Oct 6
In a continuing effort to “make your voice heard,” I’m now a regular contributor to my friend Francis’ weekly podcast. Topics are about church, Christ, and life in general. We’re on our second week, which, in startup podcast terms, is considered a great success. (Most aborted podcasts start with “testing testing, is this thing on?”).
For hours worth of me stammering and fragmented thinking, kindly check it out at:
Jun 17
Rough Draft April 17, 2009
Author’s note: I was listening to Damien Jurado’s
“Gillian Was A Horse” as I was writing this.
——–
It’s not supposed to be this cold. At four thirty-five in the afternoon, it’s supposed to be all sunny and bright, not this drab cloudy sky. I’m supposed to stand outside and wait in front of this coffee shop. Why meet here?
My one hand is holding a cup of coffee. The other is in my jacket pocket. The brown jacket over the maroon shirt. Maroon. Who the hell wears a maroon shirt? Oh yeah, me. To work. I didn’t have time to change. The voicemail he left said four-thirty. He was calm and commanding. His usual way.
Twenty minutes ago, I had ordered a medium cup of hazelnut blend to keep me warm. There’s a small table outside for the creamer, sugar, stirrers and napkins. The half-and-half comes in these little brown plastic containers as big as my thumb and topped with foil. I had taken two and poured it into my coffee. As I set one empty cup down, the wind blew it off. After I poured the other cup, I put it into my jacket pocket.
Now the coffee’s almost out. Why is he late?
Finally, I see it. The car pulls up to the curb. A red zone, of all places. It’s a black Toyota Hybrid. I was expecting a limo for this. I had it all played out in my head. Me sitting in the back, him behind the driver, us face to face. This will have to do.
The passenger window opens. It’s him. I toss the empty cup of coffee into the trash and walk over to the car. He sees me.
“Get in.”
I open the door and get in. It’s warm in his car, warm and pristine and sterile. Black leather seats. The floor is a dark gray carpet, absolutely spotless. The dashboard has that touchscreen displaying the energy sharing of the electric battery and the gas, as well as the time, and, on better days, the title of the track being played. My car is never this clean. My car never had a touchscreen either. The passenger window closes.
“Hey,” I say.
Not a word from him. He doesn’t look at me. He looks straight out. Smug sonuvabitch. No wonder she hates him.
His hands are on the wheel. The car doesn’t move. We’re idling at a red zone. Or I think we’re idling. These hybrids don’t make a sound.
“Did you want coffee? I could’ve gotten you some.”
Nothing. He’s had years of practice at this. The silence made a name for him. The silence bought him this car. I put my right hand into my jacket pocket. Nothing but the little cup. I really should stop putting trash in my pockets.
“How much do you make an hour?”
He dives right into the money question. How am I supposed to answer that?
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. Saved by the bell. And with that, he reaches from under his car seat and pulls out a manila envelope, folded into itself. It looks like it’s carrying a little brick.
He hands it to me.
“What’s in it?” I ask.
“What do you think?”
I unfold the envelope and peek inside. It’s a little brick of new hundred-dollar bills.
“Ten thousand,” he says.
“Wow.” For a second, my eyes are wide. For a second.
“Exactly.”
He smiles that stupid Mona Lisa smile. That half-smile that doesn’t convey happiness. No, satisfaction. He’s got me and he knows it.
“What’s it for?”
“You know.”
I stare at the envelope. Ten thousand. That’s the going rate for these things nowadays? Who determines the price, anyway?
“You knew what you got yourself into,” he says, “you knew it was leading up to this.”
It’s too warm and cozy in this car. I’m more focused on how comfortable I am, instead of what he’s saying. Argh, can’t do that. He did this on purpose. He made me stand in the cold. He made me get in his warm car. He put the ten large in my hands. He knows what he’s doing.
“You know what I’m asking you to do, right?”
I know exactly what he’s asking me to do. I can’t let him win this. I need to try. Need to make an effort.
“I can fight this.”
“Fight all you want. I don’t care. Sooner or later, it’s going to end. At least this way, you get to choose the when and the how.”
I stay silent. I need a comeback for this. All I really had was: “I can fight this.” Now that’s gone.
