My group hug



Last week, on the train on my way home from a gift-buying-for-godson trip to Toys R Us, it suddenly hit me how only a few years ago I was somebody else's godchild. I was the one looking forward to presents from my godparents on my birthday and Christmas. How quickly I've crossed over. And then I thought, wait a minute, if I'm old, my parents are even older. Just then a terrifying thought came to me: My dad is 66 years old.



My parents married late. My mom was 35 and my dad was 43 when they had me. When I was in grade school I was jealous of my friends whose parents were in their 30s. By then my dad was 50 and retired. Their dads had nary a gray hair; mine could no longer read without his glasses. But I also noticed how the other, younger parents treated my dad with more respect; age has its virtues. In high school, a lot of my classmates had older parents, too. I spent less time at home because I lived in the dorm. More so in college, when I lived even farther away, and I no longer compared my parents with my friends' parents. During the times I was at home, my dad and I would talk about all sorts of things. I didn't feel the generation gap as much as I did when I was a kid.



There are always certain little reminders, though. My dad does not know how to go online. He takes forever to reply to text messages, and only two, three words at most. (In the Philippines, everyone sends text messages, and fast). Last year, he got his Senior Citizen's card. I remember back in high school, he was helping me out with my Physics problem set. Instead of breezing through my homework, it took me even longer to finish because my dad used a different system of measurement. When he was in college many many years ago, they used the English system (miles per second squared, acres, pounds), but the Philippines converted to the metric system decades ago. That explained the look of amusement on his face when he read my problem sets.



Back to me on the train thinking, in four years, he'll be 70. That to me has always been the age when one is considered to be, undeniably, old. I think at some point, everyone is terrified of the idea of their parents getting old. I haven't seen my dad in two years. Somehow, it's slipped my mind that in the two years that has passed, we've aged. I'm terrified.



{Both Sides Now, Joni Mitchell}

This week's Time Out condensed



- Michael Maniaci, male soprano: "I'm not a countertenor with an identity crisis."

- Ed Norton sings songs from The Nitpicker (new musical) on December 4 at Sin-e.

- from Essential New York - "things you gotta do before you can call yourself a real New Yorker" (ten of 118)

• Compulsively point out locations as you watch Martin Scorsese and Woody Allen movies
  
  
• Be able to cite a favorite Chinese restaurant on Mott Street
  
  
• Sit next to a celebrity at a bar/restaurant and not care
  
  
• Incorporate a lexicon of Yiddish terms into your vocabulary
  
  
• Carry on a conversation with a cabbie without understanding a word he says
  
  
• Have your coffee-cart guy ask where you've been when you miss work
  
  
• Indulge in a classic pastrami on rye
  
  
• Rotate your wardrobe out of storage each season
  
  
• Master the Sidewalk Shuffle
  
  
• Get flashed by a perv
  
  

- Sondre Lerche + Rachel Yamagata at Bowery Ballroom on Nov. 18, Tuesday

- The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers "Middle-Earth Express". Grand Central shuttle at 42nd, 11am-1pm, Nov. 18, Tuesday. "Lord of the Rings groupies and MTA workers invite you to see what a New York City subway car might look like in Middle Earth."

- Make a personalized map of Times Square on your PDA. PDPal.com.



At least my perv (my used to mean the perv who flashed me) was wearing something - really tight, really short shorts in the dead of winter in the middle of The Big K at 34th. Curtain shoppers, beware!



{All Mixed Up, Red House Painters}

And, in the continuing series of shitty blog entries...



Near the church where I play on Sundays, there's this small, low-profile Chinese bakery where I used to go for pork buns. I stopped going a couple of months ago after the time the waitress had a bunch of gauze wrapped around her index finger. I don't know, somehow I just thought, hmm pork buns and bloody fingers, and I grossed myself out. But last Sunday I thought, what the hey. It was really cold and I thought I'd get a hot drink. Anyway, when I was a kid, Horlicks was this chocolate tablet that I'd munch on during recess and it was on the family's grocery list all the time, until it disappeared mid-90s. Or maybe I just stopped going for groceries with my family at about that time. (Ovaltine had their version - Ovaltinees). I've seen Horlicks on the Chinese bakery's menu before and I've always been curious if this is the same Horlicks of my childhood. I was expecting a chocolate malt drink but it turned out to be much like soy milk - light with just the right amount of sweetness. Anyway, after some research, I found out that the company still exists, is based in London and that the product does come in Chocolate. Unfortunately, I don't think they still make the chocolate tablets. But they do claim to help you sleep better.



{Hole in One, Desaparecidos}

Blinking once, twice



I cut my hair. Rather, I got a haircut. I decided to get a simple, no-fuss bob because I'm planning to grow my hair long, but it was getting too mullet-y because of the shag. So, less quality time with my hair dryer now.



I missed the lunar eclipse last night. The weird thing was, I wasn't doing anything at that particular time. I was just sitting on my couch, watching some crap on TV, and I knew beforehand that the eclipse would start at 8:06. But eight o'clock came and went and still I sat on my couch, hypnotized by taco commercials and beer ads.



{As Night As Now, Mates of State}

The obligatory gush post after a show



Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'm being forced to gush. It's just that I don't feel like writing about it. But I reeeeally loved the Death Cab for Cutie/Mates of State show on Monday, and I have to blog about it now, while the feeling's fresh.



I met up with Mikey, Quark, Lia, Marie and Steph - friends from college, some of whom I haven't seen in two years - at Bowery Ballroom. I'd been waiting outside for an hour. The last two college kids who were waiting with me had just scored tickets from a scalper. One anxiously asked, "Is it 21 to enter?" "18," I said, trying my best to sound reassuring. I'm usually quite impatient, and it was a bit cold, and I'd contemplated just dropping everything and going home, but I owed Mikey my ticket, and I've never seen Death Cab ever, or been to a show (my friends here are not the show-watching variety), and I haven't seen those guys in a long time. It was a relief to finally see them walking towards Bowery.



We went in, shed our outerwear (ah, heat, finally), and made our way towards the stage. In a few minutes, Kori and Jason of Mates of State came out and started playing. The first time I heard Mates of State (it was What I Could Stand For), I absolutely loved them. And then I heard A Duel Will Settle This, and liked them a little less. So I never bought any of their albums, just downloaded some MP3s and kind of shoved them to the back of my mind. Well, the other night they did both songs and it was gorgeous. Now I think Duel is amazing. Quark said of the three or so times he's seen Mates of State, that was the first time they did the "It's autumn, love" part in What I Could. During a break in a song or a particularly tricky part, Kori and Jason would look at each other, and they'd be perfectly in synch.



Ben Gibbard was standing in the wings during Mates of State's set. After the last song, the guys from Death Cab brought out their instruments and almost unceremoniously started playing "A Movie Script Ending" and then right after, "We Laugh Indoors." My friends and I let out a happy whoop. We'd been expecting mostly songs from the new album, Transatlanticism. The Photo Album is my personal favorite. It was the CD I constantly played at night, just before going to sleep, when I first moved to New York. They did play most of the songs from Transatlanticism, (or was it all? I don't know, there were so many) but also a couple of songs from each album. The girls (and there were a lot, a number of whom were in love with Ben Gibbard. Including yours truly.) kept calling out "405!" and Chris Walla kept saying "later, later." Quark and Mikey shouted out, "Company calls!!!" And what do you know, they played Company Calls next. And then Mikey shouted, "Company calls epilogue!" The band pretended not to hear him.



Ben and Chris' witty banter elicited kilig (giddy) giggles from the girls. Can't help it, they're funny. They kept picking on a guy who'd been to their show at the Bowery the previous day. Marie, who'd been to the Irving show (on the 22nd) said (of Ben), "Mahal ko siya. Mahal na mahal ko siya. (I love him, I love him very much)" They played a long, satisfying set. Long, because of the heels I was wearing (hey, I came straight from work), and satisfying, because they played probably more than 20 songs. Ben, Chris and Nick Harmer kept switching instruments. For the encore, they played 405 with two basses. Lovely. At the end of their last song, the new drummer Jason threw his drum stick into the crowd and the girls shrieked while alert Mikey caught it.



