Gila Monster Tuesday Today

So if you've finished voting and need something else to do besides watch exit polls on TV, come to 209 Dwinelle and check out Aimee Nezhukumatathil and Barbara Jane Reyes at 6pm today.

Props to the sister on Telegraph and Bancroft

Standing on Telegraph and Bancroft was the old Chinese man who comes out now and then with his placards espousing his views of the U.S., China, Michael Jackson, and the Olympics. He stands on an upside down plastic drum on top of a folding chair. He knows little English but is often heard saying phrases like, "George Bush no good" or "U.S. no good" or "shame shame shame" and "happy happy happy."

Sometimes people argue with him. Most let him be.

Today a Caucasian guy tells him, "hey, why don't you go back to China if you don't like it here?!"

At that an Asian woman who would have simply walked by and let them talk replied to the heckler, "You may not agree to what he has to say, but he has a right to stand here and say what he wants."

The Heckler replies, "But I have a right to say something back to him."

Asian woman: "I'm not going to let you say racist things to him. And YES, it WAS RACIST!"

====

So the Heckler didn't think telling someone to go back to China was racist. Why not? Because he feels that immigrants have a choice, non-immigrants don't have a choice.

That seems to be a really weak argument. It's not really about whether there is a choice to stay or leave (that choice is available for both immigrants and non-immigrants).

It's about who has rights in this country. Don't immigrants have a right to speak their mind and criticize the U.S. government like non-immigrants? Would the heckler have told a black man to go back to Africa? Would he have told a white guy to go back to Europe? Probably not.

As Asians, as part of this immigrant community, we are often told to go back to where we came from when people don't like what we have to say. As if we, whether native born or immigrant, do not have a right to choose to stay here.

Everyone wants free speech, but not everyone wants the responsibility for having to listen to it.

Mini-monster in my living room

Well, not really a monster, but my partner's 2 year old niece. Her family is staying at my place as they visit my partner and the area.

She's not really a monster. She's really very sweet. They've been here for a few days now. I'm really enjoying having the little tyke running around the house.

I come from a large extended family and helped raise or at least watched dozens of cousins grow up. We don't mind kids running around the house. It's a part of life. Walls can be painted over, messes picked up, windows windexed, but how long is someone 2 years old?

She's entertaining to watch. The other day she found her bellybutton and has been showing it off to everyone. She's very proud of her bellybutton. She's not yet talking, but she smiles and giggles and on occassion screams a tone, especially when she has to take a bath. And she kind of knows how to shake her head from left to right to say no. She knows when her mommy is not in the room and knows how to find her.

The "therapists" say she's "slightly retarded" and they scribble notes madly when she says certain "tones" or "vowels." I just roll my eyes. Kids grow up when they're ready. She can hear her name being called and can locate noise and sound. (My grandmother said my aunt didn't talk for a while. At first they thought she might have been a deaf-mute, but she wasn't.) The 2-year old just doesn't want to talk. Eventually, she'll figure it out with or without the therapists.

They say she's "slow" because she isn't as "vocal" as the other kids, mostly because I realized, she's tactile. She touches stuff. She likes to touch the plants and the liquid inside cups. She likes to touch people's faces and hold onto things. This is followed by tasting stuff, such as crayons and leaves.

She may not say anything, but she certainly knows how to steal lumpia and string beans off your plate then run off giggling amused at her successful theft. She is already developing the Filipino trait of pointing with her lips. When you ask her where mommy or daddy or the fish are, she'll turn her head in that direction, then look back at you. She hasn't quite gotten the lip pucker yet.

She is up all the time, walks the same pattern on the floor for a few minutes, through the kitchen around the living room, down the hall and back. Sometimes she'll stop when she notices something new. She's fascinated by people's sneakers. She'll sit and look at them for a while. When we put her own sneakers on she kept looking at them when she walked wondering where she got them from. I forget that most of her world is seen from the knees down. Maybe she'll design shoes when she grows up.

I think she's part cat. In the morning, she'll wake up early, go over to where her uncle is sleeping and sit on her knees bent over and staring, just watching him sleep. Then, she'll plop her hand on his face with a thud. If he stirs, she giggles and laughs. High end experiments for 2 year olds.

She's learned to climb up steps with ease, a modified crawling. And learned to slide down them butt first. She did this for 30 minutes. She throws her head back and looks at the ceiling. This is very amusing for her. She laughs. It's funny.

Maybe I should do that too. Throw my head back, look at the sky, and think this world is a funny place and laugh.

The Gila Monster is loose in the Bay Area!

Aimee Nezhukumatathil is making the rounds in the SF Area. Tonight she's at Moe's on Telegraph in Berkeley. Thursday, she'll be in 209 Dwinelle Hall, UC Berkeley campus, 6pm with Barbara Jane Reyes.

Take a peek at APAture

Pictures of Kearny Street Workshop's APAture event are now up!

You know it's Friday, You know it's Berkeley

...when you're at Telegraph and Bancroft, the Graduate Student Instructors are picketting, the Hare Krishna are beating their drums, and a guy in an Elvis outfit is passing our flyers.

Second Chances

Check out TLC (The Learning Channel) at 1p today and you might see a blog/poet/kali instructor you might know. Will also replay Oct 21.

Noon Nom and vessels

Opening soon at B1808 is the exhibit "Noon Nom and Vessels" by Pinaree Sanpitak.

Just saw the preview. The exhibit is literally an experience. In particular check out the Noon Nom, a room stuffed with large pillows like dollups of marshmallows. Take your shoes off and wade on in, take a seat, lie down. It's a tactile and emotional experience you don't want to miss.

Moving: stuff around

I know of at least half a dozen people who have moved residences in the last 2 months. And they know even more people who have moved. It seems like everyone is moving. And me? Well, I've been selling all their leftover stuff at a garage sale.

My feng shui teacher tells me that in each place we live in, there are lessons to be learned. When we're done with the lesson, we move into new a space. Though it's quite possible that we move into a place with the same exact lessons, for the most part it's good to be in a new place.

I've got no plans on moving anywhere. I'm just moving stuff around. My partner's family is coming up for a visit. Where are they staying? um...my place. They're very good incentive to clean. And though I'm not moving, I can move stuff around to make my place feel like a new place.

Now, since I live alone, my place is pretty messy. Though many of us our really slobs at home, we really don't want anyone to know. But, it's been good. It's good to move stuff around, go through piles, divide them into shred, recycle/trash, save. Throwing stuff out feels good. The SO, who isn't the biggest neat freak either, has been helping me out. Cleaning other people's stuff is easy, there's no emotional attachment to anything. You just see the pile and think if it ain't something that's useful now, it's gone. I can always clean other people's stuff. When I clean my stuff, I get sentimental or I think that I might use something some day. But what really happens is that 1) I forget where any of this stuff is and 2) I end up buying the part anyway. I have 5 rolls of twine and 6 rolls of tape because of this. sigh. Fortunately, you can always use twine and tape.

We finished the main bedroom a few days ago and did most of the living room. We've got 3 more days.

Of course, when you're done cleaning, then you have a garage sale. We had our second garage sale a few weeks ago. Teamed up with other folks who also don't have garages to have a garage sale in Alameda, the Mecca of garage sales. In this town, it's a religion. For the first sale, we posted in the Alameda Journal. We met all the "regulars." There's the woman looking for costume jewelry, the Chinese guy looking for tools, etc. And they all know each other. When you say the sale is at 9, they come at 8 and ask if you need help bringing stuff out.

Garage sale regulars have a sense of urgency in their lives. For one, they double park. Sometimes they turn off the engine, sometimes they don't. If there are people mingling in the garage, they don't. It's as if they think that while they take this time parking, that next great Antiques Roadshow item will be bought and gone. There are others that do a slow drive by. You can tell they're regulars when they say that $1 is too expensive or pricey.

We don't really care. To us it's junk or stuff we can't/don't use anymore, so as long as we don't have to haul the stuff back home, whether we get a buck for it or not, it's all good. Garage sales are pretty busy for the first couple of hours then there's the noon to 2 lull, then picks up again during the last hour.

The last hour is by far the best. This is when you can meet the marathon garage sale folks, the ones looking for the last minute deal on stuff. And we gave them that deal, $1 per bag. Guranteed there will be a van full of folks come by and take a van full of stuff with them. This time it was 4 Filipino women whose mini-van was already filled to the brink. But at a $1 a bag, your imagination goes nuts. You think, the thing is not perfect but for a $1, I'm sure I could find someone who wants it.

It's all just stuff. But we put so much into it: what is once was, what it could be. We rarely think about what it's doing now (mostly sitting in closets gathering dust). It doesn't become something magical until we touch it and do something with it and live a part of our lives with it.

Speaking of "Cleaning House," I'll be doing several readings in the SF Bay Area for "Going Home to a Landscape" (November 2003, Calyx), an anothology of Filipino women's writing which contains my poem entitled, "Cleaning House". November 1 at Pusod. November 16 at Bindlestiff. December 2 at City Lights.

Can you mosh to poetry?

Kearny Street Workshop's 5th Annual APAture was a sound success as it wrapped up with it's 12hr and counting mega-performance day on Saturday 1pm - 1am. (Officially it ended 2:25am)

I left around midnight after Asian Crisis. There was the gallery, theater stage and hall with tables and rocking bands and poetry. It was great! By the end of the evening, I had pledged for a sorority, T.P.'d a room, and was the follow up act to a punk rock band. More on these things later.