“I get it,” he says, “You want her to be happy. Saps like you. You say you care for her and you want what’s best for her. Well, here are the facts. I’ve cared for her and have known what’s best for her longer than you’ve ever had. Longer than you ever will. And I’m sorry, but what’s best for her, well, it isn’t you.”
I look out the window to the coffee shop. The cold has forced everyone indoors. The curb is empty except for the two of us.
“I spoke too soon,” he says. I look at him.
He continues.
“I’m not sorry.”
He’s good.
I thumb the empty half-and-half cup in my pocket. There’s a drop of milk left in it. It spills into the lining of my pocket. I really should stop putting trash in my pocket. I take the cup of half-and-half and drop it on his car floor.
That summer was remarkable. The beach. Photos under the boardwalk, chasing the waves, making sure the camera didn’t get wet. Blowing off work to drive around two counties. Sleevefacing at the Second Street record store. Midnight dessert runs. Movie marathons on mute, where we provided our own stupid dialogue. Days just spent in bed, studying her eyes, smile, shape, smell, lips. Her hands. Her warmth.
Joyful and promising.
“I need an answer.”
——–
I’m better dressed now. I went home, took a warm shower, and put on some nice clothes. The kind she likes. I’m supposed to meet her here, in front of the record store. One day, we took photos of each other holding up record covers to make it look like we were extensions of the artwork. Sleevefacing.
The sun’s just about setting. The clouds have decided to move around, and now there’s orange and purple painting the sky. The record store’s closed now, and the bars along the street are starting to open up.
There she is. Her car parked right behind mine. She gets out and walks up to me. She’s wearing that dress. The corner is empty except for the two of us.
She smiles. That same smile runs in the family. The stupid Mona Lisa half-grin that screams of satisfaction.
She starts.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Well, how’d it go?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“What did he say?”
“Some shit about how sooner or later it’s gonna end, and at least I get to choose.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Also something about how he’s known what’s best for you longer than I have.”
“Damn.”
“I know.”
“He played his shtick.”
“Yep. He did the silent thing, too. And the me-standing-in-the-cold-while-he-was in-the-car trick.”
“Did you at least try for a comeback?”
“I did. All I had was: ‘I could fight this.’ He then said: ‘Of course you will.’”
“You said that?”
“Yeah. I even offered to get him coffee.”
“He said no?”
“He said no.”
“Thanks for standing up to him.”
“I didn’t.”
“Thanks for trying.”
“I guess.”
“I hate him.”
“I know.”
“Now you see why, right?”
“Yeah.”
“He does that to everyone. It’s not just you. Don’t take it personal.”
“I don’t.”
“I still can’t believe it happened.”
“Me neither.”
“Just like I said it would.”
“Just like you said it would.”
“Is that it?”
She notices my jacket pocket.
“Yeah.”
“You really did it.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I can’t believe he did it.”
“We did it.”
“How much?”
“Ten.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the going rate for these things, huh?”
“I don’t know. It’s not as if you can find the prices online or something.”
A laugh. Then silence.
“So, split even?” she asks.
“Five each.”
“Half-and-half.”
“You noticed.”
“Of course I do.”
“Thanks.”
I take the envelope out. I’ve already wrapped her share in copy paper and wound a rubber band over it. Confident that no one else is looking, I hand it to her.
“How do I know this is equal?” She asks.
“You just do.”
She puts it inside her purse. I fold the envelope back and place it in my pocket. It’s lighter now.
She begins.
“So…”
“So.”
“We had fun, right?”
“I suppose.”
“I had fun.”
“I know.”
“Are you gonna keep the photos?”
“Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.”
“That was a good day.”
“Yeah. You were wearing the same shirt as the girl in the cover, so it was a great photo.”
“Yeah.”
“I might keep that one.”
“Good. That was a good album.”
“Partly. The B-side sucked.”
“I guess so.”
“I mean, how could something that good make way for utter crap?”
“I dunno. It happens. You got your books, right? And the blanket, too?”
“Yeah. You could’ve kept them.”
“Yeah, but you might need those someday.”
“I guess.”
“You know, it was real. At least for a time.”
“I believe you.”
“I’m glad you do. I’m really sorry it didn’t work out.”
“I’m not. We both got something out of it.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you gonna go?”
“I dunno. Doesn’t matter. Maybe abroad. Maybe Vegas.”
“Don’t go to Vegas. Go abroad. You always talked about it.”