Afterwards, we hung around while my friends talked to Kori, Chris, Versus'/[+/-] James Baluyut (who seemed nice and down-to-earth) and the guy from Aden. Pictures were snapped, CDs handed over, and phone numbers exchanged. I mostly hung back because of a serious case of dyahe (shy, embarrassed, apprehensive). I did get Chris to sign my CD. I still cringe at the thought.



Outside, while waiting for Ben, we marvelled at the contrast between Death Cab's huge, swanky tour bus and Mates of State's van. It took a few minutes for Kori and Jason to load their instruments into the van while roadies got ready to load bulky equipment into the enormous bus. Zoom in on Jason in the van's driver's seat consulting a huge roadmap. Finally, Ben came out with a huge pizza box and Mikey, Marie, and Quark had their pictures taken with an extremely talented pizza delivery guy while Steph and I hung back.



Lia invited me to Quark's birthday/screening at The Den of Cin the next day. I haven't seen Keka and I felt guilty because I forgot to greet Quark the previous day, so I went. Marie and Steph were there, but I felt a bit out of place among the film school/artsy people. It's funny; I can't even say a complete sentence in Tagalog anymore. My tongue keeps wanting to speak Ilonggo or English. I think in Ilonggo, which I translate into English, and then I speak Tagalog, or at least I try to. It is a strange and circuitous path, and worsens my already bad conversational skills. Start a conversation with me, and I can kill it in a word, like a twisted Name That Tune game. James Baluyut came (he's such a nice guy) and I thought of asking him to sit with us because he was standing alone by the staircase, but he doesn't know me, so I didn't. Thankfully, Marie did.



I loved Keka. It was a terrible copy as it's not out on DVD yet, it's only been released recently. But it was unlike your typical Filipino movie. It was subtitled (Steph said Lia typed up the subtitles, aww), but I thought the dialogue sounded much better in Tagalog. I thought it was groundbreaking in that it appealed to a wide demographic. You have the fans of the individual actors, the people who'd watch it for the love story, the people who'd watch it for the comedy (casting Vhong Navarro was a great idea), the people who'd watch it for the blood and violence (the opening scene already had a dead body in it), the people who'd watch it for the quirky shots and sequences, and Quark's legion of friends. It's also told in the point of view of two people, one of which would be the villain in more conventional flicks. But it works. You find yourself rooting for a four-time murderer. Having seen Lost in Translation not too long ago, one scene in Keka reminded me of the scene where Scarlett Johansson walks in the middle of a crowded street in Japan. In this scene, it's Katya Santos walking in the middle of a crowd in Manila. Eery, no? Two great minds on different continents coming up with a similar shot at almost the same time. Made me miss the Philippines all of a sudden.



{New Year, Death Cab for Cutie}

It's autumn, love



What with Elliott Smith's death and the Yankees' loss (although I didn't know it then), it seems like a pretty good week to be indoors snuggled in the couch in pajamas with one's poison of choice (mine is coffee), but yesterday found me in the city. I woke up early for a morning jog with my cousins but my evil sister left me standing at the bus stop (I thought we were meeting up there). So I ditched them and went to the city. I bought tickets to the 12:00 Kill Bill at Loew's and then went to Virgin to kill time. At the theater, there were only about six other people and during the lulls in the commercials, I could practically hear myself chewing my Raisinets. After the movie, I thought of going to a show as the TKTS booth was just about to open, but I didn't want to miss the Yankees game so I head to 34th (the Gap, H&M [which has an 80s theme going on], Macy's, Aldo, Ann Taylor, the works). I think this is the first time I went around the city by myself. It's refreshing shopping without anyone in tow. Unfortunately, one is also much more prone to getting distracted by pretty shiny things so I didn't have enough time for Soho. On the train home, I thought of getting off at Canal for some yummy wonton soup, but I didn't want to risk missing the game. The cousins invited me to dinner and the game at their house, but I opted to stay home, too tired and not really in want of anybody's company.



The Yankees played an okay game, the Marlins were just... better. After Beckett tagged Posada and as the Marlins were starting to realize that they had won the series, the stadium itself was eerily quiet. We were just so sure we were going to win, weren't we? You have to hand it to them though, winning in six on the other team's turf. Bummer. Erm, I can't believe I'm talking sports.



Sigh. At least I'm watching the Death Cab/Mates of State show tomorrow yipee!



{What I Could Stand For, Mates of State}

By this river



I don't know but lately, for the past three days, I can't seem to get Brian Eno's By This River out of my head. I hated it the first time I heard it (down, down, down, ever falling down...) but now it just seems appropriate for my general mood.



By This River



Here we are stuck by this river

You and I underneath a sky

That's ever falling down down down

Ever falling down





Through the day as if on an ocean

Waiting here always failing to remember

Why we came came came

I wonder why we came





You talk to me as if from a distance

And I reply with impressions chosen

From another time time time

From another time.

Staten Island Ferry Accident Leaves 10 Dead

At Least 34 People Are Injured

By MICHAEL WEISSENSTEIN, AP





NEW YORK (Oct. 15) - A Staten Island ferry slammed into a pier as it was docking Wednesday, killing at least 10 people, tearing off some victims' limbs and reducing the front of the mighty vessel to a shattered mass of wood, glass and steel. At least 34 people were injured.



The ferry pilot, responsible for docking the vessel, fled the scene immediately after the crash, went to his Staten Island home and attempted suicide by slitting his wrists and shooting himself with a pellet gun, a police official told The Associated Press on the condition of anonymity. The pilot was rushed to the same hospital as many of the victims and underwent surgery.



After interviewing another crew member, authorities began investigating whether the pilot was asleep at the wheel as the boat approached land, a law enforcement source told the AP.



The 310-foot ferry, carrying about 1,500 passengers, plowed into the enormous wooden pilings on the Staten Island end of its run from Manhattan, ripping a giant hole in the three-level, bright-orange vessel.



from AOL news

Friendstering



Friendster is the new blog. Even Pisay is on friendster! Like any new trend, everyone in the Philippines is catching on fast to this online networking tool that was supposed to be some kind of dating service. It's fascinating to discover college, high school and even grade school friends. It's also quite addicting, hence the not updating blog and not answering emails.



Aside from friend-hopping, I've also been oscillating between semi-consciousness and consciousness this past week. Had a molar removed last Friday, called in sick, was greatly disappointed by cab-fetching failures so decided to take the train. Unfortunately, the nurse had removed the gauze I was chewing on and, oh yes, also absorbing the blood from the wound. So I may have freaked out a cab driver and a passenger or two. I truly tried to avoid meeting glances from tourists and the like but I thought it would be too weird and unkind not to answer questions or just hop in a cab without telling the driver my destination. You know how your mouth gets all blue or green or some other ridiculous color when you eat this particular kind of candy, it was kind of like that, only red, and it was real blood. The long week-end was spent partly in bed, partly over the sink. I did get to watch Y Tu Mama in between retching. When I went back to work on Tuesday, I stupidly took a damn painkiller (you know, just in case) on an empty stomach. I suppose I was still in some kind of daze or whatever excuse sounds best. (I swear, sometimes I can actually imagine my brain cells dying.) At 9:20, I started turning green. By 11:00, I just couldn't wing it anymore and went up to medical to lie down. My boss called an hour later, and I felt guilty so I went back to my desk only to feel worse. My co-worker brought me soup and ginger ale for lunch, and I tried to feel better to no avail. So I decided to tell my boss I'd like to go home, please. Apparently, I couldn't just leave during work hours without a note from the nurse, so I had to go back up. And oh boy, what a jolly little ride that was on the escalator. The nurse said she couldn't let me go home because I wasn't running a fever or anything like that. Obviously, it didn't matter that I literally felt the room spinning, or that I felt like puking my guts out. She gave me ginger tea and ginger candy and lectured me about the evils of barbiturates and the merits of the Bartt diet. She probably meant well, but I could barely make out what she was saying. I drank so much ginger tea that just as I looked around for the lavatory, I had to run towards it hand over mouth. Of course, afterwards, she called me and prepared to write a note. I said, "Oh you know what, I just threw up and anyway, it's already 3:30, I might as well finish the day."