Must have been several hundred folks wandering in and around the different performances and exhibits in the SoMarts (South of Market Art Gallery) that sits just under the freeway. I wish I had gotten a chance to write down some of the artists names in the galleries. Much appreciated was the bedspread made of checks and the pillow case from receipts. There was the large mechanical dragonfly and the light shadow sculpture made of light bouncing on two mirrors with pieces of broken crystals. I also liked these images made of resin. The images are made with chlorophyl then the image created is cast in resin. I don't know how that works, but the image of mother and child on a large leaf reminded me of finding fossils and I wondered what other things the leaves and trees record about our lives.

The performance schedule moved back and forth between the theater and hall which conveniently allowed people to walk past the bar to quench their thirst.

I finally found someone who had a precious program guide. I was on at 10:37, they said they were running 30 minutes behind so I had a few hours and then some. Ran into helluv fools I hadn't seen in a while. Good to catch up with them. I stopped by some of the zine tables and comic book tables. One of the comic books was about a geek superhero. The guy had also done work in a comic book on how to pray the Rosary. Mother Mary had more of a Virgen de Guadalupe look which I appreciated. I thought about buying a copy, then decided not to.

Passing by another table, a woman stops me and puts a wire necklace on me, a mix of beads and a metal disk of black concentric circles that would make anyone who looked at it mesmerized. I had to pass, no cash.

At another table, another comic book about the lives of workers who work in toxic situation at work from the Silicon Valley Toxics Network, working to improve working conditions at manufacturing plants. Make your own button for a $1 and miniture display at another table.

I would have liked to talk with people but the band was playing and all I got to do was hand signals. But I understand why people like to socialize at loud clubs, cuz it means you have to lean in and talk directly into someone's ear. You would think I would have figured that out when I was single? ah well.

After the band, the audience migrated to the stage and the hall quieted down. I found filmmaker Matt Abaya next to the Kero Kero Pi table. Pausing momentarily brought up a Kero Kero Pi sister to tell me all about it while Matt filmed the way he always does. The sign in the back said it was for Asian Sisterhood unity. The back wall showed folks who were accepted as pledges. She handed me an application. When she told Matt guys could enter too, he picked up a clipboard too.

Name: Michelle Bautista
Favorite Singer: Sharon Cuneta, Golda SupaNova (I figured picking Asian singers would get me bonus points.)
What does Asian Sisterhood mean to you?: um....folks to eat late night dinner with?
Why do you want to pledge Kero Kero Pi?: to connect with a greater community of Asian wo(men)
What can you contribute to Kero Kero Pi?: wine (when in doubt, sororities/fraternities always go for liquor), Jedi Mind Tricks (gotta add a splash of pseduo-stardom), and rides to BART (you can't beat rides to the train station.)

I let Matt turn his application in first. They interview him, ask him who his heroes are (he dutifully named Jose Rizal and Larry Itliong). Then they made him do push ups while screaming Kero Kero Pi as loudly as he could while being smacked on the butt with an inflatable bat. (what one does for art!) After he screamed to a sufficient level, they conversed amongst themselves. There were only two prized pledge positions left. They return. He gets denied.

Now I'm nervous. It's my turn. I haven't done a push up since junior high! They ask me why I want to join, what I would give, I feel like the interview portion of Miss America or maybe Miss Chinatown. They go and converse. (whew! no pushups!) The head Kero Kero Pi person comes back, she sounds kind of sad. "it doesn't look good," I say to Matt's camera.

Then, drumroll, they accept me as a pledge with a nametag with the kero kero pi mascot. Jello shots all around!

While the audience is occupied in the theater, we take rolls of toilet paper and TP the room in time for Charmin's performance. It's harder than it looks. The toilet paper can't just travel over the light rack, it's gotta unravel and stream paper behind it. We were obviously not delinquent enough in our youth to know how to do this, so it took a few tries. Charmin rocks the house with a mini-mosh pit in front of them. Photographer Jay Jao is a brave man with his expensive camera equipment as I watch his camera flash bounce through the pit.

You know, I love Charmin, they've got good music, but I've never had to read my poetry after a band complete with mosh pit and hoola-hooping women on tables. They finish their last song and I get introduced.

As I take the mic, toilet paper is torn to shreds on the ground like the gray slush of old snow. Most of the crowd has dispersed for fresh air, the band packs up behind me. There's a sparce crowd left, some old friends, some new folks, others sweeping up. Thank GOD for those people! I didn't plan anything special, just me reading words. I did happen to know most of the photographers, so I got a lot of pictures out of it. I read a few poems, some of my newer work letting some of my old friends know where I've gone in my writing. It was good. One of the hardest follow-up gigs I have ever done! I realized it doesn't matter about the size of the crowd. It's often said poetry is not a popular genre. It's about being able to connect with folks. You read where you're invited, you read when you can, and if you're lucky, there'll be a few folks to hear you talk.

hmmm....now if I can only generate a mosh pit for poetry...

Take a look through the APAture

Kearny Street Workshop hosts the 5th Annual APAture festival that features Asian Pacific American artists 35 and under. Thursday is Film night with featured artist Michael Wilson, Friday is the literary night with feature artist Barbara Jane Pulmano Reyes, Saturday is the main event 1pm to 1am with Golda Supanova, Frances Sedayo, Jane Chen and Gene Chang.

Yours truly will be making her APAture debut that night as well, in and around 10pm performing after Charmin.

of playgrounds and baseball

I'm away at a training for work living in a hotel room for the week. It's not so bad, the hotel caters to those long terms residents, it has two burners, a mini-fridge a sink and microwave, not to mention a jacuzzi for a bath tub in the room. PLUS it's cheaper than most of the regular hotels around here. (Thank you Orbitz).

Anyway, I turn on the TV and flip is to the A's game against the Rangers. There pitchinging in the 7th inning for the Texas Rangers with the game 2-2 is Ryan Drese. And suddenly, I'm 12 years old playing strike-out at the elementery school playground during the hot summer days.

His face is fuller, the solid jaw of a young man. He's much bigger than when he was 11, but he still has the same eyes. He pitches through the 9th inning. He does well, gets 11 pop up outs. I know he's not playing for the home team, but part of me cheers for him.

Ryan grew up down the street from the elementery school. I remember he had a paper route. [I remember because me and a friend did his paper route when his family went on vacation once.] During the summers there was a group of us that hung out at the elementery school and spent our days playing tag on the play structure, basketball, strikeout against the school wall, Uno card games, and occasional water balloon fights.

On the playground we dreamed of being Michael Jordan on the sloped basketball courts where the 3-pointers were shorter on one end of the court than the other or Nolan Ryan pitching tennis balls against a worn painted rectangle on the school wall that was our designated umpire. Strikeout was a one on one game, one pitcher, one hitter, sometimes two on two with an outfielder. We designated lines on the playground to determine singles, doubles, triples and foul balls. Singles up to the basketball poll, doubles over by the play structure, triples to the fence, homeruns over the fence. We even disputed calls against the painted rectangle, whether the ball touched the line or not, strike or ball.

There were only two girls in the bunch me and the younger sister of one of the guys. We would all go to the same junior high where we continued to play baseball and basketball for the school teams. In high school we separated to different schools, some public some private. I would run into the different guys later on at basketball games, track meets and baseball games. All of them exceling in their different sports.

Ryan would later play for Cal. I didn't see him play there though I ran into him on campus once. After college I read in a local paper how Ryan went to the majors. He bounced up and down between minors and majors for a bit, then when Major League Baseball expanded their roster limits, he was brought up to majors.

The tv shows his ERA 6.37, the lowest amongst the active pitchers. The commentators are kind to him, say he pitched well during the 5 innings he was in. None of his innings reach the highlight reel which is good. The game ends, A's win 4-3 in the 10th. A's win the American League West, but hometown boy does good.

Flipped out flag at the flea market

Driving along 880 in Oakland between High Street and the Coliseum exits, you'll see the drive-in theater/flea market. There are flags from countries throughout the world. They have the flag from the Philippines. It's hung upside down with the red on top, the blue on the bottom. This is a sign of distress or being at war.

Bureaus, biceps, and babes

But Eileen, you have that fabulous wave that makes your hair tips flutter giving your hair a soft cascade.

For the record, our men did ask us if we needed their help to move the bureau. Are ya takin' notes fellas? Good men ASK women if they need help and their manliness is not hurt when they are refused. They don't insist, or decide that this is their work as oppose to women's work. They just ask. Very simple, very easy, very gentlemenly.

But we had to refuse considering that the truck, though a good size was not going to anything else except me, Dana, and the bureau and an office chair. So we had to tell our good men that we did not need their help this time, but thanks for asking, which left them both time to conquer their electronic gaming universes at home. It also gave me and Dana a chance to catch up and have that girl talk kind of stuff.

But yes, it's true, between Dana's truck and my hand truck we finessed that beast of a bureau down and out of the place on a tiny elevator that barely fit us.

[blowing on and admiring fingernails] Girls ROCK!

A Day of Ray

I was travelling half way across the world when it happened. When I returned home from the Philippines, my email inbox was filled with news of memorials and spontaneous celebrations of the life of Ray Gatchalian.

I have been searching his name through websites as if the light of a crystal was shattered. He was a Green Beret in Vietnam as a medic, an Oakland Firefighter Captain, but more notably of recent years a documentary filmmaker, peace activist, and children's advocate. He had died in Chile traveling in a remote area. He had a car accident and had survived it. But later died in the truck that he hitched a ride in, which fell over the ravine. He had dodged many bullets in his life, almost like a cat and mouse game with God. With each bullet he dodged he was given a free pass to touch and affect and give his gifts of love to as many people as possible. In some ways the world was not ready for a man like Ray, in many ways the world needs more people like him.

