Cheers

The plan I hatched to become a misanthrope and live out the rest of my life in solitude amongst the rustling bamboos  and croaking tree frogs derailed when I found myself having such a great time catching up with old friends.  It is hard to maintain the stance of a cranky curmudgeon when you can't stop smiling and your night is full of jameson shots music and beats; everywhere you turn there are people you've known for years, and there is so much to toast to - its all high fives and bumpy knuckles left and right.  It is even harder when you are doing this in high heels dancing around and wearing a scandalous terry cloth jumpsuit.  Renouncing humanity is not as easy as it sounds when  the people that you know are so much fun.  So it appears that I have a few more years before becoming anything that resembles a grumpy old jerk.  Salud! to the good friends that I saw on my birthday, and to my cousin for making it happen.  I've been lucky to know and be close to some of the most soulful people on the planet during these 26 years, and its because of all this time we've spent out there in this city seeking out good music and dancing.

Gifted at Making People Mad

I wish this website had a section in your profile titled 'what makes you really mad', because it would be interesting to see what people say vs. what they live up to.  Mine would read "phonies, hypocrisy and people who pick on people I love."  Its probably not that simple though - people who've checked "in a relationship" are on a different level, and their section might read anything from "having my birthday forgotten" to "when girls hit on my boyfriend" to whatever sort of craziness blooms in that relationship.   That's a different sort of mad altogether, not so topically substantial as things that affect a larger world, but with all the passion of railing against things beyond our control.   

I have enraged a few people in my life, and it has always been over something extremely stupid.  My dad almost disowned me when I was eighteen for writing a poem on the basement wall with an oil crayon.  This was extremely strange to me at the time, considering the fact that in the same weekend, the rest of the house had been painted in bright Simpsons colors (flourescent pink, electric blue, and mustard yellow) and adorned with Hawaiin print curtains and berzerk tracks of paint all over the ceiling, and I had nothing to do with any of that.  Caught up in the creative frenzy, I inscribed a poem in the wall that I hoped we could all learn from.  For months he brought up "my disrespect for personal property" in his blackest moods, which was a total joke to me, especially with the parrot painting over his head and the bamboo curtain swinging at his back.  It was so unfair.   

At the skatepark, I made a sworn enemy for life for accidently taking a dude out when we dropped into the bowl at the same time.  I just happened to be crouched low and wearing a helmet and aimed directly at his chest.  I was actually aiming for the the curve in the wall behind him.  It happens all the time, and an every day sort of occurence at the skatepark.  People crash into me, I crash into them, its not personal.  If it was, the skatepark would be a total kung fu hustle situation, and the personal vendettas would never end.  After the collision I jumped up in a panic and tried to pull him up too.  "Get up homey!"   

"GET THE FUCK OFF ME, you bitch!!!"  He couldn't quite breathe at the moment, but he could shout.  I climbed out of the pool holding back my tears and almost cried in the corner just for being yelled at.  When he staggered to his feet after a few minutes, the pool was lined with skaters waiting with wide eyes and baited breath.  It was a very dramatic moment.  You've never seen anyone more pissed off.  I had never made anyone who wasn't related to me that upset, and never even seen anyone get that sort of mad. 

This is the sort of mental dialogue and analysis that was going on in my head at that very moment: "breaking out into sobs is totally inappropriate right now - don't do it - no crying - why do I feel like crying? - did he just call me a bitch? - what do I do now? - must be stoic - warriors don't cry - must bite insides of cheeks - must make face cool down - he is gonna hate me for life - I wish he knocked me out instead - should I just go home? - stupid tears, stop crying - this is the worst day of my life - bite lip harder."

So I skated away with a clamped jaw and saved the crying until I went outside for a cigarette. 