{Stay Six, Hey Mercedes}

Behold



In addition to buying shoes and clothes for every season, why do women have to buy purses to boot? Why can they never leave the house without a purse? What IS inside those little bags, anyway? Men, behold.



{Say It Ain't So, Juliana Hatfield (covering Weezer)}

Mr. Pointy in New York







I finally got to check out Takashi Murakami's Reverse Double Helix installation at Rockefeller Center last week. Yes, he who has inspired a flood of LV knockoffs in Chinatown.



from rockefellercenter.com:



Murakami's artwork is a splendid fusion of color, cartoon and animation and provides a unique celebration of Japanese and American pop art. The exhibit will feature a series of bronze sculptures, 2 30-foot balloons, 18 flags and specially designed wallpaper flooring for the outdoor Plaza Street in front of 30 Rockefeller Plaza. In addition, public seating, designed by Murakami in the fashion of colorful mushrooms will be positioned along the Plaza Street. This will be Murakami's first outdoor sculpture exhibit in the United States.



When I got there, there were quite a few Asian kids with digicams sitting on the mushroom seats. I stood gazing at the sculptures for 15 minutes just taking in all the colors. Everything looks good enough to eat. And the balloons! So huuuge. The flags are a thoughtful touch. The exhibit in one word: happy. So infectiously giddy and cheery that I have to go back before it's taken away on October 12. With my camera this time.



photo from gothamist.com



{You Stand Here, Dressy Bessy}

The waves roll in



This week-end I went to Atlantic City with a couple of retired senior citizens, and actually managed to have fun. I swore not to spend more than bus fare and lunch. It costs $28 to get to Atlantic City from Port Authority, but they gave out a $16 coupon , which I used to win $25 on the slot machine. So I actually just spent about $10. Not bad, huh? As soon as I won I cashed in and left Caesars to sit on the beach with fellow stingy young people while the others (tourists from California), who could afford to, lost more money. Then we met up with an aunt and waited for her to win (because she always does) so we could get ice cream money.

---

I finally got a new phone (my old one had a water accident) after two weeks of searching for a store that had the cheapest price. The snotty clerk at one store we went to (in front of Century21 in Brooklyn) actually tried to discourage me from buying this particular phone. Me: "Hi. Can we look at the Nokia 6610?" Her: "Is Ericsson." Me, patiently: "No, it's Nokia, it's that one (pointing to box on display)." Her: "Oh, that one just came out three weeks ago (big fat lie). Is colored screen. Is tri-band. (all the while shaking her head, like I couldn't possibly want it)" Me: "Yes I know." Um, hello, aren't you supposed to do your job and try to sell it to me? Anyway, I got one from a store a block away for a hundred dollars less. In the Philippines, most people my age are willing to spend significantly more on their phones than I am. If my old phone hadn't drowned, I'd probably still be mulling over whether to get a tri-band one or not.

---

I like Barsuk



{The New Year, Death Cab for Cutie}

Damn you, yaccs!



For some reason, my comments counter hasn't been working for around two months, a fact that I just discovered today. This explains the whole unintentional snob act.



Cynthia, thanks! I did have a great birthday. And YOU don't look a day over 23. :)



Bodge! Hoy miss na rin kita. I take it you're enjoying medschool very much?

How come I don't do links anymore?



So last week-end's trip to Amagansett was a blast. I never even conceived of setting foot in the Hamptons, where the rich and famous "summer". But my cousin's friend worked for this guy who wasn't using his house (had not in fact been using it much this summer, and is planning to sell it for $5M) and so we hopped on the 8pm LIRR. We arrived in Amagansett at 11:30 pm, put our bags down and slid into our suits literally, and were in the spa by midnight. The warm, calming water melted away travel aches. The more daring ones of us (sis and I) attempted a dip in the supposedly heated pool, but it was just too cold and dinner was waiting.



After dinner we took a tour of the house. Built about 20-30 years ago, the house might be postmodern or art moderne, I'm not too sure about the difference. From the outside, it looks like a cube gone awry. In the living room, a huge sculpture which spins slowly when turned on, hangs from the ceiling. A glass panel looks out onto the pool and the backyard. There are six bedrooms tucked somewhere, a pool table, a room I stumbled into with a huge tub, and skylights everywhere.



We wanted to watch a movie in the cozy AV room with giant pillows and comfy blankets but it took us 30 minutes to figure out how to turn everything on, and by 4 am, we weren't in the mood to catch Leo.



The next day, we had breakfast at the Amagansett Farmer's Market (quaint and charming, very neighborhood-store-like), drove by Seinfeld's house a couple of times (we couldn't see past the gate), and went apple-picking.



I love apple-picking! My dad used to boast about it all the time and I'd look at photos of him and my mom atop apple trees and swear I'd go one day. The orchard that we went to had apples on low trees propped up by trellises. The best ones are the Ginger Gold and Honeycrisp varieties. And the best apples are the ones that drop into your hand when you tug on them gently.



We dropped the apples off at the house, and went shopping for shoes and lunch. Lunch was eaten leisurely by the pool. We had planned to catch the 5:30 trip, but wanted to go about in an unhurried pace. After all, it was supposed to be a getaway, and we weren't quite ready to get into the frantic pace of New York just yet. So we lingered for a bit and drove to Indian Wells beach.



Since most of the summer crowd had gone home, the beach was virtually empty. The clouds were threatening to give out. Most of the people who were there just came to look at the waves. They stayed in their cars and left after a few minutes. I wanted to feel the sand beneath my sneakers and the seaspray, so I walked alone towards the shore. The water was a murky color, and the waves grew taller by the minute. The shoreline disappeared in both directions in a foggy mist. For a moment, I just wanted to feel complete solitude. I felt the pull of the water. The waves, huge and frightening, felt welcoming. For a split second, I understood how some people could walk into the water, to their death, just like that. I felt like staying for a while, but I knew the others were waiting for me in the car and we had to catch the 7pm train.



Back in the house, we sat by the unlit fireplace and had margaritas and pondered how we almost cancelled the trip. The forecast said rain over the week-end, and so we hesitated, but went anyway because summer was ending, and it was a chance of a lifetime, and it was spontaneous, therefore exciting and a bit reckless. Well, fate smiles on hopeful week-enders as it never rained the whole time we were there, and by the time we got to New York, the rain had stopped.



{Koo Koo Koo, Moonpools and Caterpillars}

Never let a door fool you twice



Events of the past week:



5. An attempt to watch the US Open involved the following: huge black ponchos (kind of like unfashionable darths), five hours in a wet, cold stadium, little green men (the kind who get on their hands and knees to wipe the court dry every fifteen minutes), four Capriati points, and overpriced burgers. After the "game" we drowned our sorrows in coconut juice.



4. An Indian wedding where yours truly was the pianist. This is the first wedding I've done and I must say "The Wedding March" is a blast to play! At cocktail hour, we made a beeline for the drinks. Weddings are such fun.



3. A former singer in the Philippines spoke at my cousin's church. His faith was admirable. This guy has had no regular job for 15 years, supporting himself and his wife and kids by singing and speaking about God.



2. My cousin's birthday dinner. Food, wine, and good conversation.



1. Purchase of absolutely fabulous, ridiculously expensive but discounted sunglasses at Century 21, mecca of materialism.

Monday blues



Monday didn't start out so bad. But then it suddenly plummeted. I'm sick of pretending to be stupid to soothe people's egos. I shouldn't have to do that. I have got to start looking for a new job, although I won't be able to leave until next year. Oh well. One day at a time.