I met Ray 9 years ago or so when I was an undergrad at Cal. I was just getting to know the Filipino community and a friend introduced him to me. We were at an event at La Pena cultural center and Ray was reading his poetry. He was strikingly handsome, fit, these buff arms, with streaks of white, black and grey through his hair. He was an Oakland Firefighter Captain. Me being born and raised in Oakland, that fact struck me, mostly cuz well, I didn't know too many other Filipinos in Oakland beside my family and a handful of classmates. I was like WOW firefighter AND poet AND Filipino AND from Oakland.

[Oakland is one of those cities that has enough visible tarnish that you may or may not be proud of. Yes, we have the Raiders. Yes, we rioted when they loss. Yes, we have ebonics. Yes, we have some of the highest murder rates in the country. See what I mean? Yet it's the few and the proud who make their home here, who know what heartbreaking love it is to be an Oaklander.]

I would continue to see Ray off and on at various community events. I would greet him like any one of my uncles. We were from Oakland. We were Filipino. We were family.

I watch the crystal spin in my window, watch how the light breaks into rainbows, note how I can never really see the crystal only how it sends its rays throughout the world. Ray was this crystal. I had seen him play music, but I didn't know how involved he was in documentary filmmaking or his other community activities. I hadn't met all the other people whose lives he touched. I had never had a chance to stop to ask him who he was and what he was about. But that didn't matter really, the legacy he was able to live was his autobiography.

Ray was a man on a mission. While most of us run around in this world trying to figure out what to do with ourselves and ask whether we want to get out of bed or not, he understood what he needed to do every single day of his life. After going to Vietnam as a Green Beret medic and seeing his own face in the Vietnamese, he decided to come home and find out more about his people. He knew that his mission in life was to help people and with any and every opportunity he got to do that, he did with tremendous passion and gusto.

There are a handful of people I have gotten to know better in death than in life. It's a sad way to get to know people, but sometimes, that's the way it is and in either case dead or alive they have messages to deliver. This one website, a black and white photo of him stares at me, his eyes are soulful and a bit sad, he's wearing the full firefighter gear, his fingers held in the sign of peace.

His quote sits next to the picture: "What has inspired me is that one person CAN make a difference. that is basically my theme. I can make a difference and together we can make a difference."

Ray's personal website too is still up. His words about 9/11, Gallery, Bio, personal words are still up. He still has things to say. He still has things to tell us. He signs them "Raymundo." Raymundo - in it I see a Spanish play on words "Ray's world." I can't even fathom what Ray's world might have looked like through his eyes and through his heart, but he spent his entire life doing things in our world that allowed us to get a glimpse, enjoy a small taste, of what his world looked like and what our world could become.

Ray died on May 11, 2003. He was 56. I didn't feel sad about his passing. I believe he knew that any day he could have died. In all of his careers he risked his life to save others. In many ways his life really didn't matter, because it was all about saving the lives of other people. It's living life with a certain abandon. When you don't care about your own death, you have that much more of your life and love to give.

On Sunday October 12, 2003, there will a celebration at Oakland's Jack London Square with various bands and groups that reflected Ray's life like so many tiny rainbows around the room. The crystal has shattered, yet somehow, it had to, so that each of us can have a piece of the crystal, if only to create more rainbows to bring light and beauty in this world.

Debut Review

Considering I've gone to three debuts in the last two years, I felt compelled when the opportunity came up to write a review about "the Debut" a Filipino-American movie that recently came out on DVD.

Here is what I posted to a mailing list I'm on:

I watched the Debut in theaters. I suddenly felt compelled to write a review.

I thought it was a decent film. Good quality production. It was a simple plot of the lead character, Ben (Dante Basco), trying to understand his Filipino identity in his American life. There's the generational struggle with his father (Tirso Cruz III), a postal worker who wants his son to be a doctor as opposed to being an artist. Ben, who mostly acquaints himself with white friends, tries to hide his Filipinoness from them as he struggles to both let his friends see this part of his life as well as understand how this Filipino side is a part of him. Much of this of course climaxes around the 18th birthday of his sister Rose.

The movie also attempts to include and mention different aspects of Filipino American identity: the hip-hop heads, the community activist, the gangster delinquent, the immigrants, the american born, the Tagalog speakers, the American born, etc. Though they seemed to be trying to represent different Filipino identities, and thus show the breadth of Filipino America, I found that they were a bit too glossed over and were almost caricatures, which may have been the point since many of those scenes are used to add comedic breaths in the drama. In the end these parts were too much too little.

The basic line of the story has a certain level of "boy-meets-girl" when Ben reacquaints himself with his sister's best friend Annabelle (Joy Bisco), who shows him that being Filipino is nothing to be ashamed of. But what truly shines is the relationship between Ben and his father. We are allowed to see the experiences in his father's life that bring him to wanting his son to be a doctor yet share a love for arts rather than leave him to simply be the "angry immigrant father." Excellent acting by the supporting cast, many of whom are Philippine movie veterans: Eddie Garcia, Fe de Los Reyes, Ernie Zarate. The movie certainly gave room for many of these seasoned actors to shine.

For those who have gone to Pilipino Cultural Nights (PCNs) at college campuses in the U.S., you may find much of the plot old hat, since many PCNs have dealt with these same issues and similar characters. In this way, the movie feels "safe" and does not leave too many questions unanswered.

Certainly in terms of the Filipino American cinema breadth of work, it was a film that had to be made. And really it sets the stage to allow other filmmakers to explore these same issues in deeper and different ways, such as Rod Pullido's Flipside, American Adobo, and to some extent Justin Lin's Better Luck Tomorrow, whose lead character is Filipino. It is certainly nice to see movies about Filipinos with Filipinos reaching more of a mass market since most of the films still only go through limited release at Asian American film fests and sponsored screenings in very very select areas, the latest one making the rounds is "Lumpia."

The North American DVD of the Debut came out this month. Certainly a keeper for your fledging Fil-Am movie collection. Better Luck Tomorrow is out at the end of the month. Flipside is still looking to find a distributor for the home market.

Karmic slappity slap, part deux

I call up AAA. Apparently, they have a new service, not only can they come and jump start your car, give ya extra gas, etc, but you can buy a brand new battery from them and they'll install it right there and then.

They use the higher grade batteries that have 5 year warranties. It costs a bit more but 1) it beats me figuring out which battery to buy and 2) from having to install it myself. The guy rides up with a truck and all the necessary tools. Otherwise, I would have had to go to Kragen Parts, look at the wall of battery varieties then stare at my car and the battery wondering which side is positive and which side is negative. I do recall from High School Chemistry that mixing these two things is not a good thing.

Suffice it to say, I ended my agony and shelled out the cash for the AAA guy to do it for me. I do know a bit about my car, I don't know a whole lot about my car. Like, I know how to add fluids and check them. I know how to check tire pressure and how to change a tire. I know the different parts. I know from looking at the engine that there was a big gaping whole where the battery used to be. See, I know enough, yet I don't know enough, which is why I'm willing to defer to the expert in the bright yellow truck.

The only thing I had to really do is go down to Kragen and get the thingys that hold the battery in place, kind of like battery seatbelts. You didn't know batteries had seatbelts? Well, now you know. Those were easy enough to install by following the pretty pictures on the back of the packaging.

So, thanks to the SO for reminding me that compared to most things in life this is not so bad and plus karmic cursing the hell out of the folks who did this and my sister for letting me borrow her wheels.

I really try not to curse people that often. I believe most people curse themselves kind of like tripping over their own feet. You reap what you sow. In addition, when things are lost, it opens up new opportunities, like me getting a new battery that AAA will replace for me for close to nothing within the warranty years. But it is a tad difficult getting over the feeling that, "hey, that was mine!" Which brings me back to ask, "what in this world is really 'mine'?"

Frankly, not much. Stuff goes in and out and back again. I exist in this space for a moment, give what I can, receive what I am given.

Do you want the belt or the slipper?

A big karmic tsinelas slappity slap for the folks who stole my car battery. I have one of those old 60s muscle cars, which is why I have a chain and a lock on the hood to keep people from yanking parts out of it. Well, they managed to stretch it up high enough to take the battery out.

Crazy part is that the car, though in the garage, is open and can be seen from the street. They didn't take anything else. For the most part I had been upstairs at the SO's apt hanging out. We even walked to dinner and I still noticed that my car hadn't moved.

A $30 battery. Not even. A used $30 battery. A friend tells me that when a friend of his used to work at the Post Office in West Oakland, that's all guys would do is steal batteries out of cars. WHY?

I'm not so much mad as I am annoyed. Many thanks to Flux and the Watcher for coming out on short notice to head to 24 hr Longs to buy a new cable and lock for the hood and with a ride home. AAA can't do battery work until the next morning, so thought it would be good to replace both lock and chain just incase said hoodlums come back for additional late night shopping.

sigh.

Computers are so fast, I have no more time to daydream

There was a time when installing software involved the juggling of 20 1.4MB diskettes. You would sit there, the drive would grind, it would ask you for the next disk. To be a computer tech, you needed to learn the slight of hand of remembering which disk you were on.

Then came CDs, which made the world a whole lot easier, but then the computers were slow that you would sit there for several minutes again watching the drive grind away as the software publisher showed ads of how great their software was and advocating the benefits of registering your machine.

It wasn't too much faster than diskettes, but it would take numerous minutes of watching a time bar fill to capacity, which made it a very opportune time to day dream. I would just sit read the titles of books on people's shelves, marvel at the innovations of office supplies, examine in detail the postcards from around the world contemplating my own travels. It's like watching grass grow, but in an office without windows.

