My Pops, the Music Man

My father is sixty-eight years old and owns a pair of leather pants. I suspect he gets a lot of use from them when he goes clubbing in Las Vegas. Oh, it’s not as seedy as you might think. He frequents karaoke clubs and fancies himself quite a singer. Did you know there are forty-two verses in “My Way”? In true Celine Dion fashion, that man can wring the life out of note till it’s going, going, gone.

I always suspected that my father had a “secret” life. Again, nothing illicit or in the least bit pulpy. He and my mother are the permanent stars of a little passion play I like to call, “Everything You Do Irritates Me, But I’d Die If You Were Gone”. And there are no understudies in that production. He’s just always been a night owl. He used to work the swing shift so his internal clock kicks into overdrive right around dusk. He has a penchant for maintaining an air of mystery. But I suspect that if I were to follow him around on one of his nighttime excursions, I’d find him chatting with Sam, his buddy the barber, at the all-night donut shop run by a couple of older Filipino ladies.

On the nights where he’s not “gallivanting” over a few dozen donut holes, he’s most likely in the queue, waiting to sing at one of his regular karaoke clubs. With his chest puffing out just a bit, he’d recount how the patrons of the club begged him to sing “just one more song”. The volume of his voice would inexplicably increase as he would describe how people would ask to shake his hand after a particularly moving set of Filipino folk song favorites. Make no mistake, my father’s not a one-trick pony. He’s a musician, too, through to the skin.

Walk into my parents’ house and the first thing you’ll see is a drum set in the living room. A small, electric keyboard is off to the right, next to the silk flower arrangement. Across from the keyboard are a couple of guitars, one electric and one acoustic. A small amplifier is attached securely to a metal luggage wheely-thing with bungee cords. On some weekends, he loads up his blue Toyota Corolla, packs his guitars and his amplifiers, his mics and mic stand and wheels himself off to “gigs”, maybe church or association functions. He enjoys making music and entertaining people.

He’s a good “play” Dad, my father. If I want to know about what mutual funds I should invest in, I’ll call Charles Schwab. If I start to hear a funny pinging sound in my engine, I’ll give the good folks at Art’s Automotive a call. If I want to know about how the new Bay Bridge construction is spiraling out of control, I’ll read the Matier & Ross column in the Chron.

But when I need guitar accompaniment and help on how to put my own special spin on Tammy Wynette’s “Stand By Your Man”, my Pops is the only man I’d call.

The Next Filipino Serena Williams

Yesterday, I held a tennis racket in my hand for the first time in seventeen years. The last time I “played” tennis was when I was eight years old in a park by my cousin’s house near the Cow Palace in the City. If you consider hitting a tennis ball against a wall and actually making contact with it twenty-five percent of the time, playing…then I played. In my little eight-year-old delusional mind, I was the next Filipino Chris Everett. In reality, I was just thwacking balls and I spent most of the time chasing after them, swearing like an eight-year-old truck driver (“Fudge! Shoot, dog! Stupid, mother-scrubbin’ball!”).

Perhaps it’s my poor vision but I think it would help my tennis game if the balls were bigger. They’re just too small to see properly, let alone hit. The bright green color helps but if they were the size of say, a bocci ball, I think I’d stand a chance of hitting them. I feel the same way about most sports with small objects as targets—golf, hockey, baseball. Make that ball or puck the size of a small cantaloupe and I might gain proficiency in this lifetime. Watching the games (or matches, tournaments, what have you) on television would certainly be easier for me to follow if I could locate that puck on the ice as easy and as often as a hockey player swings his stick at another player’s head.

My S.O. and I caught the last hour or so of daylight at the courts at Laney College in Oakland. There were two main areas, each area housing five or six courts. The “smoother” courts, the newer ones without cracks in the ground, were occupied. The older courts had a long crack running across them and were obviously less desirable. Balls would invariably hit them and fly off at funny angles (as I would soon discover).

Less prone to fantasy than my younger self and a bit more (but not much more) grounded in reality, I had no desire to embarrass myself with my lack of tennis acumen. In kickboxing class, I often have to look away from beginners still learning, who flail their arms and kick their legs in funky, jerky ways. I lack a good teacher’s patience, one who is willing to slog through an ear-splitting, chalk-board-scratching version of a novice violinist’s “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”. As much as I know the learning process is often the richest part of any journey, yesterday, I just wanted to skip it and get to the good stuff already.

I relegated myself to playing on the “Siberian” courts, lest someone view my tennis playing as unforgivingly as I viewed a beginner’s kickboxing. My goals were simple (“See the ball. Hit the ball.”). But increased in complexity (“Hit the ball, over the net”) and specificity (“Hit the ball, over the net, in the court you’re playing on!”).