On that note, maybe I don't have to pretend. Yesterday, I locked myself in my own apartment. It wouldn't have been so bad if I'd locked myself out, but no. I possess a degree of stupidity far more developed than that. I was trapped in the little receiving area, if you will, between the main front door, and the door leading to the apartments. See, our apartment is on the top/third floor. On the second floor are two doors - the inner door, an easy turn-the-key-in-the-doorknob affair, and the bigger, meaner main door, which requires a special key to open or close. Before one gets to the main door, there is a small, 3x5-foot area, which is where I was when I realized I'd left my keys upstairs. Oh, no big deal, I thought, I'll just run upstairs and get it. It'll be an extra five minutes but I've got time. Unfortunately, I'd only managed to pivot when my left arm slammed the door after me in effect eliminating entry or exit. I calmly examined my purse in the hopes of there being an extra key, but of course I haven't had one made. I paused for five minutes to laugh at myself, until I realized that the people outside could see me because the main door is made of glass reinforced with squiggly iron. I thought I'd wait it out until my sister takes the trash out, which could be at 10 pm or the next morning. I took out a pen from my purse in the hopes of discovering a hidden talent for opening doors with a spring, but I didn't want to destroy the pen. So I thought I'd write a message, using the undestroyed pen, that I could slip under the door to the people in the car outside to ring the doorbell, but it seemed too cheesy. Finally, I started banging the inner door against its frame, hoping to make enough noise to get my sister to come down and investigate. The funny thing was, throughout the whole thing, I never shouted out a hello or a help. I just kept banging the door, like a desperate mime. After about ten minutes, my downstairs neighbor came to my rescue and while flashing him a sheepish grin, I swore to myself I would never ever again curse him (in my mind, of course) for not taking in the mail.



This weekend we went to see Pirates of the Caribbean, featuring the wonderful endearing Johnny Depp whose performance was a scene-stealer. After the movie, we had lots of time left, so we headed over to the Sam Ash music stores and oggled the pianos. My sister got a couple of Christian rock fakebooks, and I found a wonderful little thing called The Acoustic Guitar White Pages, a stand for my guitar, and some picks. Some of the songs in the tab collection were ones I'd tried to play when I got my first guitar in high school, and I was delighted to find Jeff Buckley's Lover, You Should Have Come Over and that I-learned-the-truth-at-seventeen song.



In sports-related events, I watched the Little League World Series championship game yesterday. It's way better than watching the grown-ups and their super serious games. I guess it's different when it's not a matter of livelihood. The team from Japan won against the team from Florida 10-1. When the little Japanese kids ran to bow to the Japanese God of Baseball, it was so beautiful I wish I could take a picture. You know how Amelie collected all these sort of heart-wrenching, inexplicably hopeful, joyous clips? A clip of those kids running to the god of baseball should be there.



{Almondy Many, Poundsign}

Lights out guerilla radio



At about 4:15, when the lights went out, I was calmly sitting at my desk. The generator took over but couldn't support the whole system so the lights were flickering. Co-worker Mark thought they were about to burst into flames or something horrible. I was the only one with a working light and was quite calm, at least until boss Dan said it was a city-wide blackout plus Canada, Detroit, etc. I knew getting home would be a problem, so at 5:00 I was ready to get out of there. Unfortunately, I work for a company that cares more about the business than its employees, so I ended up working overtime until 7:00 to get money out in time for the fed extension. We had to go up to the fourth floor, where they had electricity, so we had to go against the flow of people streaming down from the upper floors. Our floor's deputy fire marshal was holding open the doors to the emergency exits; he had to go home to Westchester, but had to stay to get everyone out.



Outside, a Downtown Alliance guy said I could take the ferry at Pier 11 to get to Bayridge, but I decided to stay with the group walking over the Brooklyn Bridge. That was a good decision because a lot of the people who tried to get on the ferries had to go back and walk over the bridge anyway. Four of us walked down Broadway, and split up with the people from Queens, who decided to walk back to a stop where they could get a bus to midtown. One of my co-workers, Sandy, had a heart condition, so we had to walk at a leisurely pace and stop every couple of minutes.



Earlier that day, we had gone to a class in another building (which I had a hard time looking for, so I had existing blisters from walking all over Lower Manhattan looking for the damn building). It was ironic that we had taken a cab back to the office that morning as Sandy couldn't walk far because of her heart condition, and now she was going to have to walk the mile-long bridge. I normally walk quite fast and it would have taken me about thirty minutes, but I didn't want to split up with my co-workers as I didn't know my way around downtown Brooklyn.



On the bridge, some people were walking fast. A few slow. Some people had bikes and inline skates. The tourists, who had camers with them, had a ball taking pictures. I saw a camera crew or two, and a news chopper. Some people were sitting on the benches, like it was any other hot day in New York. Pier 17, however, was virtually empty. A couple of people were walking on the car part of the bridge. Finally, a van pulled over and picked them up. Mostly, people were calm and just doing what they had to do. Pictures of the blackout here, here and here.



Finally, at about 8:30, we got to the other side, where borough president Marty Markowitz was on a megaphone shouting, "Welcome to Brooklyn! Welcome home! We've been waiting for you since 4:30! Welcome back to the big time!" By that time, it was already dark. Usually, I carry around a flashlight. Of course, that particular day was just one of those days that I decided not to bring it. Walking around in the dark in downtown Brooklyn is not pretty. Plus, that day I had also decided to wear heels and my blisters had tripled in size and number. I almost took off my shoes (I saw two pairs of shoes and a shirt left behind on the bridge. Some people apparently just walked out of their shoes and shed their clothes.), but it was getting dark and I didn't want to risk stepping on broken glass.



My co-workers, who knew I didn't know the area, walked with me until we got to a working payphone. I called my cousin-in-law for directions on which bus I could take. First, we found a bus stop for Sandy. We stood around for a couple of minutes before somebody said the bus didn't have gas. We kept walking until we found a common bus stop. It was getting hard to see the signs. Policemen and a couple of good citizens lit flares, placed them on the road and directed traffic. My co-workers' bus arrived first and I told them to go ahead, because my bus was sure to come in a few minutes.



However, one of them decided to stay behind and wait with me. I reassured her I was going to be fine, but she firmly said, "I am not going to leave you alone in an unfamiliar place." My bus arrived in a few minutes, and I was able to get a good seat and some AC, finally. I had taken the bus going opposite of the direction I actually wanted to go because I figured it would be less crowded and I'd at least be able to get a seat, and as the bus circled back, I saw my co-worker leaning against a post nonchalantly. The sight of her alone and in the dark waiting for a bus at 10 pm got me worried more than the fact that my sister was stuck in an airport somewhere in Chicago. She at least was in a safe, well-lit place, and the last time I had talked to her was watching the news, which showed people walking barefoot over the bridge.



The bus crawled along 3rd Avenue, and the driver called out the stops once in a while, for the benefit of the passengers who couldn't see the signs. The Gowanus Expressway looked like a forest, the cars parked underneath thick concrete branches. I wasn't familiar with the bus route but the person sitting beside me was getting off at the same stop. A lady got on the bus with two women she had picked up on her way down from midtown. One of them was a tourist from Missouri, who was in New York for the first time. Other passengers teamed up to get to a common destination.



I had to cross two avenues to get to my block. On one avenue, a few young volunteers had flares and were directing vehicles and pedestrians. The other was dark and not very busy, so the occasional car zoomed past at quite a fast pace. I held out my phone, hoping the LCD would be visible in the dark, and looked very carefully both ways. I thought, "I haven't gone this far just to get hit by a car."



When I finally got home at 11 pm, some of the neighboors were out on their stoops with candles and lanterns. I opened the door to my apartment and found the flashlight where I had left it that morning. I kicked off my heels, took off my cardigan (I had completely forgotten about my cardigan and still had it on), grabbed my office phone list and some quarters and went out to look for a phone booth. I made a mental note to get one of those old phones that didn't require electricity. At the corner, I started walking towards the right, and almost fell into a ditch. Then I remembered the avenue was being repaired. I walked towards the opposite direction, trying to remember where I had seen a phone booth. I passed by a pub and a guy shouted, "Happy power outage!" and held out his beer. I had, however, spotted a phone and had too much on my mind.



First, I called my co-worker's house (she wasn't home yet) and then my cousin-in-law. He was waiting for my cousin who at last contact was somewhere in Queens. My parents had called from the Philippines, wondering if I had managed to get home. Finally, I called my sister's cellphone, got her voice mail, and figured she had probably caught a plane.