Later on that night after the skate session I got drunk enough to sing "Living on a Prayer" with G at the karaoke bar.  I really didn't even want to sing the song at all, but felt as though I should be a good sport.  I felt extremely creeped out midway through, when in the middle of the song - embarrassingly as I was in mid-falsetto shriek - I felt an evil stare slice through me.  The guy I ran into was chainsmoking and giving me an intense, voodoo look of hatred.  He thought I was having tons of fun, and he was completely mistaken.  I had to keep singing though and finish the song - I couldn't drop the microphone and stare back at him.  Divas don't drop the mike!  That would be weird.

But I could tell from his eyes that I had made an enemy for life without even trying.

Once I almost got into a fight in the elevator at Trader Joes, after I looked backwards and flipped off a guy on the street who said "You can't ride that skateboard" as I skated past him.  It was New Years Eve, and I was trying to pick up some olives and bread before a dinner party.  I had already done my hair and put on makeup so I was this weird mixture of dressed up and dressed down in skate gear.  There were two guys in their thirties, tube sock and sweatpants wearing meatheads, and they got into the elevator with me after I had been waiting for it, pressing the call button like fifty times.  I was stuck.  I pulled my hat over my face and held my board at my side.

"I bet you can't ride that thing."  He started it, and I had been looking at the floor trying to avoid all this.

"I bet I can ride it way better than you.  Because you have to be in shape to balance on it."

"I'd be acting really tough too if I had a weapon in my hands like you."

"It's not a weapon, but I guess I could hit you with it, and I am sure that it would hurt."

Looking into those eyes was like staring into a blank wall, and every muscle in his faced was getting harder.  I wondered what would happen if he did have a skate board and it was a fair fight.  His friend totally had his back at first, but as he peered over the dude's shoulder he had time to absorb the details.  I made eye contact with him briefly before I locked eyes again with his buddy, who had all of his defenses up in his face.  I am five foot two and small boned, I had diamond earrings on with my jeans and skateshoes, a fur scarf, mascara, eyeliner and lipgloss.  My hair was braided so that I could have curly hair when I got home.  I was in the midst of getting ready for a New Years party. 

My perfume filled the elevator, emanating off my sweaty neck as the staredown continued.  They were so confused, and I watched them grow uncomfortable.

"Wait, how old are you?" the friend said.

"How old did you think I was?"

"I don't know... we thought you were younger... he didn't mean it... I'm sorry."  I was chagrined by the idea of a younger version of myself in a never ending staredown up and down all of the floors with these two knuckleheads. He pulled the other guy away as the doors finally opened.  He was glad to be getting pulled away, but I think he was still pretty mad.  The friend looked back a couple of times and soon they disappeared.  That did not just happen, I thought to myself, before a smile crept across my face and I had to hide it.

Another time, a woman who was shopping in the boutique that I worked in blistered at my refusal to negotiate the price of a handbag with her.  She wanted to exchange a coat for a purse, but the coat was used and out of season and it was just shady. I didn't like her attitude - she just came at me with unjustifiable rudeness.  We were head to head just above the counter. 

"Just sell it to me for a hundred dollars!!!!"

"I can't do it."

"I...have...never! heard of a business that treats people this way!  I know a lot of women who shop here! How are you going to feel when I tell them that you are the worst salesperson that I have ever met?"  She hissed it like a snake, dragging out each syllable.

"I am not the worst salesperson you have ever met.  There's no way.  And you know, you can't get something for nothing."  I chuckled silently at the last part as I sang it in my head.   

It grew worse.  She was working herself up, and I just remained calm and still, and my refusal to react enraged her.  I was tuning her out and looked her dead in the eyes, which started to water as she furiously freaked out.  I was on the verge of kicking her out when she just stomped out, throwing the purse to the ground.  "You can't just come in here and start throwing shit," I said to no one in particular as I picked up the purse and dusted it off.