By the end of it, I hadn’t done as badly as I had anticipated. At least I made racket-to-ball contact, more times than I had when I was eight, anyway. I secretly declared it a worthy sport in my mind and one I wouldn’t mind trying out again despite the fact that I have absolutely no hope of being the next Filipino Serena Williams.

GUEST CONTRIBUTOR - BETH

What Should I Wear Today?

I wear my heart on my sleeve and I’ve always wondered how that expression, came to be. My sleeve is sometimes long with large cuffs, sometimes blue, sometimes has dry ink or wet snot running down it. Perhaps a stain the dry cleaners (what is Martinizing anyway and can someone PLEASE explain why it costs three times as much to dry clean my slacks as it does the same slacks as a man?) cannot remove and if so, I get a little, colorful sticker placed around the hanger, announcing the inability to remove said stain.

My sleeves can be cotton, silk, spandex and linen, etc. When I wear linen, can you see that my heart worries about the fine lines appearing around my eyes? For example, can a stranger tell what’s in my heart at that moment and I fear aging? Or do they just see a wrinkled, linen sleeve? Do women who wear cotton sleeves have or had (once or twice) the opportunity to use them to absorb semen dribbling down their thighs after making love on a swing set at 2 am in the park? Thank God it’s dark at 2 am and hopefully there is no one around except yourself and your lover to read the emotions on that sleeve.

Occasionally I roll my sleeves up to the elbow. Does that mean I only want you to know half of my heart and I am hiding the precarious part which folds up my deepest secrets? Sometimes I have no sleeves, does that mean I have no heart or does it simply mean for today, I am going to make a brave attempt to let as little emotion be revealed as possible? I think I will try this: sleeveless vs. sleeve – heartless vs. heart – emotionless vs. emotion, as an experiment, yes, a secret experiment. Oops, too late, I’ve just “sleeved” myself and divulged my plan.

It would never work anyway as my girlfriends know my heart. Nice try they would say, but your sleeve is snagged on your ex-boyfriends heart. But don’t worry, once we pull the red thread, it will unravel itself, not only until the snag is gone, but as women together, we continue to gently pull, and the thread un-loops itself enough times that your sleeve will no longer be caught, causing the same rippling and damage as the last blouse you loved so dearly did. The only piece left will be the red fluff reminding you that once you’ve cut the damaged sleeves off (and your best seamstress girlfriend sows the seams together), spring is here and you’re fucking glad that snag was there to begin with (even though you thought you could fix it by yourself, silly girl) because going sleeveless in spring is as wonderful and necessary as wearing sleeves again in the fall!

I’ve decided to ask the cleaners if they can sell me the white, protective pieces of paper they drape over the metal coat hangers. Do you think they will safeguard my heart as well as my sleeves? Alas, those knowledgeable Martinizers will probably secure safety pinned notes (to each piece of tissue paper) stating, “I am sorry, we’ve tried and tried to remove the stain from your garment but have been unsuccessful.” Thank God there are more dry cleaners!

Speaking Softly

Tomorrow I get am getting down with my culture. No, it’s not Pistahan 2005 at the Yerba Buena Gardens. No, I’m not taking a conversational Tagalog class at the local adult school (though it is one of my life’s Must Do list). A Filipino “guru” teaches a kali class by the bird estuary at Lake Merritt. He charges $20 a class and M and I have been looking forward to it all week. Kali is a Filipino, pre-colonial martial art in which you wield a 28-in heat-treated bamboo stick as a weapon. Supposedly, a blind princess invented it and you learn to read a person’s energy to detect their next move before making your own.

It’s quite beautiful to watch, not as violent-looking as you might think. Twirling the stick once, twice, three times, then striking! Wow. If the only thing I learn to do is that, I’d be happy. M’s only taken one class but she already moves through the twelve basic strikes like a pro. She came back from her first kali class, her eyes wide and her head slowly nodding up and down, “It’s fun, May…” As if to say, Uh-oh, I feel a new obsession coming on…After our regular kickboxing class, we duck into the service hall of the gym where they store equipment, hoping we don’t trip the alarm when we bust through the door. I make M stand in front of me so I can ape her movements as she strikes her imaginary enemy’s left shoulder and slices diagonally through his torso. That’s the “one” strike. There are twelve basic strikes, the last ending with a strike that looks similar to a matador’s strike to a bull, stick in one hand, knife in the other, lunging forward with clean stabs to temple and eyes.