I went back home, didn't feel like dinner, collected candles and flashlights and batteries, set them on the coffee table and prepared to sleep on the living room couch. At about 1 am, my sister got home. Her 5 pm flight was pushed back a couple of times until she was finally able to get on a plane to La Guardia. The airport was dark and empty, but she had no trouble catching a cab and getting home.



The next morning, at about 5:30 am, I got a call from my boss, who had been up all night calling everyone and making sure we all got home safe. She started saying I should get in however I can, and that the company would reimburse expenses. I mildly interjected and said I had the day off. I had scheduled it weeks before, because I had planned a camping trip. I wasn't sure it was going to push through, but I sure wasn't going to work either way.



My cousin Josh, who was driving us, arrived from New Jersey and we were on our merry way at 11. We had to make a couple of stops and convoy with three other vans, so we got to Lake George at about 6 pm. My sister and I had no trouble putting up our tent, which we had tried, and failed, to put up in her room a week ago. Josh had to head back to New Jersey and had to be fed, so people started putting out food, but the people with the paper plates and utensils hadn't arrived yet so we asked around until we found some.



Camp was okay. Well, actually, it was too long a trip to make for too short a time. We had planned to go parasailing but weren't able to, because of a misunderstanding in the schedule. At least we got to go kayaking, which I loved. I remember we did a lot of eating. And I haven't gone camping in a long time, so it was okay. I wish we could have done more stuff, though. We got back yesterday at 7 pm, after seven hours. Rain followed us all the way to Brooklyn. And it wasn't just short drizzles. It was pouring. We made a wrong turn somewhere on I-87, and the GPS led us out of the expressway and back again, so we had to pay toll twice. Josh had been driving eleven hours, and had to drive about three hours more.



Today, I called in sick. But tomorrow, it's back to reality.



{Home, Sean Lennon}

I'll drink my tea in silence



At lunch I visited Alexander Hamilton. Yes I know he's dead, but he lives right by the office. So I decided I'd pay him a visit. I didn't really know who he was; all I know is he's an important person because a) his grave is prominently displayed, b) he has his own little corner and c) his grave has pretty flowers around it. Anyway, I found out he died in a duel; rather, because of a duel. Cool. He's the first person whose grave I've visited who's been in a duel.



{Design and Debris, Sorry about Dresden}

Happy birthday me



I had my birthday dinner early this year as my sister is going on a vacation. Went to a Filipino restaurant (the new Krystal near Elvie's and Manila Garden) near 14th. Had pinakbet (a vegetable dish with squash, eggplants, and anchovy sauce), chicken adobo, liempo (grilled pork belly), daing na bangus (milkfish marinated in vinegar and soy sauce), lumpia (the Filipino version of the eggroll), and crispy pata (deep fried pig's knuckles). It's funny how Filipino food sounds so unappetizing when translated. It's actually not bad; an acquired taste. Most of our cuisine is derived from Spanish cooking, with a good measure of Filipino ingenuity thrown in. For dinner, we had brazo de mercedes so unabashedly sweet I felt like having a good cup of Batangas coffee (Batangas is a province in the Philippines known for its coffee beans), but I didn't know where to get one.



Another good dinner was last Thursday's, with Jenny and her Tita Luz who were in town for a couple of days, at 36 Bar and Barbecue , a Korean barbecue house. Earlier that day I had picked it out randomly from mapquest.com, and it turned out to be a good choice, considering I was working with a very tiny browser window as we aren't allowed to surf in the office. Pshew. The interior was clean and modern, the food was good, and there is a therapeutic appeal to grilling your own food. We had shrimp, fish, pork, and martinis. The crowd was mostly young professionals. Walking along 36th Street we almost missed the place but Tita Luz noticed their logo and how it smartly and subtly disguised 3 and 6. It was great to see Jenny, who is going back to the Philippines after a year-long stint in Japan. It is true that people who spend a considerable amount of time in Japan sooner or later begin to look Japanese.



All right then. I've got some turning 23 to do.



{Happy Birthday, Itchyworms}

Rainy days and Mondays



I think this is the worst Monday I've had in a long time. I was late for work yet again, because of signal problems, both mine and the train's. And then I got intense cramps and didn't feel like having anything but Tylenol with my coffee. At lunch, I wanted hot tea, but got iced. I decided to walk to Battery Park to shake some of the cold off (it was freezing in the office and yet 75 degrees AND humid out). Bad idea. By the time I got to the park, I was melting. I almost crashed into a vendor. He had a cart so I had to back off. I sat by the water where the ferry to the Statue of Liberty docks and watched the tourists, but after about five minutes my skin was hurting from the heat, so I headed back to the office to refreeze. By mid-afternoon, the sky was looking darker by the minute. And suddenly, it was pouring. By five o'clock, I was making plans for dinner in my head but then somebody called with a question and kept me for 15 minutes. Finally, at 5:30, thinking I was free, happily swinging my ridiculously small Totes umbrella, I made my way to the Rector Street station only to find out that the N,R trains weren't running because the tracks were flooded. So I walked another two blocks to Broad Street, where I found out the M train wasn't running. Somewhere between slipping and sliding (I had worn these stupid open-toed heels) and dodging umbrellas, I made the lazy but at that point smart decision to just go back to the bank and get the number for the cab company and take a damn cab to Brooklyn. Unfortunately, no one had a number, but the transport-savvy told me to just take the 4 train to Atlantic Avenue, transfer, and take a cab at Pacific Street, which is what I ended up doing. When I got off at Atlantic, it was complete chaos. People were running in all directions. Somebody had allegedly jumped on the tracks. Trains weren't running. There was a mysterious, smelly, smoky haze and there were puddles of rainwater on the ground. A claustrophobic's worst nightmare. On the third route I take, I find the exit, albeit the wrong one . I stood for five minutes at a street corner, trying desperately to remember where I was. I'd been in that neighborhood before, but I've never been good with directions. And then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a conspicuous car service sign across the highway. The wait for a cab was thirty minutes, but I would take anything at that point. Hey, for someone who still gets lost after having lived in New York (where the streets are numbered and maps are everywhere) for two years, I did pretty good.



{You're No Rock n' Roll Fun, Sleater-Kinney}

Can I buy a vowel?



What if I told you I sent for tickets to Wheel of Fortune? Would you believe me? "Nah," you'd probably say, "That's baloney! Who does that?"



Geeks who watch Wheel of Fortune almost everyday at 7:30, who have played the online game, who bought the Wheel of Fortune game board, that's who!



{The Buick, Moonpools and Caterpillars - And he said aww shucks!}

Recipes



My affection for recipes goes way back. I don't cook much but I've been collecting recipes since, it turns out, grade school. My sister called my mom tonight for a recipe for macaroons, which we thought would be a good dessert to bring to our cousin's upcoming birthday. She wrote the recipe in a familiar green book that I had almost forgotten about, that someone brought all the way from the Philippines - an unusual family heirloom, you might call it. There is nothing special about this book. In fact, it was one of those things that the sugar milling company my father used to work for gives out during anniversaries or some such milestone.



It's a small, green planner for the year 1984 that one of us (my sister or I) had discovered in the back of some old cabinet long after 1984 had passed. I was in grade school, eager to practice writing in script. I would copy out recipes that I thought sounded interesting (Peanut Butter Snowballs, Sunshine Salad, Marvelous Muffins) from magazines, books, even those corny cooking shows. My sister wrote her classmates' then five-digit phone numbers, so I, the little sister, collected as many as I could, too. In the back of the book, there are notes from a Sunday School class and a stern reminder to "Memorize the foll.: 1. All songs 2. All memory verses". There are answers to some kind of quiz: 1. care, race, acre 2. pale, leap, peal 3. name, amen, mean, mane, etc. I had always loved turning words inside out. A page is filled with cliches that would come in handy for those motto sections in slumbooks. "Do your best, God will do the rest." "Lend a hand." And my favorite, "If you drink, you die. If you don't drink, you die. So drink, but moderately, so you live." There are Chinese characters for man, eye, enter, woman, roof, and peace. And then some torn pages, where I had probably written the name of some boy.