“Perhaps. What are you gonna do?”
“I dunno. I haven’t really thought about it.”
“You never do.”
“I should get going.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
We get back into our cars. I wait for her to drive off, then I drive in the opposite direction.
That summer was remarkable. The beach. Photos under the boardwalk, chasing the waves, making sure the camera didn’t get wet. Blowing off work to drive around two counties. Sleevefacing at the Second Street record store. Midnight dessert runs. Movie marathons on mute, where we provided our own stupid dialogue. Days just spent in bed, studying her eyes, smile, shape, smell, lips. Her hands. Her warmth.
Joyful and promising.
- THE END -
May 28
HERE
So I’ve come to better days
As if I stumbled down that way
From some interstitial state
To a comfort I can claim
Yeah, I’ve reached a safer sound
Where the words are more pronounced
And I’m vanquishing this doubt
Of what’s searched for can’t be found
But for all I’ve attained
For all I’ve salvaged
For all I’ve come to hold dear
I still wish you well
I still wish that you were here
So I’m thinking more complete
As if my words were currency
Spent on choice commodities
Like affections and relief
And these people, I presume
More than fill this dim-lit room
They assure me that it’s true:
I am headed somewhere soon
But for all I’ve attained
For all I’ve salvaged
For all I’ve come to hold dear
I still wish you well
I still wish that you were here
So I’m slowly making peace
With the hand that brought me these
Momentary blissful feasts
Coupled with uncertainties
And the moment I accept
That it’s better I forget
Than to force this argument
Then there’s prospect for me yet
But for all I’ve attained
For all I’ve salvaged
For all I’ve come to hold dear
I still wish you well
I still wish that you were here
There’s no getting over you, is there?
There’s no getting over you, is there?
There’s no getting over you, is there?
Apr 15
Show a lot of things happening at once,
Remind everyone of what’s going on (what’s going on?)
And with every shot you show a little improvement
To show it all would take too long
That’s called a montage (montage)
Oh we want montage (montage)And anything that we want to go from just a beginner to a pro,
You need a montage (montage)
Even Rocky had a montage (montage)
“Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.”
My favorite Bible character is King David. I remember back in Sunday school (as both a student and eventually, teacher) we’d have these paper-cutouts of Bible characters we’d stick on feltboard as a means of illustrating whatever story we were learning that week. I could swear David came in two forms: one in shepherd clothes (with the sling! the sling!), the other regaled in kingly costume.My soul is in anguish. How long, O LORD, how long? (6:3)How long, O LORD? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and every day have sorrow in my heart?
How long will my enemy triumph over me? (13:1-2)How long will the wicked, O LORD,
how long will the wicked be jubilant? (94:3)
The LORD has heard my cry for mercy;
the LORD accepts my prayer. (6:9)But I trust in your unfailing love;
my heart rejoices in your salvation. (13:5)When I said, “My foot is slipping,”
your love, O LORD, supported me.
When anxiety was great within me,
your consolation brought joy to my soul. (94:18-19)
It’s not that David was taking back his previous remarks. It’s not that he was trying to “butter up” God with flattery.
I think David’s relationship with God had reached the point where he took both the good with the seemingly bad. That he couldn’t just simply stay impatient and mad at God forever, because he knew that He had always–and always will–come through for him. So David returns to that which comes most naturally to him–praising. Satisfaction. And so the openness and honesty comes full-circle.
To me, those verses say: “There. I’ve said my piece. I’m done complaining. I’ve always known and will always know that You’re good, that You love me, so I’ll get back to trusting in You. I’ll get back to waiting.”
Which is something I end up doing too.
“It just takes some time, little girlYou’re in the middle of the rideEverything, everything will be just fineEverything, everything will be alright, alright.”- Jimmy Eat World
“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.”
“I am fighting the good fight. I am finishing the race. I am keeping the faith.”
Mar 25
So I started a little side project today: I’m posting my Dad’s, Bing Rodrigo, music on YouTube. Check it out here.
My Dad passed away almost eight years ago. One of the last albums he ever cut was a collection of tagalog praise and worship songs produced by my old church. It’s my own personal favorite of his albums, as I have deep personal ties to some of the songs on it.