One time when I was fixing a client's computer, I was sitting there watching the machine process and he says, "Is this what you do all day? Stare and watch computers?" Slightly joggled from my daydream, "uh, what? oh, yeah. well, no, not really. but sometimes." (I didn't want to look like I'm a total waste of university funds so I made a joke of it.) "well, yeah, basically. It's not a bad life." Then I tried to justify it saying, well, you have to watch the machine cuz something might happen in the middle and mess the whole thing up, you can't just walk away and take a coffee break. I don't think he bought that. But fortunately, his computer was working now and well, even if I do just sit there watching a computer screen entertain me with graphics of flying sheets of paper traveling from one folder to another, something in doing that made the computer work, which it didn't before. He couldn't really complain.

But now, computers are running dual processors and the like and run through installations at blazing fast speeds. Stuff that took several minutes, now takes seconds. Damn. I think I can still kind of fake like it's taking a while, but not for long. I'll have to find some other time and place to day dream. But it was nice getting paid to day dream, well, not really, but you could see it that way.

the ballot

some 150 or so names for governor filled my mailbox today. I got the sample ballot for October 7. Ahnold lists himself as a actor/businessman. Larry Flynt is a publisher. It seems to be mostly filled by lawyers (including one civil rights lawyer and one marijuana legialization lawyer) and businessmen/entrepeneurs. I'm not exactly sure why lawyers like politics. I just figure the businessmen know what opportunity looks like and takes it. You can't beat getting an edge on government contracts.

There's one doctor and a firefighter/nurse looking to take care of California. Ariana Huffington listed herself as Author/Entrepeneur/Mother or something like that. Certainly, men are the vast majority of the ballot with all but a handful of women including "Mary Carey," adult entertainment star. Though she too understands a marketing opportunity when she sees one. Comedian Gallagher, who's first name is Leo, is running as an independent.

The ballot is by alphabetical order by last name. Well, first question is do you want Gov. Davis recalled. Second question and if he were to be recalled, who should take his place. In many ways this ballot is more a democratic process than usual without the party nominated/endorsed candidates. Put your name into the hat and vote. And as flawed as the electoral process can be, in which a candidate with the most actual votes can lose, can you imagine what a presidential election ballot would look like if anyone and everyone could just drop in their name? We'd be at the polling place for days! We'd kill forests worth of trees just to send out the ballots.

Frankly I think the Republicans may not want Ahnold as governor, at the least the conservative ones, cuz how can you control a guy like that. What kind of scares me about him is that he's been avoiding the debates, so I wonder if all he does is read scripted material. I don't blame Davis for avoiding the debates, he's still governor and I'd prefer him doing his job rather than campaigning, it's bad enough when it's elections.

What will be more interesting than whether Davis stays in power or not will be whether this recall fever will spread to other states. We are a trendsetter in very strange ways.

What I hate most about the recall is that it's wasting a WHOLE lot of my tax dollars. The second thing I hate about the recall is that they've also managed to put in two state propositions 53 and 54. They slip them in so I can decide on propositions that have had little airtime relative to the recall candidates. And these are big propositions. Prop 54 would ask the state to stop collecting data on race, except in medical research or if it affects federal funding. Problem is how do we know if discrimination is still going on if we don't count. It is a strange catch22 in that way, but we have yet to hit a race blind society and it's important to keep track. I'd rather the government collect accurate information than guess at who/what I am based on my name. Advertisers already do that with all the Spanish written junk mail I get.

Anyway, at the very bottom of the ballot is the spot for write in. A way to even circumvent the candidate registration process by simply getting enough people to write in your name. Wasn't there a campaign to write in Eileen's name for something? Oh wait, that was for president of the US of A, though I don't think she qualifies. But hey, maybe we can write her in for Governor.

PinoisePop 8: Pinoys making noise

This weekend only, THE LAST PinoisePop Asian American Band festival at the current Bindlestiff Studio on 6th street. Check the link on the left.

Thursday - Saturday $10 admission each day

I'm particularly fond of Friday's lineup with Bobby Banduria and the Skyflakes as well as a premiere animation music video from the premiere Dino Ignacio who elegantly captured Rex Navarette's "Marites and the Superfriends" bit.

There's also Saturday with hard rocking Eskapo, fan favorite Charmin (they're soft on your ass), and From Monuments to Masses.

The best part about PinoisePop is that it's cheap, and the other best part is that no cover songs! All bands must play original music, which really puts the creative pressure on bands to work their best stuff rather than fall back on someone else's oldie but goodie.

Bring your earplugs! I'll see ya there!

intellectualizing kali interpretations of poetry

Eileen sent me a comment/question from one of her 8 million peeps:

Recently I had the good fortune to watch someone demonstrate Pentjak Silat, an Indonesian martial art at the local Sunfest and it was most fascinating. The man actually had a smile while demonstrating the movements, which seemed like a cross between tai chi and dance, a combination of hard and soft. His physical control and timing was impeccable, and it was clear that he had been training in the art for quite some time. I would be most interested to see how Gura combines the Filipino martial art of Kali with poetry performance.

Hmmm...that's a very interesting point...I never really thought about how I go about doing that.

Pentjak Silat is a beautiful art form, very closely related to several Filipino martial arts. Actually there's a Filipino variant of it around somewhere.

Now the reason I haven't really thought about it, even though I've done it so many times (I recently did a collaboration with poet maiana minahal that she took to NYC for a show.), is because when I'm doing the kali I'm not really thinking. Hell, half the time I feel like I'm not really there, it's like I'm watching it from a third person position. Like when I talked about hitting that other guro in the nose (in the "because you understand the fight in me" series of posts), I saw it in slow motion and really couldn't keep myself from doing it. It's like autopilot.

Now that begs the question, "then how do I stay connected to the poet if I'm not really there?"

hmmm....[i sit listening to the bell chimes rotating around the water fountain clearing my thoughts]

It is necessary for me to prepare and give myself cues and anchors to grab for. I'm not really there, but I am kind of conscious and if I concentrate enough I can find those anchors I set and grab onto them in the moment.

First I listen to the reader/poet read the piece. I'm listening to story, emotion, cadence, rhythm, etc. Sometimes while they read phrases and words pop repeatedly in my head and I note them. I'm trying to understand the music of the words so my body can match that beat and hopefully land distinct movements on those beats. And while I listen, I'm imagining what I might be able to do.

I also have to keep track of time. There are limitations to my physical body. Kali is very intense emotionally, physically and spiritually and so I have to create a arch for the kali as well, give myself breaks to rest a bit. The breaks also allow the audience a bit of breather. So those phrases that hit me during the initial reading, I'm thinking hey slow down here, rest, then bring it up again, change direction, etc.

Lastly, in knowing what the poet/poem brings and what I can bring with the kali, I'm trying to calculate the arch of the audience as they follow along. I want them to be mesmerized, I want to hit them in ways they didn't think they could feel, I want them to watch then replay moments of it in their heads for the rest of the day. I want a lasting impact, something that makes people think and feel and wonder. I've been fortunate enough to be able to come close to that on several different occasions.

In all, it's one big dance between me, the poem/poet and the audience. It's an experience I'm presenting.

But all of this prethinking is not so intense. It comes to me as single words here an there, a feeling, a pause, etc. But I remember to look for these things when I go out there.

whew!

so what is the real moment like? None of my movements are planned explicitly. I create a physical structure on the ground, like I mentally map that I'm going to go to this section then that section then over here, etc. So I know the general direction I need to go.

It starts, I draw my circle of protection, open myself, meditate with a prayer for a moment, then go. From here on out it's like riding the wind. I start with a few simple moves to warm up, then progress to other ones. In the meantime, I'm listening for the words that I remembered and timing more visually distinct strikes and pauses for those moments. The poem is my music and I am merely expressing my reaction to it through the kali.

Then as I'm going, enemies start to appear (I have to pretend I'm hitting something) that help me turn and move and pull different techniques out of me. Of course, it's all in my head. When a demo goes particularly long, fatigue brings me out of the trance which is a problem. When I think too much, I don't flow as well, which means I'm more apt to err, which is not a good thing when you're holding a knife. That's what happened in Sonoma at the demo with Eileen, I lost my balance and fell back. It's not noticeable on the camera, it all looks intentional. When it happened, I was pretty scared I might fall, but allowed my body to continue and my body caught itself. Falling out the trance in the middle is hard because for a moment I'm not sure where I am. Fortunately I'm experienced enough to ride it out.

At PAWMA, I was trying to connect to Gabriela's spirit. I called to her during my meditation. This is both exciting and scary because there's a chance Gabriela might not like me or she may be too intense for me to handle. Yet, that's the risk I take.

Well, back to the poetry. Once the moment starts I give myself up to the moment. Whatever my body creates, it creates. I just have to hope my body is able to follow the flow and hit the right spots on its own. Thus far, it's done a fine job of it. The pauses and accented movement during key phrases/words/emphasis in voice are meant to give the audience a snapshot of the moment. watching watching watching FLASH watching FLASHwatching watching watching FLASH. And these moments hit them. Very often these moments are emphasized with stabs or strong poses while the in between is carried through with long sweeping motions. Sometimes I know exactly what I want to do for a certain moment and sometimes I hear myself scream, "now!" and I jump to that pose on the phrase.

I listen for the words that mark the ending of the piece or my part, then I close myself, close my circle and leave.

At this point, I am totally spent and just get offstage to the nearest chair to breathe. I have no idea what it looked like. I remember one woman coming up to me at the PAWMA demo and she asked what this hand movement was, and I was like, "I don't know exactly, it's just how the energy expressed itself."

