged the freeways. So is all the traffic caused by illegal immigrants who shouldn't be here in the first place? Makes you wonder. All I know it was smooth sailing on the 405.
They claim that they do jobs that ordinary Americans won't do, but do they do their jobs correctly? Would you want your house built by illegal mexican labor? American business is ADDICTED to Cheap labor. That million dollar house in Orange County was probably built by illegal Mexican labor. The skilled Americans won't work for as cheap as the unskilled mexicans in construction any more.
My friend Mike has been doing construction since he dropped out of high school, and he has witnessed how the Mexicans come in and just wreaked havoc on the carpenter's trade. So much for carpenter unions. It became so bad for him that he had to start his own business, yet guess what, he employs illegals as well, because they are cheap. It is the same that happened during the 20s and 30s when the Filipinos were brought over to America to work the fields. Once they organized and demanded better wages and work conditions, the farm owners just moved to Mexicans who were cheaper. So now that the mexicans are here doing the jobs that "Americans" won't do, what immigrant group will be next? The Africans from Darfur? The Indians? The Chinese?
This country is a nation of laws, and the illegal immigrants don't have the right to demand citizenship or Amnesty, because they jumped the fence to get here, ahead of all the other potential immigrants, to be here. They should wait in line along with all the rest of the world who wants to live in American and become citizens. Thi isn't a racist issue. It is an issue about the rule of law. Citizenship is earned, it can't be demanded.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Fernando Q. Kabigting
Last night I met Fernando Q. Kabigting, a painter from the Philippines who gained moderate following in Manila and a bigger following in Negros. I first heard of Kabigting back in 1995 when my mother in law commissioned him to paint the wedding portrait of my wife and me. He worked off a picture of us, as he lived in Flushing, New York City. I was first awestruck by his attention to detail. The lines were so true, he even painted the bend in the glasses I was wearing in the picture, a bend that occurred years before. He gained some moderate fame in the Philippines, having pioneered painting on antique Batya bowls from the late 1800s to the early 1920s that Filipinos used to wash their clothes in. In the 1970s, he had a collection of 13 Batya bowls showcasing various Philippine scenes on display at the Rustan's departments stores, scenes of woman playing guitar, children in the cane fields, in the classic Spanish style balconies. He wasn't sure what would become of them until the owner of Rustan's notified him that the then first lady, Imelda Marcos, had came and picked up all of them. On top of this, he was surprised that Imelda, known as the master of mine, mine mine, paid for all of them.
I had always wanted to know what this man was like. My father in law's late wife had a collection of Kabigtings in her apartment in Los Angeles. They were water colors. I always thought that perhaps she had water colors because the oils and acrylics that he worked with, including our painting created in 1995 were considerably more expensive. She had informed me, erroneously, because of a stroke that paralyzed him in 1999, that he didn't have full control of his painting hand and arm, and the watercolors were easier for him to work with. Only when I met him did I find out how wrong she was. Not only was he still painting with acrylics, in addition to his water colors, of which he can do one water color painting each day, but he was creating his art with his left hand now, as his right hand and arm, his first painting arm, is totally paralyzed. On top of all this, his remaining good eye cannot focus, so he must paint virtually with his nose to the canvas.
We ate dinner at la Taverna Kyclades, a Greek restaurant in Astoria, Queens that is hugely popular with New Yorkers, many whom travel from Manhattan just to sample the restarant's excellent Greek food. Kabingting, who invited 10 of us to dinner at Kyclades, sat across from me. The stroke that felled half his body, but not his mind, caused deafness in his left ear and blindness in his left eye, was very quiet at the dinner table, speaking mostly to my father in law to his left side and his wife, Menchu, to his right. Only later did Fernando explain to me that because of the stroke, his hearing is limited to his good ear, and he wasn't trying to snub me at the dinner table. This was after dinner when we went to his home to take coffee and dessert. Because I am not a coffee drinker and had eaten enough sweets for the day, I spent the great majority of my time conversing with Fernando on his artwork, which is absolutely spectacular.
Because it is often rare to meet the artist, I was absolutely awestruck by this man. Half his body is crippled, yet his mind, which is free to visualize his art, is as sharp as a tack. Kabigting will become big. It is really an honor to have met this man who overcame a serious debilitation and continues to inspire all those who meet him.
I had always wanted to know what this man was like. My father in law's late wife had a collection of Kabigtings in her apartment in Los Angeles. They were water colors. I always thought that perhaps she had water colors because the oils and acrylics that he worked with, including our painting created in 1995 were considerably more expensive. She had informed me, erroneously, because of a stroke that paralyzed him in 1999, that he didn't have full control of his painting hand and arm, and the watercolors were easier for him to work with. Only when I met him did I find out how wrong she was. Not only was he still painting with acrylics, in addition to his water colors, of which he can do one water color painting each day, but he was creating his art with his left hand now, as his right hand and arm, his first painting arm, is totally paralyzed. On top of all this, his remaining good eye cannot focus, so he must paint virtually with his nose to the canvas.
We ate dinner at la Taverna Kyclades, a Greek restaurant in Astoria, Queens that is hugely popular with New Yorkers, many whom travel from Manhattan just to sample the restarant's excellent Greek food. Kabingting, who invited 10 of us to dinner at Kyclades, sat across from me. The stroke that felled half his body, but not his mind, caused deafness in his left ear and blindness in his left eye, was very quiet at the dinner table, speaking mostly to my father in law to his left side and his wife, Menchu, to his right. Only later did Fernando explain to me that because of the stroke, his hearing is limited to his good ear, and he wasn't trying to snub me at the dinner table. This was after dinner when we went to his home to take coffee and dessert. Because I am not a coffee drinker and had eaten enough sweets for the day, I spent the great majority of my time conversing with Fernando on his artwork, which is absolutely spectacular.
Because it is often rare to meet the artist, I was absolutely awestruck by this man. Half his body is crippled, yet his mind, which is free to visualize his art, is as sharp as a tack. Kabigting will become big. It is really an honor to have met this man who overcame a serious debilitation and continues to inspire all those who meet him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
