st patrick rosal at 21 Grand

So me and Tatang just slid into the door at 21 Grand (which is really at 449 23rd St) just as Patrick finished off his last poem about how his father gave him a saint's name.

It was a lovely end to a long day with an afternoon in Union City, followed by a trip to the parentals to have cake (which was Marie Callandar's pie). My mother lures her adult children home by baiting them with food. It still works. By the time we leave we often have a bag full of food and clothing, which my mom picks up because 1) it was on sale, and 2) she thought it would fit us (note: not that we would wear it, only that it would fit). We share family gossip about my younger cousin planning a wedding the same year as us, but fearing the family will choose to go to our wedding as opposed to theirs. My father, ever the accountant, advises, just invite them, if they come great, but if they don't come, it's one less dinner to pay for.

We talk about how other couples go to Hawaii to avoid the family political seating arena. Hawaii the happy medium. Though the Philippines would be just as far and quite inexpensive to do it there. As my older cousin said when he got married, "the Philippines is cheap, but the presents are better here."

So, after a slice of the double lemonade pie, and bag of goodies from mom and dad's, we locate 21 Grand next to an accordian shop, filled floor to ceiling with various accordian models, begging the window shoppers to come in for just one squeeze. I had a friend who learned accordian, not many in my generation do. When she played with Bobby Banduria, she took up the accordian again, but played topless, the accordian providing the delicate cover.

The location at 449 23rd is bigger than the 21 Grand spot. I've always wanted a place like this some day so I can hold kali classes, poetry readings and art galleries.

Here, the saintly named poets, filled the air through a rhythm and visual landscape of words. Patrick's finger conducting the music and perhaps also our attention. Something that Rupert from Proletariat Bronze refers to as "slam hands." Barbara and I giggle in the car, put on our German accented psycho analysis voices, "Ze patient iz eczibitink a form of zslam handz. Ze words take over the body in an uncontrollable state. Zis may also contribute to ze occurence of zslam feets."

I run into another friend at the reading. He cuts out in search for Tupperware. His family has folks over and they need Tupperware for all the food. And the ziploc disposable containers will not do. He must find Tupperware somewhere at 9pm on a Sunday night. Talk about near impossible task. Only brand name will do. Since Target closes at 9, we point him to the 24-hour WalMart in Union City, which is far since his family is in Concord, but I'm shore he'll enjoy the quiet time in the car.

Afterwards it's off to Pacific Coast Brewery for drinks. Cafe Van Kleef the haunted bar with the Jesus statue in roses was closed. Well, it was a Sunday evening.

We hang out with the saintly poets for a few pints along with Patrick's friends who recently moved here from Philadelphia. We talk about how the internet is a strange thing, how it helps to bring people from the coasts together in a strange odd community of sorts. We discuss various Filipino traits of how our dad's and uncles know someone with every Filipino last name. Patrick had the accent and the learn back with the cross-legs to a tee. And how the act of thievery is common for Filipinos, but Filipinos simply refer to it as "borrowing." "oh you know, I like that. I borrow it from you." We discussed various poets we regularly stole...um borrowed from.

Having work the next day, or like Patrick's friend, at 11pm at Alta Bates Hospital, we call it a night early with plans to hook up again when we find ourselves on the same coast again.