Practicing these moves, my body’s tempo slows down and I feel as though I’m moving through molasses. Kali requires me to call upon a different energy. It’s calmer, more controlled, rationed out slowly, like the steady drip of an IV. When I kickbox, my head bobs and weaves, I’m shifting constantly on the balls of my feet; my body’s locomotion fueled by frenetic energy and adrenalin. Four years of practicing muay thai kickboxing and my natural defensive position is to stand left foot in front of right, feet slightly shoulder width apart, shoulders hunched forward. In kali, I’m upright and my shoulders are squared up. My feet inch closer together, for better pivoting. I strike my imaginary opponent’s ankle, then knee (strike nine), pivot, then their other ankle and knee (strike ten), pivot again, then across both knees (strike eleven). The guru says the stick should become an extension of your body and suddenly, miraculously, I feel my arm’s reach become four feet long.

During class, I watch the guru as he and a student perfrom a drill where he follows the student from behind, checks his strike then counterstrikes with a series of blows to the shoulders, knees, and ankles. Muay Thai movements, in comparison, can be so flashy, so over-the-top, with face-crushing knees to the head, flying roundhouses, and bony elbows intent on breaking noses. The guru’s strikes are small, barely perceptible and lightning fast; faster than any jab-cross-hook combination one could ever throw. I am struck by the fluidity and grace of his movements; his body best expressing the art of kali. I observe in silent anticipation, and wonder when I will be become fluent in the same language.

GUEST CONTRIBUTOR - MARGARET

Dear Readers, Get ready for another treat! It's contagious, no? One's desire to express oneself...It's the little moments I find so interesting. Margaret paid attention to a "little moment" on Saturday and had to share it. And I'm so glad she did! Enjoy.

GUEST CONTRIBUTOR - MARGARET

What I Think About When I Should Be Working

I've had a series of interesting experiences of late. It started with a conversation with Andre which brought into focus the question regarding whether people were inherently good or evil. Why can't we be inherently both? Is Hannah Arendt right when she pondered the "banality of evil"? Evil doesn't have to be on a grand scale, but more importantly it doesn't have to be the choice we make. The conversation reminded me of a story about Wilma Mankiller, the leader of the Cherokee Nation. She was giving a talk and on this occasion she wore a beautiful, ornate choker decorated with two wolves' heads made out of abalone shells. At one point in the evening, a member of the audience asked her what the wolves' heads represented and she said, "One represents good and the other evil." The man then asked, "Which one is winning?" Wilma Mankiller paused and thought for a moment and then replied, "Whichever one I feed the most." Whichever one I feed the most.

Yesterday I was given the opportunity to witness a handful of teenagers chose selflessness over their own desires (or perhaps selflessness was their desire) and it was a humbling experience. It was an invigorating experience. I supervised a donation drive the students organized as part of their Senior Project graduation requirement. Months of preparation went into this event. Numerous little touches from homemade brownies to specially made CDs and a slide show were in place to greet the generous spirits who were to arrive bearing their offerings. However, excited anticipation was in danger of dissolving into disappointment as time ticked by and no crowd showed. Yet the students resisted giving in to such a hopeless emotion. Every new face was met with enthusiasm and gratitude as people trickled in now and again. Between "drop-offs" the students wandered in and out of the school cafeteria where the drive was being held, simply enjoying each other's company.

About an hour and a half into the drive, I found myself looking out the double doors of the cafeteria at the gorgeous day and began wishing I could be outside...especially since we've had so many dreary days recently...how silly...I would simply be inside at KB...but I was giving up my "social hour" I told myself...although I had just seen people earlier that day and knew I was going to see friends Sunday morning...OK then, at least I could have brought papers to grade instead of wasting my time mindlessly waiting for the minutes to tick by.

And then it happened. The kids came back inside and began kicking the balloons that had been scattered about the floor as decoration. The song on the CD changed. It was louder, more upbeat. The kids began running and jumping about...alternating between trying to "nail" each other with the balloons and just trying to keep the balloons from hitting the ground...don't let it touch...now only use your feet...then only heads...the beat of the music kept pace. They leapt and twirled, giggled and screamed with sheer delight. It was contagious. As adults walked in they could not help but smile as they watched the soon-to-be adults behave like the children they still are...and I realized, standing there with a grin that stretched from ear to ear, that by choosing to focus on what I "thought" I was "missing" I almost missed what I actually received that day.

I was once told that the Chinese characters for "mindfulness" actually translate "presence of heart." That is what I witnessed Saturday. We tell our children that they can make a difference if only they act on their good intentions...but what are we, what am I, doing to make a difference? I was not "losing my Saturday," I was sharing theirs. They allowed me to be a part of their day of giving. How foolish I was to bemoan my "lost time." What better way to spend my time?

Po' Folk Like Me

Friday, March 11, 2005 is my last official day at the Company. Monday, March 14, I will be unemployed. Again. It’s my own decision. This time, I can’t blame the Company for laying me off or re-orging me out of a job. This time, I left because the job was not a good fit for me. There were many other compelling reasons, I assure you, but I’ll leave it at that. Being a child of this economy and unfamiliar with the 10, 20, 30-year career employees of yesteryear, I have never considered it a blot on someone’s resume if they have had, shall we say, a dynamic, work history. Of course, a prospective employer may not hold the same opinion.