Flipping through the book, I smile wistfully as the handwriting gets more legible and the recipes more complicated. Then there's a recipe in my mom's handwriting for cassava cake - short, almost curt. "1 cup cassava, 2 cups coconut milk, butter, sugar, bake 40 min at 350 c." And I cringe, embarrassed to think that she had probably seen my squiggly, childish writing and the recipe for Nutted Three Cheese Log. One of the last recipes I wrote in the book is the one for banana cake, written four - maybe five - years ago, during the summer of bananas, when someone from my dad's farm brought tons of bananas, which ripened faster than we could possibly eat them, and we made banana cake all summer long. "Mix, fold, bake, decorate," I had written, from an Eraserheads' song. Then, a few clippings from newspapers (Fiesta Lengua, Seafood Paella). In the last few pages, my mom had chronicled her blood pressure for about five days and then stopped just like that. The next section of the planner is entitled "Some Basic Tips in Sugar Cane Culture," always present in any book-type thing given out by the sugar company. And then, in the Notes section of the planner, someone (presumably one of our former househelp) had written all of our names (my dad, my mom, my sister, and I) in pretty letters. There's also a slip of paper with a recipe for Sweet and Sour Sauce in my former nanny's handwriting.



Tonight, I discovered a curious little envelope, slipped in between the pages, with my name written on it, 19F, and a date - 10/19/99. Inside I found xrays of my two impacted wisdom teeth, extracted that same year. I remember looking out the window, focusing on a butterfly and yet feeling the dentist tense in exertion. Finding the book tonight has triggered mostly happy memories of a simple, carefree childhood and has made me realize how very different I am and things are now. There are still enough blank pages in the book for a couple of years' worth of recipes, most of which will never be used. Still, I feel a certain fondness for this battered green planner from 1984, with water rings on its cover, that says so much about me.



{Everything Hits At Once, Spoon}

Spooning



Aside from significantly improving my skills at spider solitaire, I've been going to picnics and barbecues for the past two week-ends. Yesterday, I got a break but unfortunately still had to wake up relatively early on a Saturday morning because I had left my phone at work last Friday in a rush to just get out of there. Lately, I've been finding myself looking forward to week-ends too much. This can't be a good sign.



Last Thursday, reeling from the fact that I had just bought a 30-dollar magazine (I didn't know! I was deceived by 6-point font!), I went to Castle Clinton in Battery Park (a nice small venue) to watch Spoon in a free concert. It was great, the crowd was great, the music was great. Also, instead of brawny security guys in black shirts, there were park rangers in uniform (yes, hat, and shorts, too). Cool, huh.



{Something To Look Forward To, Spoon}

Fireworks







I had quite possibly the best fourth of July ever. Of course, I've only celebrated fourth of July twice. No matter. We had dinner at an Indian restaurant in Brooklyn Heights. I didn't have vindaloo, but I just have to write that word down because it's lovely. My cousin's friend, whose building is right by the water, graciously brought us up to the roof, where we had a great view and front row seats to the fireworks. It was beautiful, worth the heat and the wait. Everybody oohed and aahed in all the right moments. I climbed up to a cement ledge and imagined it was just me and the fireworks. Definitely better than last year's.



{A Summer Song, Chad and Jeremy}

Cabbies



This morning, as I got into a cab, the driver said, "Good morning. Where are we off to today? If you would like a copy of The New York Post, you're welcome to take this one. I've already absorbed all the information that a curiosity-seeker could possibly desire." He then proceeded to tell me, in very descriptive words, that Manhattan was going to be crowded today, because of the Gay Pride Parade, and how as a student, he used to go out of the laboratory to watch the parade of "exuberant, fun, sprightly" people. It reminded me of another interesting cabby who brought us home from Grand Central a few months back. My cousin was carrying a guitar, and when he asked about it, we told him we were a travelling band, that all of us in the family played instruments, and that we had just come from a gig. Of course, it was all an outrageous lie. And so he tells us that he likes country music, and can we sing "Home on the Range" for him? No brave soul would, and so he said, "All right, maybe you don't know that song. It goes like this." And then he proceeded to sing with a rich voice that filled the tiny cab. It turns out he was an opera singer, and had been to the Philippines as a guest of Imelda Marcos. I tell you, there is nothing like driving across the Brooklyn Bridge at night with a cabby singing songs from "Carmen".



{Eleven to Your Seven, Hey Mercedes}

Flight



Yesterday, while slicing a melon, I looked out the window and saw four fighter planes.



{Que Shiraz, Hey Mercedes}

Discovering



Number of books bought at Borders since it opened: 6

Number of magazines bought: 6

Number of cookbooks bought: 2

Lunch hours spent browsing: 5

Hours spent in graphic design section: 3

Number of graphic novels read in store (woohoo! because they're so damn expensive!): 2

Number of magazines read in store: 5

Number of times head was hit by falling book: 1



I love that they opened a bookstore right by my office building but I hate that I'm there all the time. Apparently, so is everyone. I brave the rush hours, the long lines, the narrow aisles, the cashier who asks me the same question everyday (would you like to receive coupons in the mail?) because they've got a great selection. I got two cookbooks and a Far Side book for $6 each, plus a nice, hardbound copy of Tale of Genji, which I've been looking for forever. Monday, not surprisingly, dozens of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix for the taking (in exchange for $20).



Due to a strong urge to take good advantage of the cookbooks, I've been visiting the fruit and vegetable stand down the block quite frequently. I buy the ingredients for the day's recipe and take note of possible vegetables or fruits I can use for the next day's dinner. Today, the artichokes and baby potatoes seemed to be beckoning. (Did you know there are at least five kinds of pears?) So far, I've made lemon and garlic chicken, beef with a kind of spaghetti-like mushroom sauce, stir-fry pork chops, and calamari. As a child, I was a very picky eater (I'd have rice with liver spread for dinner, and I could never really eat a banana without cheese), but one of the things they could get me to eat and actually enjoy was calamari. Unfortunately, no one ever taught me how to cook squid. Well, no one ever taught me how to cook, period. So I have to make do with step-by-step recipe cooking. I'm not very good, and sometimes it doesn't taste quite right but I've sworn to just keep trying until I can cook without my head buried in a cookbook.



Last Saturday, I had lunch with my old college housemate Master, her sister, and her sister's husband. She was the only one taking her masters in a house of undergrads, so we called her Master, and the nickname stuck. Master was the one who remembered to pay the bills and the rent. She was the responsible one who sort of pulled everyone together. It was great to see them again; I had met her sister about five years ago. They were in town to watch a show and had an hour to spare. She's scheduled to leave for the Philippines tomorrow, having spent six months in Rock Island for an exchange program. We talked about old roommates, and where they were, and the apartments we had lived in. It brought back memories so vivid sometimes I still can't believe I've been out of school for two years.



{All You Get, The Red Hot Valentines}

Twisting the truth



Right now, where I'd really like to be is in a Death Cab for Cutie song, driving down the 405 to a brownstone up three flights of stairs or in Coney Island at closing time.



{Photobooth, Death Cab for Cutie}

Mundane



I read a lot of people's blogs. Mostly, I don't let them know I read their stuff because I'm just horribly shy, even online. I almost never comment or tag, and I link sparingly. But I just thought to myself today, oh what the heck. So I was reading her blog and I chanced upon an entry about Lolita that reminded me of something that happened at work. I was reading the book during lunch hour and my officemate asked, "What are you reading?" "Lolita." "Is it a love story?" Afer a long pause debating on whether to bring pedophilia into the conversation and deciding on the negative, I said, "Um, kind of." My sister and I just about killed ourselves laughing about that one.



Which reminds me. I had a fight with my sister (We always tend to have a fight when we do the laundry.) so I'm locking myself in the computer room with a TV dinner to avoid having to sit with her on the couch. Those Stouffer's things are amazing. Of course some of those pop-in-the-microwave meals taste horrible and are stuffed with sodium, but come on, if you're too lazy to cook, you don't really have a right to complain.



I got this link from cheesedip and I've spent more or the less the past hour looking over Toby Morris' personal page and my absolute favorites are the ones of Jesus, Washington, and Lincoln and the two Egyptian guys pretending to be mummies.