I have the terrible habit of making things worse when people get mad at me.  I have the unfortunate tendency to giggle when I am nervous, which has led to some terrible situations filled with shame.  I have it under control now, but when I was younger my standard reaction to someone getting super emotional to me was a smile I tried to hide and a giggle that I'd bury in my hands.  It was nervousness and just impossible to surpress.  I got suspended in high school for giggling when I got caught smoking - I know I could have gotten out of it, but I had a nervous problem with authority which came out as a horrible smirk.  I remember the look on one boyfriend's face when he realized that I was smiling as he was on an angry tirade.  I was so disappointed in myself.  He got so mad that he couldn't even talk, and the apologies flowed endlessly from me.  "I'm so sorry, I wasn't laughing at you! I swear!  I just can't help laughing in times like this!  I should be crying, I know!"  I felt like a genius in How to Make a Bad Situation Worse.  Cat Stevens is right: it is a wild world, and it is hard to get by with a smile.

I am sure there are people who live their whole lives and dodge confrontations elegantly throughout them, like old ladies and nuns.  People who don't do what I do and giggle nervously in the face of a fully charged individual, but defuse them.  I wish I could inspire the opposite of anger, but it appears to be an uphill battle.  How do people do it?  When I was a little girl, I never made anyone seethe with anger with just a word or a glance; I guess that I just am not sure how to handle the very adult responsibility of bringing out emotions in people.  The worst part is that I examine my intentions on a daily basis and try to be mindful and conscious of people's feelings so much, that it makes me neurotic.  Doing so is worth it though, because I know that when I make people mad it wasn't because I was trying to.  Even when I am driving, biking or street skating: I will yield to people, do what I can not to cut anyone off, maneuver around - whatever it takes not to get in anyone's way.  I control everything that I can and try to look out as much as possible, but it appears that there is still no way to avoid making people mad.  The things that make a person blow up come out of left field sometimes.  It weirds me out that even though I long ago vowed to devote my life to perpetuating goodness in this world, I could still bring about the full extent of people's ire in ways I'd never dreamed of. 

My Dog: a Defense

English bulldogs are known to have mild temperaments and a very gentle demeanor. This fact has lead to often speculated questions as to what made Quasimodo the dog that we've come to know him as. I guess when you spend your formative years as the mascot for a junior high wrestling team, going by the name of Nelson, your environment is bound to take over your true nature completely. I often picture his baby puppy year, his clean pudgy fur being tossed about amongst mildewy rolled up mats, jock straps and used Gold's gym sweatshirts. He obviously would have been the center of attention - he has always absolutely dominated every room he's ever entered with his magnetism. I suspect these junior high aged boys of having gotten too carried away with their baby bulldog mascot. Even I have been accused of too ardently adoring this dog, and I have self-control.

Where I come from, the local junior high wrestling team was a notorious bastion of homoerotic cruel depravity; I feel so bad when I think of Quasi being subject to, as a baby, the boundless perversions of those asics-wearing sweaty jerks, all hormones high voices and braces. I have always suspected those fuckers of animal cruelty - to this day Quasi flinches when you hold any sort of broom or stick in your hand. He even barks at the maglight (even as he fondly chases its beam around).

We adopted him when he was one and a half years old. He had been hastily put on sale by his previous owner - the wrestling coach - who had a problem with his "constant barking at night". Quasi had been relegated to only living in their garage and apparently the whole family was too allergic to him to play with him. That was their story, but I think what actually happened was that his puppy adoribility wore off and suddenly they had an angry, abused, frustrated, full-grown dog with a snappy jaw on their hands so naturally they ran screaming and unloaded him. And gave him to us.

When he first joined our home we set up the basement for him, thinking he'd enjoy it like a little dog bachelor pad, with its wet bar, fireplace, full bathroom, photographic wall coverings of tropical jungles and easy access to the garden. The only thing about the basement is that you can hear the footsteps and doors of every floor all over the house. He couldn't stand feeling left out and only lasted a few hours down there, none of us had the heart to ignore his urgent howling at the door.

He made short work of the antique couches and rare persian rugs that me dad tried in futility to protect, covering them in brindle colored fur. Overnight, the brass studded leather of the furniture took on a chewed and worn patina that made them look centuries old overnight as he made himself comfortable. We stared at him, thoroughly entertained, as he cagily explored the baroque nooks and crannies of the house. What didn't get destroyed in that house as the four of us grew up got slimed by his drool and covered with fur when he entered the picture. My dad's authoritarian boundaries were once more overwhelmed, to our amusement, this time by Quasimodo's cuteness.