The best and worst part of it all is that I can't repeat it. It only happens once. Even if I try to repeat it, it's never really the same: the moment is different, the audience is different, I'm not the same person tomorrow, the poem feels different. It's also hard for me to do so many halads/offerings in a short span. As I've gotten stronger, I can endure more, but it still sends me on a bit of a rollercoaster since it's a very intense emotional/physical/spiritual ride. Doing too many in a short span makes me ill, throws a lot of stuff out of balance.

Reading this, it seems hard. But it's really a lot less thinking and more a feel of everything. In general, I have a rough idea of what I might do with a general framework, then I let the moment fill in the gaps.

Life Unscripted

My life is strange. I get strange phone calls. The other day I got a call to teach a private kali class. I said ok.

So on this laborless labor day, I taught a class to a couple on one of those reality programs. I was their "adventure" date. They were both part Pinoy, so why not swing a few punches while they figure out how to score with each other.

I'm a guilty-pleasure fan of reality tv. I admit I was mesmerized even by, "get me out of here, I'm a celebrity" and I even cruise by episodes of "the family" and "paradise hotel," even though I don't even understand the rules of the game, except that most reality show are people in their 20s. Oh, the adventure reality shows like Survivor and others have a wide range of folks, but dating shows or relationship shows, well, they're all the 20somethings.

As a 20-something myself, I wonder about my generation and somewhat wish to hurry up and get to my 30-somethings.

This couple were 20 something. I wondered why they decided to let the nation watch as they piece together their lives followed by camera crews. Then again, they did get free food, limo and hotels. When you're 20-something, you'll do just about anything for "free."

So, being a quiet fan of reality tv, I kind of jumped in just to see how it all works. I found out that as there is a certain amount of denial needed to "watch" reality tv, there is a whole lot more denial when you are "in" reality tv. We had to "pretend" that there was nobody there, yet change where we stood depending on where the cameras needed to be in order to "capture" the moment. We could not at any time mention the show or what folks were really here for nor that the crew even existed. At times the onsite director would ask us to say stuff again. I greeted them 3 times and acted like hey I've never met them before. There's no room for sarcasm in reality tv unless it's a cat fight. I felt like I was being rewound like the tape, forced deja vu.

Anyway, I did it to get a chance to expose the world to kali and what malongs and kubings are and who Filipinos could be. We filmed in front of Santiago Bose's large canvas montages. I did it too because it was a new experience. I don't know if I'd do it again.

A friend of mine used to work at Jerry Springer. His job was to make sure the guests were dressed in decent clothing. I remember him talking about these guests, college students stripping for money. My friend said they seemed like good people, but they always kind of worped them out in front of the camera. Maybe that's just the convex of the lens that creates the distortion, seeing the world through a lens.

Certainly reality tv is only what they give you. The crew said they already shot 19 hrs of film. And the show is only 30 minutes. Life might be unscripted but it's certainly not complete. They edit it down to give the best of the drama, you know.

I did the best I could to ignore the cameras and be the teacher I know how to be, to focus on each of them and not the situation we were in. In many ways, it's a sad place to be. Life is stuttered and stopped, so unlike what I was trying to teach them in the kali, to flow to glide to learn about each other, to give and receive.

When they left, I wished them well. I'm not exactly sure how their relationship will end up, but I hope they find what they are looking for and that it will bring them happiness. It was an odd odd world we had stepped in. I get many students who take my class once or only a handful of times. There are only a few handful who stay with me for years and continue the practice. And I always hope that I'm able to give them what they needed. Whether they stumble in or are brought there by camera crews, there's something for all of us to learn.

Lucky bet with Better Luck Tomorrow

If you haven't seen it yet, this is the movie to watch! It's playing tomorrow, Friday, August 29 7p and 9p I believe at Wheeler Hall UC Berkeley campus as part of ASUC Superb which shows movie hits for a fraction of the price.

And if you can't catch it there, it's set to come out on DVD September 30, 2003.

What I loved about this movie was how it really turned the idea of "overachieving Asian" on its heels. The chance to see Asian Americans in complex roles on the big screen, plus its a story that you don't have to be Asian to understand and relate to.

Check it out!

Bada bing! Update your spelling lists kids!

A few years ago Homer Simpson's "D'oh" got into the dictionary. This year blog along with "bada bing" and phrases from a british show. Prairie Dog is now a verb with prairiedogging, the act of Dilbert-like cubicle workers peaking over cubicle walls to check out the scene for perhaps their eagle boss.

pretty sparkly toes

In contrast to the weekend prior, I was a bit more femme this past weekend. I always love nourishing both the yang and yin parts of me. This weekend is yin.

Had my 10th year high school reunion on Saturday at the Claremont Hotel. I had heard about other people's experiences at reunions and didn't know what to expect. I went to a small Catholic school, you knew everyone in the class.

Anyway, it's a nice opportunity to dress up and have some fun. We couldn't find a place to find get a makeover, but I did live down the street from a nail parlor, "Oriental Nails." As with many nail salons, it was Vietnamese owned and operated. In the same way, many of the African American beauty product stores are owned and operated by Koreans.

I've never had a manicure before, much less a pedicure. So I sit at the foot soaking machine: a chair dangling over a vat of water with bubble jets. The manicurist sits on a stool in front, filing and shaping my toes on one foot while the other soaks. I've known many women who go and get manicures every couple of weeks. The others getting their nails done look like regulars as well. There was also a back room for waxing services. Ouch!

Being a tomboy growing up, I never got into dresses, fashion, makeup, and the like. I don't really know how to "do" any of that stuff. Eventually I picked up a style for myself and now I know what kind of dresses I would look really good in, but I only put on a touch of makeup, have no idea what kind of foundation to pick, but do know the shade of lip color that works well for me.

I got into fingernail polish a few years ago and have several bottles of that along with polish remover, but stopped doing that after my boyfriend, who knows a lot about biology, discussed the kinds of toxins in nail polish and remover. What women do to look beautiful!

One friend recently suggested I might pluck or wax my eyebrows. ouch! I can endure pain, but I don't endure that kind of pain.

In many ways, Filipinos are obsessed with beauty, we love beauty pageants, and gowns. Parents want their children to have more pointed noses and fair fair skin (thank you esquinol). I've for the most part been a rebel to this level of beauty. In high school, I would have liked to been noticed by the guys, but had problems with how much work it took to get that notice so I stayed out of the socializing fray. We all know it's in high school that most girls really learn and obsess over this stuff.

But I think there's a line between pampering oneself to feel good and another to do it cuz well, that's who I think people want me to be. I know women who do the nails, do the plucking, exercise, cover all the bases in terms of getting ready for the guy, yet wonder why they don't have a guy. Sure, women do this to create this illusion the way Hollywood stars do, but we ourselves can't get entranced by it as well. These are not guaranteed means to an end. Yet the world tells us this is so.

So, I'm here, sitting on a chair, my feet soaking in stirring bubbles in a bath below thinking about issues of beauty while the Essence magazine cover implies they know why "he won't marry you" followed by hair and makeup tips for the upcoming season. I must say, soaking tootsies in a warm vat is rather relaxing. Hits all the right pressure points.

The manicurist files away to shape my nails and round them out. She follows with small short clippers tugging away at the dead skin around them. Dead skin is not pretty. The sensation reminded me of the tiny cold water fish in Camiguin that nibbled on your skin if you sat still enough.

A lot of people think toes are ugly, yet they are essential to our being. How do we hate parts of ourselves that are us? I like my toes. I like walking barefoot. Even hiked for two miles on a trail barefoot. It's nice to feel the earth between your toes. There is a gentleman in the chair next to me getting a pedicure. I learn later he's 45, has a son at Tuskeegee and is a nurse. He certainly deserves a pedicure in his line of work being on his feet all day.

Over the bubbling water, she asks, "what race you from?" I ask her to repeat the question having slightly fallen into my own thoughts. "oh," I answer, "Philippines. I'm Filipino."

"ah, yes. Vietnamese and Filipino look lot the same." "yes, we do. We look the same."

She finishes by rubbing oil into my toes, exfoliating my soles (so ticklish), and a bit of a foot massage. The feet are said to contain pressure points for much of the body: organs, lungs, heart, etc. I can feel the rest of my body relax. She puts the foam separators in my toes. I ask her to paint my toes purple. They end up a bright pinkish purple with a shiny coat.

When she's done, I move to another table to get my hands done in the same fashion, while my toes cool in a fan breeze.

I look at my hands and think, "I'm never going to be a hand model." There are rough spots on my knuckles, slightly callused from hitting stuff, lighter colored knife knicks and scars, the vein on the top of my hand raising ever so slightly to show it's shape. My mother told me, it's a sign of tired hands. My fingernails are of uneven length. A hangnail still sits on my thumb. I tend to let them grow until they break. I always wondered if jamming my fingers in basketball ever made them shorter. But I've been told I have fingers the shape of candles, "parang candila" they say. My toes too are long, like my mother's pinching toes that can kurot you as quickly as picking up a fallen napkin from the floor.

I ask the manicurist to paint them red to match my outfit for that night. She finishes by brushing the edges of cuticle with acetone to wipe up the spill over, then leaving me to hold my fingers in the fan.

They're really pretty. All bright and shiny. They don't look like my hands or feet anymore. I try to not touch anything while the nailpolish dries. I feel like I've been pampered. No wonder women do it every 2 weeks or so. I don't think I could afford that, but I can understand why they might want to.