I was sorting my MP3 collection today and found that album. (Would you believe it? After shucking hundreds of albums-not-mine I actually found even more valuable stuff.)
It was then I realized: I am one of only a few people who actually have these songs on MP3. It would be an absolute shame to let these songs remain hidden.
I’m not reminiscing about days gone by. This isn’t just for my family and friends. It’s for all those people out there who love my Dad’s music (they’re still out there) who would love to hear “new” material, especially those he kept closest to his chest.
I’m posting these, so the songs won’t get lost, and so their Message would still come across.
Here’s a sample. It’s my favorite song of his.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jm3lrgLF4Ng]
Here’s the English translation:
Lord, You are good
No one compares with You
Everything comes from You
You never changeLord, You are good
No one is above You
Your mercy endures forever
It’ll always be gainedI want to praise You
I want to sing to You
No matter what I go through
I will still praise YouI want to praise You
I want to sing to You
No matter what ails me
I will still praise You
Mar 22
Here’s an incomplete list of things I am thankful for.
I”m thankful today for friendships. I don’t have many, but the few that I have are amazing. I am grateful I get to spend lazy Sunday afternoons playing SFIV with them, under cozy domiciles set under gloomy Orange County skies.
I’m thankful that I got to play drums again at church, even for just one song. I’m thankful that I was able to impart a little bit of my drumming wisdom to someone whom I believe has real potential. I’m thankful for the gift of music, and having known at least some people who’ve caught the same bug as I have.
I’m thankful for the music that I do have stored in my hard drives. Music I actually spent money on, that I finally get to listen to and appreciate, instead of trying to listen to music I acquired through other, er, sources.
I’m thankful for the Los Angeles Times and New York Times Sunday crossword puzzles, black and empty squares splayed on newsprint, clues from clever people that sit on the fence between smart and accessible. I’m thankful for my friends who don’t mind me being so engrossed in such a hobby, perhaps because I can still maintain a good conversation and hear everything they say.
… to be continued.
Mar 12
This is one of my favorite blog entries from my MySpace blog. I’m thinking of deleting that profile, but there’s no decent way for me to migrate those entries to WordPress (It’s a MySpace thing.) So, anyway, I’d rather just repost.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Crosswords
Current mood: anxious
Category: Life
Did I ever mention I love crossword puzzles? They’re supposed to be my “thing.” You know, that one thing no one else ever does but you do to hint that you’re cultured or subtle or nuanced? Yeah, that’s the thing. Some people make their own Coldstone recipes. A friend of mine paints her toenails silver and hopes someone will notice. I do crosswords.
There’s nothing like the lure of figuring out words based on clues that you set up yourself and working upwards from there. There’s nothing like knowing pre-set crossword-ese clues like the entrance of a mine being an ADIT (4 down) or that a black and white snack is an OREO (23 across) or that the Taj Mahal is in AGRA (18 across) or that genetic material is always going to be RNA (12 down) and not DNA.
So you could say I’m hooked. One of those necessary evils. It’s been suggested that I should try a new pastime. Like logic games. Like Sudoku.
Thing is, I haven’t done a crossword in over two months. Maybe I was busy. Maybe I thought they made me seem too brainy. Maybe I was so obssessed with winning one in record time that other things were pushed away. Like sanity. Maybe it’s all of those put together. It usually is.
I only mention this because it’s 4 in the morning and I’m stumped at the new one Yahoo has on its Games section. Let me deconstruct what I just said. I’m stuck. On a crossword. At four. In the morning.
So maybe this blog really isn’t about crosswords. There are certain nights that I find myself waking up and being bombarded with a million thoughts and a million doubts and I can’t fall back into sleep. This is one of them. So I find myself turning on my laptop and thinking, “Hey, I haven’t done crosswords in a while. Let’s try one.”
Maybe if I did my “thing” and succeeded I could make better sense of who I am and where I’m headed. Maybe it’s me trying to get back into a state of normalcy. Maybe I’m anxious about what’s to come. Maybe normalcy is not a luxury for me. Maybe I’m not supposed to go back to where I was. Maybe I approach life too much like a crossword, plugging in automated responses and trying to deduce the bigger words in a methodical and obssessive sort of manner.
Whatever the reason, I’m not finishing this crossword today. Not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t. I’ve gone rusty. Maybe I should look for another “thing.” Maybe.