His personality began to reveal itself slowly and his odd quirks and idiosyncracies that define him emerged as he got used to his surroundings. Most famously, he bit my brother on the lip when he was trying to remove a pen from his mouth. Out of nowhere. I skidded on a small puddle of blood one night one I walked through the front door, saw my brother reclining with gauze on his face and the dog sulkily peering out from under a couch, chewing on a pen. We had a problem on our hands.

Luckily for Quasi, his problematic personality, violent outbursts and tendency to snap meshed quite well in that house, which was full of strong-willed teenagers during that time. We looked at him in awe; we all had it in us to react impulsively, emotionally, totally irrationally and recklessly, some of us wrote the book on territorialism; but who'd be so bold as to just go and bite someone? And then just sit there coolly and casually?

Any other dog owner would have marched that Nelson straight to the nearest dog clinic and shook their heads in contemptuous judgement as the euthanasia needle plunged into his fur. But the bells of fortune rang harmoniously for Quasi during this time - a number of coincidences conspired to keep him alive. We chose to look the other way, and actually welcomed him into our family with six sets of open arms. First of all, my brother has sustained far worse physical traumas in his time than a dog bite, so luckily the next day it was all water under the bridge. He couldn't have found a better household to be a rowdy dog in. Secondly, his greatest survival skill is his charming personality. He is so cute that it is impossible for anyone to stay mad at him, much less plan and execute his demise. Or properly discipline him. Third, the chaotic nature of the household that he entered allowed this charming personality to not only blend in, but to perfectly compliment his surroundings. If we were the type of household that would go around euthanizing those of us who were prone to behaving badly, we'd all be dead.

A few people have rudely commented throughout the years, upon being growled at by him, that if he was their dog he'd have been put to sleep a long time ago. I am not sure why they would think I care when everyone is happy with the current arrangement. It is an interesting observation when I hear it though. He's got a more finely honed bullshit detector than anyone I know - people that aren't right with themselves are never right with my dog, and the slightest hint of phoniness sets him off. He's very gentle and meek with kind souls, although he may demand that they take him for a drive in their car by getting into the passenger seat and stubbornly refusing to get out. But thats a sign that he likes someone.

By the end of the first month he occupied the couches and under the tables of the first floor. He liked small nooks and crannies, and chose the best hide and seek hiding spots that we used as kids as his lookout points. After a month and a half, he had worked his way upstairs and slept on a velvet pillow in the middle of the bed in the master bedroom. After a few years and a few too many flatulent nights, he wound up getting sent back downstairs. But his message was clear: this is no basement dog. He decided early on in his life that he'd never tolerate being locked in a garage and treated like some junkyard dog. He has always been at the forefront of any action in the house, breaks his usual lazy routine when anything exciting goes down, sits upright in a chair at the dinner table when guests come over, leads the tours through the garden like a brindled fat rolling lion.

He grew into his name, skulking about the house like a nomadic spirit. When you pull into the driveway he perches stoically in the windowsill like a sentinel, with great dignity. He urinates on rare exotic trees and shits by a pond with weeping willows and reeds. He gets bathed in a sunny rock garden amongst irises and lilies and rustling imported bamboos. His greatest pleasure is an enigmatic blue ball that mysteriously appeared in the backyard one day, with which he passionately consorts with on the grass for hours. He takes his yearly vacation to Lincoln Park, where he explores the alleys and parks of the city and commands crowds of pedestrians and strangers, whose attention he benevolently tolerates. He's got the karma of a boddhisattva.