My boyfriend waits for me while reading "Reader's Digest." We have dinner reservations at the Claremont at 6:30p. We figure, might as well enjoy a lovely meal before the reunion just in case, it's boring. You can't go wrong.

Even while typing this blog, I watch my nails dance in and around the black keys. It's funny how fascinated I am by them. I wiggle my toes, watch the light change and sparkle. It's silly really, but fun from something so small.

The next day, my nails survive kali class. I head over to a girlfriend's house that evening, drama with the boyfriend and she needs help packing. We both know that she'll survive this, but its the moment that is hard. While she showers, I tape boxes. The packing tape gets stuck to my nails. I wonder if it'll pull the color right off. dang! When she gets out of the shower, I joke to her and say, "I must really like you, cuz I'm about to ruin my brand new manicure taping up boxes." She's like, "I'm sorry, Girl!" I just smile and laugh, "Just kidding! I can always get another manicure."

I can't get another friend.

Bullwinkle's Corner

Bullwinkle: Hey Rocky, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat.
Rocky: Again?!
Bullwinkle: Nothing up my sleeve.
ROAR! (roaring animal pops out of hat)
Rocky: Now, here's something you'll really like!

Every early morning, me and my sister would wake up for the early morning cartoons. Obviously I was still young enough to enjoy waking up that early in the morning. One the cartoons we never missed was "Rocky and Bullwinkle."

"Rocky and Bullwinkle" introduced us to Fractured Fairytales, Peabody's Improbable History, and the Canadian Mounties with Dudley Do-Right. Little did we know how they were worping our views of the way the world really told fairy tales.

Browsing through the Costco DVD section, we came across Season One of Rocky and Bullwinkle. ooooooohhh! It was only til later on how I realized how genius the cartoons are in terms of being entertaining for kids yet throwing in jokes that "adults" could pick up as well. Even now, their silly spontaneity and goofiness sparks laughter. Bullwinkle was the innocent genius before Forrest Gump.

"Rocky and Bullwinkle" was set up like a 30 minute variety show with different segments. They understood the attention span of 5 year olds. Each story line was broken up with a cliffhanger ending.

Anyway, one of the segments was called Bullwinkle's Corner in which Bullwinkle recited a poem and enacted its words which of course ended up a big silly mess. For instance, he would recite, "little miss muffet" and Bullwinkle would be the Miss Muffet while Rocky questioned what a tuffet is and would fill in as the spider roll.

In some ways, it was my first exposure to a poetry reading and what poetry is. I would later recognize some of the poetry as coming from the classic English poets, but in cartoon form it wasn't so distant or detached from my life.

CorpsePoetics as Chaffeur

David "keep your seatbelt fastened" Hess is a brave brave man.

Check Eileen's blog about the poetry blog party. I'll try to make it earlier next time, so I can match more names to faces.

when the gloves come off
for Rita (2-3 2KO)

They had called me a man once, for wanting to fight, to fight for money. I remember the first time they let me into a ring against another person. It was a guy. I was the only woman in the gym. I didn't do this for the "exercise." I wasn't a part of the kickboxing cardio class. I wanted to fight. It's about the competition. It's about picking yourself up, about fighting past the pain. He didn't want to hit me. He was a good kid. Got raised right by his mama not to hit girls. He let me have a few blows, but when I stunned him with a right cross, the pools of light in his eyes shifted. It was about honor, about manhood, about not getting beat by a girl. Each hit came down in a deep thud. It was all I could do but ride the ropes and take it.

I don't remember the punches hitting. I don't remember the sweat stinging my eyes. I don't remember the sounds of the crowd. I don't remember seeing his face. I don't remember leaving the ring. I don't remember the doctor. I don't remember the ice bag. I just remember lying down in the locker room feeling like I fell out of the sky, like the fallen angels.

Later, complete strangers would show grave concern over my slightly closed eye. "Are you having problems with your boyfriend?" "Here, this phone number is completely anonymous." "How long has this been going on?" I didn't have the heart to tell them, "I told him to hit me."

My partner knows the routine of the 3 "I's": ice bags, iodine, and ibuprofen. Even the slightest touch from her softest hands makes my body wince. In the ring, my body was numb, but here now it retells each blow and I cry like watching a good drama serial. I know she wonders "why?" and the only answer I can give is, "because I have to."

Asian American stand up comedy this Sunday, August 24 8pm

Check it out, head on out to Kimball's East, that's right come on over to the east bay for some seriously funny stand-up comedy. The line up includes: Kevin Camia, Leah Eva, Joey Guila, Jasper Redd, Oliver saria, Bernie Sibayan, Mario Ubalde, Sheng Wang, Brent Weinbach, and hosted by Al Manalo.

Tickets are $12.

Because you understand the fight in me, Part III

A year ago, a friend put a bug in my ear, "I've always wanted to watch a boxing match." I remember watching boxing matches on TV. My grandfather would circle them in red ink in the newspapers tv guides along with the other shows he faithfully watched, "Sanford and Son" "Lawrence Welk Show." Before boxing was a regular tv programming with Howard Cosell and his lovely matted hair on the "wild, wild world of sports." But since the scandals and corruption, and the perceived "violent nature" of it, it's be relugated to the Spanish channels or late night tv on a non-major station.

The thing about boxing is that we hate to admit that we enjoy watching two fighters pummel each other. Yet, we watch hockey and football. But for some reason unless they're padded like a mattress, it doesn't seem "right" for us to enjoy watching it. I have no shame. I like boxing.

I like it the way Romans like Gladiator fights. I like the drama, I like the strategy. I like the athleticism to avoid one strike, while finding the opening to another. I like the courage of facing one's fear. Do they fall for the fake? Do they remember to do what their coach tells them? Boxers have some of the smoothest feet out there. There's a certain grace and style to it. The lighter weight matches are fast and furious while the heavyweight battles are like giants battling in the heavens.

So, I was a bit surprised this friend of mine, who isn't much of a sport fanatic, wanted to watch boxing. But, always going with the flow, I said, hey if you want to go, I'll go with you. Thus bringing me to today.

I've been searching for boxing matches to go to. Ideally, Las Vegas would be the place to go, but Vegas is expensive! You're talking $100 to get in the door and nowhere near close to the ring. My friend wanted ringside. We'll have to look at no name events then.

A few days ago, I get a call from my boyfriend. He reads off this sign in Spanish. Live Saturday Nite Fights at the Oakland Coliseum. "Wanna go?"

Ooooooh! yeah!

I email my friends, but no one can go today, so my boyfriend said he'd go with me. See, this is how I know my boyfriend LOVES me dearly, he goes to a boxing match with me. Though i wouldn't mind a dress up gourmet meal, he knows that I couldn't really care much for jewelry or perfume nor the regular "chick flick."

I'm still looking out for boxing matches to go to with my friend. But my BF and I decide to go and check this one out at the Oakland Arena. There are five scheduled fights. The main attraction is a boxer by the name of Celaya from Salinas. The promotions were sent mostly to the Latino community, about half of the boxers were Latino.

Incidentally, Tuhan (my martial arts teacher) knew of the guy. Celaya's trainer is married to his cousin. There you go 6 degrees of Pinoy separation. We'll get more into the Filipino-boxing connection in a bit.

We get there an hour early by BART. But the matches are delayed an hour due to traffic and waiting for the ambulance. I think they were just stalling to get more of a crowd in. The boxing crowd was interesting. There were rows of old timer white men, whole Latino families (fathers with their sons and a few daughters), there were those dressed up as if going clubbing with their chains and rings, then the women dressed as well as if going on the night on the town in tight sexy outfits and heals, then regular joe-schmoes dressed in shorts and tshirts.

We watch them set up the ring. The referee leaning against the ropes to test out their strength. The distinctive ring bell sounds. A bright metal bell sits on a table at the side of the ring, the timekeeper puts on a distinctive black and white striped shirt. It's all about fashion and flash in boxing. The referees are dressed in business blue shirts with black slacks and neat bow ties, you wouldn't think they were getting ready to push a pair of sweaty boxers arm's length apart. Later one we'll see the boxers in basic black, shiny silver, velvet red, hot pink, and fire engine red colors.

There are 5 fights tonight, most of the their career records seem unmatched. A few young pros with only a handful of fights to their name, then a couple of old timers, with 40-50 fights. First two fights are junior middleweight, the third is a women's bout, fourth are the heavyweights, and the last the named title round.

The announcer in his finest tux comes to stage and announces the first bout. The bell rings after each of the introductions: the judges, the refs, the timekeeper, and him. Rap blasts over the sound system as the first fighter comes out. Next, mariachi music comes on as the second fighter approaches. more later...

Because you understand the fight in me, Part II

Just got back from Tuhan's (my kali master's title is Tuhan, which means master) seminar. He held it at a Cayuga Park in San Francisco. Cayuga is in the not so nice area of San Francisco, off of Geneva and sits under the BART tracks. It is here that this Hawaiian Filipino guy who had never carved wood his entire life, starts finding faces in the stray wood he finds, eventually erecting an entire wonderland of tree carved faces and animals. It's very enchanting.

We just so happened to be practicing next to on the them that looked like a stickfighter, his hair tied and waving behind him holding a stick in each hand crossed. "too wierd" my teacher says.

This class was special. A lot of the older Guros/Teachers back from when I was just beginning were there with some of their students. There were other kali folks I hadn't seen in ages as well. It was good to see them. One of them brought his daughter and month old baby! When you give up your body a few hours a week to these people and they give theirs to you, there's a connection. I always love seeing them and seeing how they're doing and hoping the best for them.