The prospect of being unemployed does not petrify me, as much as it does most people, I think. I have no outstanding debt or loans, very low rent, no car note, no children, good teeth, good health, good credit and if worse comes to worse, I can survive on baked tofu, cottage cheese, fruit and nuts. And chocolate. Schargenberger chocolate. I know I’ll never be homeless (Hi Mom!) and I know what the state of unemployment feels like. I’ve been there. I’ve lived there. Pretty comfortably, too, all things considered.

First off, there’s no room for pride when you’re on a budget. SBC runs a program called the Universal Lifeline Program. It exists so that low-income residents (po’ folk) can get a significant discount off their phone service. Chanel, a very personable and pleasant service rep, signed me up for it today. She was waaay nicer than I ever was with my customers at the Company. I think I’ll be paying something ridiculous like $2.50 a month. And of course, once you go DSL, you can’t go back to Dial-Up for your Internet access. Two phone calls later, I managed to cut my telecom and Internet budget to warrant a $420 savings by the end of the year. Hey, that’s the price of plane ticket to Machu Picchu!

Second, erase any images of yourself tooling around town in your brand new silver Mini Cooper. Temporarily. I am currently without wheels and for about a minute, entertained the idea of getting a zippy little car that could whisk me and my S.O. away for weekends in the Napa Valley. For now, if I get a jones for a nice bottle of red, I’ll hop into my Mom’s ten-year old Acura and jet on over to my local BevMo. A good trick is to start off with a decent bottle, then work your way down to the Two-Buck-Chuck wines at Trader Joe’s. I’ve found there’s no discernable difference in buzz factor, after four or five glasses.

Third, accept that you’ll have to hustle to make ends meet but enjoy the time off from a “real” job. I’m fortunate that the sweet ladies at Ascot Temporary Services have labeled me a “good” temp. I’ll get assignments here and there, be able to pay rent, and I’ll never take it personally that they’ll never bother to learn my name. Short-term gigs are task-driven and since most temp jobs border on mindless-monkey jobs, you’re free to use that precious surplus brain power to think of that million-dollar idea that will bankroll your retirement. Right now, I’m knocking around an idea that involves me, a webcam and a credit card machine.

Despite the fact that I will be without a regular paycheck indefinitely, I’m not tripping. I may feel like I’m free-falling but I know this is a temporary state. Life can turn on a dime. Just ask me how, the next time you see my chilling on my front stoop with a pocketful of change.

Courtesy Shuttle to Harrah's

How have I managed to go eighteen years without learning how to drive a stick? I have been trolling Craig’s List for the past few days, searching for a replacement for my trusty Honda, and am discovering that, goddamnit, my choices are severely limited when my only option is an automatic. Or as I like to call them, the multi-taskers.

Growing up, we owned several family-type cars, mostly station wagons and vans. Made with the family in mind, our cars were not for the single-girl-or-guy-about-town commercials often showed, zipping down curvy highways, smiling and laughing, all the while shifting smoothly into high gear.

Instead, our cars were marketed for fathers who needed an occasional hand to yank a kid back into the car as they stuck half their body out the window, pretending to be a dog. Or, moms who’d chuck mini-juice boxes behind her with one hand, shove a Chicken McNugget into the mouth of a picky five-year old with the other while still managing to make that next left, turning the wheel with her knee.

When I was growing up, we owned a commercial van, pre-mini-van era. It was a white, very plain, no-nonsense van, not the mini-vans you see today, decked out with luxury features like individual video screens and audio jacks, and (oooh!) cup holders. This van could easily seat fifteen adults or my entire sixth grade volleyball team. When my whole family traveled in it, I imagine we looked like orphaned Asian girls, sponsored by a Christian group, on our way to Disneyland with money raised from charitable donations and bake sales. Once, on a family outing to Reno (“The Biggest Little City in the World”), looking a little older and a little less “Save-the-Children”, a woman stopped us at a red light and asked if we were the courtesy shuttle to Harrah’s.

Don’t get me wrong, there are definitely advantages to driving an automatic. It’s perfect for a lazy driver (like me) who’d rather devote her higher functioning skills to programming radio stations or eating a salad versus worrying about that extra pedal down there, the clutch, I think. My friends with stick shifts swear by them! They would often say their cars are “so much fun to drive!” immediately after making a vroom-vroom sound with their mouths and miming kickin' it into high gear.

Sadly, I can’t relate. My trusty Honda was fuel-efficient, solid, very reliable, but never fun. And I could use a little fun right now. So, I have two action items on the docket in the next few weeks. One: Buy a car. And two: Learn how to drive it.