As touchy as he is about things like personal space and eye contact with strangers, he has no problem with being dressed up like a doll. My mother, sister and I share the clotheshorse gene and have not been able to resist outfitting him in the cutest dog clothes in his size. So its a good thing he's so photogenic and loves to model for the camera. He has a denim vest with a matching motorcycle cap that makes him look like the Village People's short bodyguard. He's got all kinds of versions of the classic bulldog studded collar. The best was when we found in an old pile of doll clothes a pair of white shorts that someone squeezed him into. I got him a taffeta Christmas collar with bells that has saved many tense and awkward Christmas reunions with the sheer comic relief of the sound of a jangly lumbering little reindeer dog. Mostly though he prefers a simple bandana around his neck, a look adopted from my older brother, who also likes to decorate the white fur of his head with every flavor of kool-aid.

He's kept up with his fighting skills throughout the years and its nice to know that he's not so spoiled that he's gotten soft. He used to love to chase cars and faced down every car that passed the driveway, until the day he got hit by a car. We all had to admit through our tears that he'd brought it upon himself and acknowleged truthfully that he had been asking for it, but he took the impact like a soldier. Actually, more like a tank. My older brother did not take it like a tank at all; he carried him in a panic to the local vet and demanded immediate medical attention. It was a state of emergency. He is quite a sturdy dog - upon examination, he was found to be a little bit bruised but not at all broken.

Now he just sticks to challenging geese, raccoons, deer and cats. He absolutely despises little kids, another effect of his early miserable life as Nelson. They always want to pet him and kiss him, but as they soon become terrified and start running, I couldn't honestly call it a fair fight. He loves other dogs, the only species that he instantly warms up to. Last winter he lost an altercation with a skunk under the car which left him traumatized. He ran berzerk around the house, rubbing himself against every surface of the interior before he could be doused with tomato juice. Sometimes at night he escapes the house for solitary adventures and comes home panting and covered with feathers. He also, very cutely, attempts to hide the bones that he gets under a pile of blankets on the couch, acting upon his primal instincts. As dogs go, he's a formidable wrestling partner. At 75 pounds he has a lot of weight to throw around. What he lacks in height though he makes up for by trying to use his teeth and bite, a dirty cheating technique that I used myself when I was a little kid. I don't mess with him anymore; I'm a lover not a fighter, and I definitely lack a boy dog aggressive mentality. I would rather lounge with him, brush his hair, scratch his neck and sing along to him as we listen to old school soul music and r+b, Quasimodo's favorite rhythms.

Quasi demands attention and affection more effectively than anyone I have ever loved. He just sits on my feet and whimpers until I hug him. Then he splays out contentedly like a frog at my side until its time to do something else. No emotional blackmail, no passive aggressive poutiness, no dramatic antics or weird mind games. That shit is for cat people. When he needs a hug or a kiss, he just tells me. I always take time to make him feel like the most charming cute dog that he is. I'd never hold it against him for being needy, he taught me that it is a natural animal thing to want attention and to be loved.

There's something comforting in knowing that a creature you love so much can fend for itself and not be vulnerably subjected to the whims of anything else. He's a survivor and a tenacious scrapper, definitely not easily defeated. Once he even bit a Burr Ridge cop and got away with it. He's carved out a space in this world, which I'm lucky includes me and my family, that he protects loyally like Cerberus.

April / May / June 2005

I am living in a cabin on a coral reef cliff with the ocean lapping at the foot of my bed, surrounded by landscaped paths of broken coral bones and flowering tropical plants and banana trees. Roosters from nipa huts around me wake me up in the morning before I snorkel to rinse off a night's worth of sweat from my hair and my skin. I collect my thoughts in a rope hammock swaying between banyan trees and wave down to the sea kayaks and outrigger boats that stop to say hello every morning.
I am not from here, but I am fully Cebuana by blood, and feel oddly comfortable in these surroundings. I am on a steady diet of fish, mangoes, bananas and rice.
My life revolves around a diving schedule, and I spend the hours in between expunging nitrogen from my blood, writing, smoking, training, stargazing and dreaming. The view beneath the water of life in the ocean stuns me every day. My friends are the fisherman and little girls of Panagsama Beach.