Today, I am sleeping at 10 o'clock (and am already late) because tomorrow, tomorrow I'm waking up at 6 a.m. to go to the gym! I met with my personal trainer (I never thought I'd one day say that word) yesterday, and today I told her I'm meeting with her for the last time next Saturday because I can't afford any more of this personal trainer nonsense (I didn't tell her that last bit, though). This is totally out of character for me (and thus I find the whole thing somewhat funny) and I'm actually terrified at the idea of being toned (ew!) but I thought it would be good for the huffing and puffing on subway transfers and the wimpiness. And also it would force me to wake up earlier and maybe I'll finally be able to get to work on time.



Wish me luck!



{When the Wind Blows, Dear Nora}

Lest anyone think it actually works



I did not cry my way to a bigger paycheck, and certainly not during my review. I think it was really just ironic timing.



{Nothing Better, Postal Service}

Love's equation



n² - n + 2 = x, where n is the number of variables and x is the number of possible outcomes. Two variables equals four possible outcomes, three variables equals eight outcomes, and so on. So, for instance, if there are two factors you are considering in finding a mate, say, intellect and um, height, the possible outcomes would be: 1) tall and smart, 2) tall and dumb, 3) short and smart, and 4) short and dumb. But of course, no one really only thinks of two factors. And yet the number of possible outcomes increases exponentially as one picks up more factors along the way (hmm, he should definitely know how to play the cello, and a dog. he should have a dog...). By the way, I didn't just come up with all these in my spare time, it's just one of the interesting ideas in Deborah Copaken Kogan's Shutterbabe, which is an excellent book about, among other things, photography, war, parenthood. She explains it so much better, too.



In other news, a teary outburst in front of my boss last week, because, you know, I am just so professional and held together. And this week, a raise! a raise! Yes, I cried my way to a bigger paycheck. Okay, I actually had my annual review, which had already been pushed back three months, and the raise comes up to just a few dollars per paycheck. Needless to say, I am thrilled.



{Every Time I Try, That Dog}

Eating out



is all I seem to be doing lately. Thursday was wonton at Chinatown. Friday was Virgil's with Jeline, her Tita Luz, and my sister. Sunday was Vietnamese. Saturday was spent with Jeline, Marie and Steph (who I just met) walking around. We ended up in this Malaysian restaurant in Chinatown (again!) It was really nice seeing them and finding out what they're up to. Jeline is on a plane to Japan this very moment to visit her sister, Marie is in film school, and Steph goes to NYU. There are always mixed feelings of nostalgia and excitement when you see people you haven't seen in a long time. A forgotten phrase or word, the mere mention of a place or person turns back time for a moment.

--

Jeline gave me a copy of her brother's EP, Spirit of the Stairway, and I can't wait for Indio I to come out with an album already!



{M.O.T.O., NRQ}

I'm sorry I was cranky the other day



Here's that riveting Honda ad.



{Mascot, Ciudad}

Frankly



I don't appreciate having to line up for 25 minutes for my regular fruit shake when I've only got half an hour for lunch. Where were all these people in the dead of winter when I shivered in my slacks and trudged through snow because I take my being a loyal customer seriously? (Plus, the fruit lady puts extra fruit on top of my shake) Jeez. Well, it's going to rain tomorrow, so all of you people in my fruit line better stay in and eat at your desks; you might get wet.



{Natural Anthem, Postal Service}

Kinda shoulda sorta



1. Easter week-end = hotel + gift shop-bought swimsuit + first barbecue of the season + walking across the railroad tracks at South Amboy.



2. If you aren't already all perky-chipper-spring-like, this will cheer you up to no end. (Trust me on this.)



3. I finally saw all of Seven Samurai the other night. I watched it once in college during a finals night and fell asleep somewhere in the recruitment process. Well, I was an idiot because it is an excellent film, and no one should ever have to fall asleep in the middle of watching Seven Samurai.



4. Tonight's dinner: Shrimp (It's amazing how quick you can cook shrimp. You just have to literally dip them in boiling water with a pinch of salt), and the eternal mushrooms with garlic and olive oil. For dessert, my co-worker Mahendran's (whose wonderful three-syllable Indian name with a rolling R has been shortened to the vanilla "Moe") chocolate bar from Germany. Mmmhmm. The Germans make pretty good chocolate.



5. It really is no wonder everyone's raving about the Postal Service. The wistful, sometimes dreamy music and electronic beats are oddly infectious in an endearing kind of way. "Sleeping In", my instant favorite, has a shameless 80's feel to it. Come to think of it, their synthesizer-infused music may very well be 80's-inspired. Although I am a staunch Death Cab for Cutie fan, I did try to be more objective, to no avail, as I am now in love with Postal Service as well.



{Sleeping In, Postal Service} - Don't wake me, I'm planning on sleeping in.

Clouds got in my way



Suddenly, I'm seized by a strong urge to get my life in order. It's 2 am and I'm balancing my checkbook.



{Both Sides Now, Joni Mitchell} - I really don't know life at all.

A girl is a verb



The apartment still smells of salmon a little bit. I've been lighting incense like crazy and we opened the windows, so it's been better. We had the cousins over for dinner. Had mushrooms with garlic, salmon and swordfish, stuffed peppers. Ten minutes before they arrived, I had to run to the corner to get dessert - black forest cake - from the little French pastry shop. It's wonderful having everything so close. I've a newfound interest in cooking, usually involving mushrooms and bacon.There's a thrift shop a few blocks away that we've been frequenting, and where most of our "new" furniture comes from. They have really good, sturdy pieces though. Incidentally, I'm also very, very broke.



A friend from high school visited some weeks ago. Mario was my seatmate. He and I and the other guy in our row called ourselves M Cubed because our names all start with M, and I was M sub 1 and he was M sub 2. God. Our Science teacher had a soft, soothing voice and I'd usually sleep and ask Mario to wake me up when there were new notes on the board. So I was very glad when he emailed me and said he was going to be in Rhode Island for a month (He's doing experiments for a study on tropical diseases. How cool is that?) and that he was going to spend a week-end in New York. So we went to Madame Tussaud's, had dinner at our favorite Japanese restaurant in Chinatown, and watched Rent, as much as we could cram into a day. After the show, we just stood in the middle of Times Square and basked in the light of the signs.



I didn't like Rent as much as I expected to. I found the plot a little disjointed. I didn't like the set too much. I thought some of the songs didn't quite hit it. I thought the characters were charming, though. I can see how it was such a breakthrough when it opened back in '96. Jonathan Larson, who died just days before his show opened takes controversial topics - drugs, sex, homosexuality, AIDS, not your typical Broadway show theme - and talks about them through the mouths of relatable characters. By the way, Taye Diggs seems to be coming up a lot lately. He was the original Benny in Rent, I saw Chicago a few weeks ago where he played the bandleader, and I just saw Go again, where he plays Simon's (one of the main characters) friend.



I just read from Ramon's blog that Leslie Cheung killed himself. He played Tony Leung's lover in Happy Together. And I just happen to have rented Happy Together (which I haven't seen) and now I'm dying to watch it eventhough it's 1 am and I was planning to call friends up in the Philippines. Oh well. I guess I can pay off my sleep debt tomorrow.



{Girl, Frente}

Salam



lives in Baghdad.



{Rudderless, Lemonheads}

Moving



It's that time of the year. Over the last ten years, I don't know how many times I've moved. I thought I'd count today, for the record. The first time I ever lived away from home was ten years ago. I was twelve years old, scared and naive, but an opportunity I just couldn't miss required me to live in another city. I remember being in the hotel room with my dad and being excited and sad and scared at the same time. For a few months, I lived in a room in a Girls Scouts headquarters. The room was actually for visiting Girls Scouts officers from out of town for whenever they had conferences or meetings but they let me and my roommate have it for as long as we wanted. She eventually left, and for a month or two, I lived alone. I felt all smug and independent. I'd go to the local mall and stay there until closing hours. On week-ends I'd go swimming and grocery shopping by myself.