I arrived a bit late over the bridge (accident totaled a VW bug) with one of my students. As we approached the group, one of the other Guras greeted us happily, "yay! More girls!" as I looked around to the big tall buff guys practicing techniques.

We got through the morning practicing the various techniques Tuhan shows us. It's Saturday morning. I haven't been up this early on a Saturday morning in a long time. My control is just a bit off as I apologize to my partner for pegging her a touch too hard. When you practice for accuracy and control, you know when you are off and when you are on.

As others come in, the pairs are uneven and I practice on my own a bit watching. I learn a lot from watching people practice, see what they've picked up from what Tuhan is saying. No one ever gets it the first time. I still don't get a lot of it and I've been doing it for a few years. It's also just a beautiful style to watch, the sticks float and bounce in and around the bodies, quite graceful. The BART train passing overhead drowning the normal soundtrack.

Near the end of class is time to spar. A lot of the guys were from the old San Francisco class that I started in. That was a fighting class. They were younger, in their 20s and could bounce up faster. They would wrestle to the concrete. Tuhan would have to yell for them to stop before they went too far, before someone got hurt.

In those old classes, the women would mostly watch. Every now and then Tuhan would throw us in. I was in my early 20s then with little muscle mass. I got good at deflecting shots, but Tuhan would always yell at me to hit them and hit them so they could feel it. It's the only way for women fighters to show guys you're not a pushover. You have to get your hits in, you have to hit them so they feel enough pain to know, "yeah, you would have gone down." It's easy for the guys to overpower me. Their hands wrap easily around my wrists. Tuhan told me to hit them for years and years before I started figuring out how to do it right.

But it's been a while since I've seen them and they've seen me. Tuhan sends me out with a staff to defend a stab with the staff. I'm off and it takes me a while to get into a groove and defend properly. As I fall into that groove, the targets become clearer: deflect, hand, knee, ankle, calf. The staff reaches each target as if knowing what I mean with the precision of my own finger. This is warm up.

Tuhan switches people in and out. Open hand, sticks, staffs, push hands. I play with another Guro, more recently appointed, and the play is smooth. I play with one of the older ones open hand: the strikes are strong, but my body is stronger now. I try different techniques to get a shot in on him. His biceps are twice as big as mine. We're able to get a fair trade of strikes.

A few other people go. The two Guros from back when go against each other using the heavy mahoghany/kumugung sticks. It's getting dangerous but they have trained together for so long, it's an easy dance for them, they know each other's moves.

Tuhan sends me out with one of them. I left my other sticks in the car and I have to use someone else's weapon. Though light, the grip is big. I can't be as accurate with it nor manipulate it as fine. I strike for him. In this drill one strikes the other defends. After a while you can't tell the difference. Tuhan tells me to throw change ups (in other words, "hit him, trick him"). I do as he says. Now we're getting more into the sparring fighting. It gets intense. He's hitting hard and so I make sure my tags have a bit more on them.

I was taught, that if a guy is going to hit you, hit them back. A stab here, a strike to the hand there. He wants to end the fight and goes for a stick lock to a joint maneuver. I haven't been able to figure out how to get out of a man's power, I can't really stop it from coming. If he grabs me, he grabs me. I can feel the grip on the lock, the pain rising to my shoulder. My free hand cocks back, elbow high, and comes down on his face, right on his nose. The collective "oohs" from the group watching pull me back quickly realizing where I am. His head rocks back a bit, he's stunned but doesn't let go of his grip. "Sorry" I say, before he sweeps my foot out from under me. He storms off with a not so nice look. A kind of look that makes you watch your back. I pick myself up off the ground where he left me, "Sorry. reflex." and shake his hand.

A couple of more matches and we close out and bow. We chit-chat and laugh with folks. No hard feelings. This is what we do. This is what we sign up for. Count the bruises on our hands and shins. It's alright. They heal.

A handful are left with Tuhan. He asks me, "did you do it on purpose? hit him in the nose?" "I just wanted him to let go," I say. "Boy, he was pissed, but he shouldn't have lost it with you." "What was I going to do, Tuhan? He was 'hitting' me, it's not like he was going soft!" "Yeah, he was hitting you, you could see it. He always gets so competitive with you."

"He's mad, cuz she's a girl!" proclaims the other Gura. The other woman and I smile, we know what she means. The other two women were kind of glad to see me get a lick in. It means that if you can't mess with one, you can't mess with any of us. Going through the years of training, there was always a special bond with the other women. When they went out to spar with the guys, it was our fight too. When she got hit, we got hit. But when she got one in, it was all of ours to share. When another woman gets a shot in, it makes you believe that much more that this might work for you, that you too might be able to get one in. Women learn to take the shots, last long enough so you can get one shot in, the one that takes them down.

In the moment, I couldn't really tell you what was going on or why I did it. All I know is that it was there, and I went for it. All I know is that I wanted him to let go. All I know is that, I didn't realize what happened til my hand hit his face. There's a part of me that says, if I'm going down, I'm going to get a shot in, might as well. I'd rather not go down easily. He had me on the lock. I wasn't going to pull away or get out of it. There's a reflex in my arm, that I have felt before. When I feel it, it goes.

Part of me felt bad cuz well, I should have had better control. Then again, he didn't get a bloody nose from the punch. Part of me was scared of him. Part of me said, well, this is what happens. Part of me felt I didn't have a choice, he was going to throw me anyway. Part of me replays it in my mind and thinks, damn, that's some fine kali.

Eileen, you're such a fine paduan lerner!*

Back track a couple of weekends to Saturday August 2. I'm sure Eileen has told you all about it already, but hey why not hear it again.

Way back when, Eileen took like 4 weeks worth of kali classes from me. She was a fine student, if not for her coordination, but it's the spirit of kali that she understood. So hard to find that nowadays. Most people think it's just a technique, a movement that can be diagrammed and calculated. Oh, but Eileen had a fine eye and always understood that behind the calculations and the thought there was a spirit to feel.

And that's part of the reason that I invited Eileen off the mountain top to join me. I mean, how could she say no to a woman who carries a VERY BIG sword? Besides, she knows one of the great mantras of a kali artist: hit them when they're not looking. And what better place to hit folks with poetry, but at a martial arts demo when they're not expecting it. In the same way, we've awed audiences before by bringing kali to a poetry stage (Small Press Traffic Jamboree). People don't think they want to see poetry, and that's ok, they're going to get it anyway.

So here we are, Sonoma State University's Gymnasium. I've only read her poems over email, so I have her read them once through so I can pick up key words and know when she's done. She finishes and I explain to her the audience: 300 women martial artists from the west coast. ie do not piss them off, they carry weapons.

Personally, I hate doing the same demo twice to the same audience. I'm all about switching it up. Give them something new and different to see. I get so easily bored myself, I'd hate to bore myself with my own repetitive demo. Yawn! Every association has their "standard" demo. In Filipino Martial Arts circles the demos consist mostly of repetitive drills followed by the teacher explaining every move then going slow, then fast. At PAWMA, the "standard" demo was drills with some dance movement, done with some kind of grooving music: salsa, latin, empowered woman song, little talking. And always the more people the better. These are just general observations.

But Kali is poetry and poetry is kali. I rarely have more than 5 people in a demo, mostly because I don't have THAT many students. It's usually just me and one or two others. That means whoever is out there must be THAT much better because all eyes are on them. In this discpline, I'd much rather be effective and efficient.

Prior to the demo we decide the order of poems. She will read one by herself, then I will enter and perform on the last three. Reading one by herself to open, it forces the audience to watch her and listen to her. It also allows the audience to become used to her voice so that way when they watch me, they can still hear her voice. I have to know the order because I need to know the emotional movement through the pieces so I can match the kali accordingly.

The demo itself feels like forever, though on tape it's only a few minutes. Whenever demos get long, it's hard to stay focused and I really need focus when I'm swinging a live blade around. I stumble backwards (though on the tape, you can't even tell) and at one point I'm resting the back of the blade on my neck and have the panic thought, "this is a single sided blade, right?" It's too much time and the mind starts to let the fearful thoughts in. But Eileen always tests my endurance to new levels. I think she took extra long pauses between poems.

Eileen is too busy juggling papers and microphone to be able to watch my movement. I don't stop to look at her either, which leaves only her sweet angelic voice to carry us through. I'm trying to find her rhythm and time the movements to her pauses and breaths. Our slower pace overall compared to the other demos forces the audience to take longer breaths as well, lulling them into this time worp we've created. Bring them back to a time when Gabriela Silang lived.

Kali is a form of anthropology for me. I come to recover lost memory. The blade I used was one from Mountain Province, antique and heavy. I wonder if Gabriela's blade was like this. I wonder if her hair went down to her elbows, and if her skirt kept her steps small. I wonder how many ways she may have killed Spaniards by her blade past their armor. I wonder if they combed her hair after battle to remove the tangles or wept in the apron of her dress then men she had killed and the ones she had lost. I wonder what drives a woman to continue on barely mourning her husband, only to die months later to join him.

We finish the demo. There's a bit of a pause from the audience, perhaps it's a collective exhale, then applause. We were mesmerizing. I think it was Eileen's long locks swaying to her breath that did them in.

I am thoroughly winded, look around to figure out where I am. I'm not used to doing kali for 4 minutes straight. It's such an intense art that demands every cell to be in the moment, that whenever I'm done, I'm not exactly sure where I am. Not unlike poetry, which asks me to be in the moment. Eileen always pushes me to go longer because though a kali student, she too is my teacher. Any good teacher knows the moment when to push their students harder, get them out of their comfort zone, only because the teacher knows they can, even if they don't. And as I promise, I always make her look good.

*paduan lerner - the first stage to becoming a Jedi knight.

And now back to our regular programming...

That ends the bulk of the Philippines 2003 trip. It's now August. A whole summer of other adventures have came and went. I may back track, I may not. stay tuned...

My Native Home

For breakfast Sunnie and I go to Cecil's house. She also works at MSU but has a weekend home in Cagayan. Her youngest son is there too. We have a delicious breakfast of longanisa, rice, fresh mango, puto, etc. They have 3 white cats. Cats in the Philippines are no where nearly as fat as American cats, even the house ones. Her cats had a lean look to them. White with sparkling blue eyes, except for one which had one green eye and one blue eye.

A taxi pulls up and Maui arrives. His girlfriend wasn't able to come, she wasn't feeling well. Though I've never met her, she seems to be quite a woman. I mean, he did leave for the U.S. for an entire year, with an indeterminable end date. My comment to him was, "and she took you back? must be true love." Plus, he refused all the proposals and advances from women in the U.S.

He hands me a book. Essays on the struggle of Indigenous Peoples in Mindanao published by an NGO (Non-Governmental Organization), what the rest of the world calls non-profits. My girlfriend thought you might like this book. I'm thinking, though we've never met, this woman knows me well.

We jump into a taxi and head to the ecovillage and wait for the DOT guy. We're hoping he can get us in for free. He is, afterall, the DOT guy. The road to the ecovillage is a long way off from the main highway. We're actually kind of scared that the taxi might not be able to take us all the way up, but we make it. While we wait, I txt Don, who is now back in Manila. I have a 6 hour layover in Manila and want to see if I can have dinner with them during the wait. I love txting. No yelling into phones. No worry about not being able to hear people over staticy lines. When you're in range it'll send, if not it'll wait.

The DOT guy arrives and we enter. It's not really my idea of what I thought an ecovillage would be like. There are 4 houses constructed by each of the four indigenous groups in the area, constructed in the traditional way. Then there are people from those groups who basically hang out at the house doing weaving, playing instruments, dancing. I think they live there. Then tour groups come by and watch them do stuff. It's a strange feeling I get here. In one sense, it's good that people are learning from the indigenous groups, in another sense, I feel like the 1904 World's Fair in St. Louis when Filipinos were on display. Well, that might be extreme, they're not forced to wear indigenous clothing or hunt in front of folks.

I guess this display was similar to when I was in Vancouver at the suspension bridge there and there was a woodshop where Natives were carving totem poles and other wood works. It was open so you could talk to them. But it had that living museum kind of quality. I still haven't been able to reconsile that feeling.

We enter each of the houses. All made of wood and thatch roofs. Because Sunnie and Maui had spent years traveling to the home areas of these indigenous people, they played music, danced and conversed with them on different things. The people seemed to appreciate how much they knew about them and their culture.

Though it was hot, all the houses with their angled roofs were cool with open frames that let the cool breeze pass through. Ang sarap! (it taste good). Certainly beats the tin ovens in the city, hollow block and tin. Tin and brick last longer and withstand the elements longer than grass roofs, but they're basically ovens. They don't breathe. I'd also hate to be in one during an earthquake. Forget it!

Maui says I should tell Rhett that he can come back and build a house just like this. I wouldn't mind living in a house like this. After a while you get used to the mosquitos anyway and no real need for tv. It would be cabin living in the tropics. I wonder if I could live here in the Philippines. Maybe not in one of these houses but do what Don and other friends who have come here to live do. The people I would meet, the places I could travel to.

There are other wooden houses on the property that people can rent out. They're really expensive, over 500 pesos a night. Yet, they are very nice abodes in a relatively remote place. It's not like you can get to the downtown nightlife from here readily.

There is a mini canopy walk what consists of rods for steps and 4 thin wires traversing two platforms about 20 feet up. Sunnie tries it first, you can hear him scream across the valley. This walk is a replica of an actual canopy walk that is nearby. But to get to it you actually have to do a wire slide to the platform. And the real platforms are 150 feet in the air amongst the tops of the trees. 20 feet is good enough for me.

You have to go slow because it shakes. They did this on purpose because school kids used to horse around, so they made it wobblier so it makes them second guess. That's it, make is less stable. Not something we would think about in the U.S. Let's make it less stable, so they won't goof off on it. Here, if you get hurt, well it was your own damn fault.

It's time for lunch. The taxi the DOT guy used is still waiting for us. As we head down the hill, we decide where to go for lunch. Someone offers, "KFC." Cagayan de Oro has a brand new Kentucky Fried Chicken. I have to protest that suggestion. I'm about to sit 14 hrs on a plane to a country where KFC is on every other block. I'm not about to eat it here. So instead, we head to a more Filipino chicken place, sit down and kamayan (eat with hands) style. This is more like it. Here, I get to order green mango salad with bagoong and roasted chicken and halo-halo. Might as well splurge on my last day here. That hits the spot!

Sunnie, Maui and I, split from the group and I say my goodbyes and thank yous to Cecil and them. Sunnie, Maui, and I pick up our stuff from the hotel and head to the airport. They're not allowed to go past secuirty. I give them both hugs goodbye. It hasn't hit me yet. It has been an amazing trip, that I cannot even comprehend it all.

I get through security and check in my box and luggage. I go through security to the waiting lounge. Apprently, lotion bottles are not allowed, so I go back to the registration desk. They let me into the back area where my bags are. They don't even verify if I'm going to the correct bag nor stay long enough to watch me put stuff away. What kind of security is this? And I can't take lotion on board? Yes, this is the Philippines.

Go back to security and I get through. I buy some last pasalubong items for my officemates. Get some last goodbye txts from Maui and Sunnie and Jun. As I wait for my plane, the goodbyes start to hit me. The last 18 days I've been so involved in the places that I've been in, just living and being in those places, and now I'm going home. My eyes start to tear up and I try to pull my emotions back. An domestic airport lobby is not an ideal place to be emotionally vulnerable.

To focus my mind, I take my journal out and write about the last few days. On the tarmac, a military helicopter hovers low to the ground looking for a spot to land. I remember Marawi and the sounds of bombs. As it looks for a spot, it turns and for a moment it faces the lounge, the guns on either side are pointed at us, at me. There is no real danger here. But for a moment, I imagine what it might be like to have these guns pointed at you day in day out. To hear the sound of helicopters in the early evening heading out to one of their "runs". I feel the fear enter my heart, I feel my face harden. I am reminded of one of JoeyAyala's songs, "Tutubing Bakal" (Metal dragonfly). He wrote it when on the beach with his son and the metal dragonflies crossed the sky and he felt this fear.

The helicopter turns hovers out of view and lands. In my mind flashes everything I've seen, smelled, tasted, touched, experienced in the last 18 days. I watch the helicopter out of view and think, "THIS is Mindanao."

There is something addicting about Mindanao. A sense of vibrancy in life you rarely feel anywhere else. This land has been tormented with strife and fighting for what seems like forever. There is an edge here. As if those who live here, live on an edge. The fighting that has lasted too long. Yet, the people here wonder why people fear this place so, this place that is home, where their hearts are planted well. So many contradictions. So many surprises. So enchanting, so amazing, so dynamic. There are not enough words to explain to someone who has not been there, what Mindanao is like. There are not enough words to describe the faces of the people here, their spirit, their diversity. The only way to know, is to be here, is to see it for yourself.

The boarding announcement has gone out. I walk across the tarmac to the plane. As we take off for Manila, I take one last look at the land below. It's as if I'm looking back through the looking glass and asking myself where have I been. I'm not exactly sure, all I know is that I want to go back.

Six degrees of separation Mindanao Style

I ask Maui and Sunnie who we are going to meet at Tribu. Sunnie says some Talaandig tribe musicians, a guy named Waway. I had heard that name before, Ros' good friend who she said I *had* to go and meet. She was even trying to get me to go to Davao with her then swing up through Bukidnon where the Talaandigs make their home. I wonder what forces in the universe are at play now. It seems like everyone in Mindanao knows each other. These activist/artist/cultural worker networks are intricately intermeshed. I guess I'm going to meet Waway afterall.

We enter and the musicians are already playing atop a walkway overlooking the club. We head to the back where some of the Kambayoka tour members are. I meet some more of Ros' friends, a visual artist from Cagayan de Oro. Next to me is also the Department of Tourism (DOT) guy for the region. I proclaim that I survived Marawi without a bullet scratch on me.

We drink some San Miguel beers with ice and listen to the music. Their traditional instruments consist of drums, a lute like instrument and a flute. They are all younger around their late 20s and 30s. Ros told me much about Waway and for his passion in preserving his people's passion.

We chat about how my trip overall went and what I did. The DOT officer said he will tour us around the ecovillage tomorrow morning. Their latest campaign is WOW Philippines (World of Wonders). I saw some of their ads when Dick Gordon, DOT head, was touring the US showing the videos, very splashy videos. I don't particularly like Dick Gordon. He made most of his money exploiting women in the Subic Bay area courting US Navy men. This also makes him perfect as the head of the DOT.

The musicians end their set and come to join us. I'm still pondering why I'm supposed to meet Waway, one way or another on this trip. Maui introduces us. And our conversation goes like this:

me: nice to meet you. Ros over at Tarzan's told me a lot about you. Said I should meet you.
waway: good meeting you.

That's it. And thus completes the Mindanao version of six degrees of separation. Maybe I'll work with him in the future.

The group hangs out a bit more, then we head back to the hotel. I need to finish packing. Tomorrow is my last day.