My parents were worried about me being alone, so I had to move in with the rest of the kids in my school, most of whom were staying in my school's temporary dormitory. The dorm, which was newly constructed, was supposed to be an orphanage. My school's real dorm was still under construction. When I first moved in, I slept in the lower bunk of a double deck, with my suitcase at the foot of my bed. We all realized this was no way to live, so I moved to another room with three other girls, where I got the top bunk. It was great. I had never really lived in a dormitory before, and in the beginning it felt a little strange having to share a bathroom or to actually see your classmates twenty-four hours a day. It had its good moments, though - like the Friday nights we'd stay up late, or the watermelon-eating contests, or the long, extended dinners.



The next year, the real dormitory was completed. My room was on the second floor. The boys' dorm was across from ours and at night, they'd use cut-out letters and flashlights to project sappy messages on the wall from their balcony. Every year, we changed rooms. Packing and unpacking became a routine every summer. On my last year, I had amassed boxes and boxes of stuff, some of which still remain unopened to this day.



For college, I moved even farther away. During my freshman year, I stayed in a "boarding house" - half-dorm, half-apartment - with a crotchety old landlord. The next year, the other occupants and I, disgusted with living conditions (curfews, limited phone use, subpar fodder, etc.), moved out and in to our own little house. It was a pretty little two-storey house, with three rooms, two bathrooms, a small kitchen, a huge dining-slash-living room, perfect for the seven of us. My roommate and I had the smallest room in the previous house, so we got the best room.



In the middle of our second year there, the landlady suddenly kicked us out because her son needed the place. Never mind that we loved it there, or that it was perfect for us. We found ourselves walking along the avenue in front of the university at 8pm, looking for an apartment. What we found was unexpected and we couldn't believe our luck. It was a huge apartment - two floors, enormous living room, garage, skylights - that the owner kept as a sort of life-sized toyhouse for his kids. Unfortunately, it was only available for a few months. So we moved yet again into what was probably the worst place I had ever lived in. It was practically miniature. The five of us (by then I only had four roommates) slept in one room. We studied, or at least tried to, in the balcony. The "kitchen" had a maximum occupancy capacity of three people. We couldn't close the door to our "computer room".



After graduation, I moved back to my parents' house for five months to experience bumhood in its purest essence. When I turned twenty-one I moved to New York, first living with my cousins and my sister in a two-bedroom apartment. Last year, we moved into this dump that we live in now, the one that seemed perfect when we first saw it. It just gets worse every day. The sun room, that was supposed to be the perfect hangout for summer, has a leaking roof. On Sundays, our neighbors play music so loud the wall vibrates. Our basement got broken into a few months ago. And so on. So, when our lease ended, we weren't exactly sad. Well, we were ecstatic. Since last month, we've looked at quite a few apartments, some of which were no more than boxes with two holes cut out for a door and a window. The apartment that we found is a very lucky find, and my sister and I frequently find ourselves stopping in the middle of doing something - such as reading, eating, sleeping - to marvel at our good fortune.



After all the moving around, I still haven't learned my lesson. I still wait until the last minute to finish packing. I still mix different things in a single box. Well, first of all, I never buy enough boxes. Something tells me it will always be this way - the slow lazy days before packing, the frenzied, almost panicky dumping into boxes on the day before the move, and the stressful move itself. Buildup, climax, denoument. Someday, I'll have to stay put, to know corners and crannies for more than a year. But not now.



{Soon, Moonpools and Caterpillars}

Overheard



An old lady, stooping, leaning heavily on her cane, says to her grandson, young and strong, carrying bags of groceries, "Mike, it's heavy. Maybe I can take one." I don't know, but it just broke my heart.



{Mad World, Tears for Fears}

I've got it all figured out.



After a long but happy day at my job as a marketing consultant, I'm going to drive home to my apartment in Japan in my black Chrysler PT Cruiser straight into Ugly Sullen Boy's arms. Although I think it would really be much more interesting driving home to my mansion in Paris in a red chopper from a gig because, you know, I'm a rockstar, straight into Donnie Darko (and by this of course I mean Jake Gyllenhaal)'s arms, while our two kids are sleeping in their rooms (and by this of course I mean mansions). Remember when we were kids?



{The New Pollution, Beck}

I (heart) my new sneakers!

This week:

1. Got not one but two disaster haircuts, the end result of which is me looking like a twelve-year-old Japanese boy, not that I know how twelve-year-old boys look in Japan, but I imagine we'd have similar silhouettes.

2. Spent Valentine's Day/my sister's birthday dinner with friends and family. We were late for our reservation and didn't actually get to eat until midnight, but had a lovely time.

3. In memory of productive Saturdays which I used to have a lot of (well not A LOT a lot but you know what I mean), I had one yesterday. Went apartment hunting and saw quite a few. Found one that seemed okay and within budget.

4. Plodded through eight miles of books and found a cheap copy of Lolita and a Vonnegut book.

5. Saw Chicago. And loved it.

6. And the true purpose of this entry which is of course to show off my latest impulse purchase. (I was actually looking for low-profile black snow boots [which I found and will test tomorrow]) But oh Lordy, they're so cute.



{Lines in the Suit, Spoon}

Dude.



Looking for porn? Right this way, s'il vous plait.



{Fine, The Cardigans} - a backseat sofa in the dark...

Goddamn right, it's a beautiful day



The Eels say it so much better than I can. And I'm not going to let ugly sullen things ruin it.

If you're a smart president, say nu-cle-ar



I just saw CQ and the 60s music soundtrack is still stuck in my head. My sis said the first unibrow she ever saw was on Roman Coppola. We were surprised to learn it's his first full-length film. (And he got Cyrano de Bergerac to be in it ?!??) Yeah, well, on second thought, we weren't that surprised.



Totally unrelated entry title, I know, but I just had to write it.



{Dragonfly, Mellow}

Shuttle



I woke up this morning to extensive news coverage of the space shuttle Columbia breaking up over Texas as it approached the atmosphere. At first, no one was really sure what happened but as it became clear that there were no survivors, NASA lowered its flag to half-staff. Seven people died, including the first Israeli astronaut.

Miracle pets, oh yes



Whew. I thought I'd have a heart attack. Turns out they just show one episode instead of two now. Yes, I'm talking about Miracle Pets, that show on PAX "feel good" TV that features, yes, miracle pets. It's my Sunday fix. Like Who's Line Is It Anyway?, only on Sunday instead of Friday. I'm sorry, it's just that I have a weakness for alpacas helping children with cerebral palsy.



{Ice Hockey Hair, Super Furry Animals} - pun delightfully intended!

Books and movies

Dai Sijie's Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress is a great read. It's a charming, sort of magical story about two young men in China during Mao Zedong's Cultural Revolution in the 60's. I had never heard of this book before. It was a random buy one day when I realized I didn't have anything to read on the train. It caught my eye because it had a pretty cover, and it was small enough to fit in my purse. I've bought other little books with pretty covers that turned out to be disappointing. Not this one, though. It draws you in with its tale of youth, love, friendship, literature, and politics. It's one of those books that you can't seem to put down, but when you finally get to the end, you read the last paragraph over and over again, hoping that there was more to read.

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Note to self: Do not read any more David Sedaris books in public. You had been warned and yet you insisted on reading Holidays on Ice in a packed R train whereupon your distinguished gentleman of a seatmate glanced at your book, saw "Dinah, the Christmas Whore" in large print, and looked away in whiplash fashion. It didn't help that you were coughing slash guffawing every five minutes, you weirdo.

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Requiem for a Dream was based on a novel written by Hubert Selby, Jr., who claims that his umbilical cord was wound around him 36 hours before he was born causing cyanosis and subsequently, brain damage. It is a fascinating film, with many beautiful shots like the ones of Coney Island, Brooklyn (director Darren Aronofsky's hometown), the infamous hiphop montage shots, the split screen scenes of Marion (Jennifer Connelly) and Harry (Jared Leto) and that cool scene where Sara (Ellen Burstyn) frantically cleans her apartment.

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Ooh, speaking of movies, there's a glitch in the netflix system which we accidentally discovered. So now we get six DVDs at a time instead of three. Woohoo!



{Things Are What You Make of Them, Bishop Allen} - I was spending my days with my demons, yeah