tuesday 25 august 2009, washington dc.

monday, 24 august 2009

updating from the Boltbus to DC at this moment. Z., my pardner in the art of stirring the pot, is beside me.

But let’s start from the beginning:

mornings are best commenced with a carbfest

um. i looked at fish.

tor's teething little pug, delilah. a dear. except for the fact that she insists on nipping my toes and ankles. EVERY TWO MINUTES.

this reminded me of UP. (oo na nga, mahal ko si lolo. i know i'm getting predictable.)

the sun is up the sky is blue it's beautiful & so are you

ako nga pala si sadako. nice to meet you.

palpak kami ni pia today. got on the wrong trains, didn't get to meet up the people we were supposed to or do the things we had to do for the Bride. pero ika nga ni scarlet o hara, everyone's favorite Southern Biyatch, TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY.

was majorly crashing at this time--hence the hugeass cup of Mcdo coffee.

CrayzehTimez at Bloomingdales: dahil idol ko si michaelangelo. Ang sosi ng mga tao ditwoh! Felt a little bit like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, pre-Gere makeover/de-sluttification. Except unlike our feisty Vivian, I was characteristically manang, of course.

sunday 23 august 2009

repent or perish.

2 spaceships on the R train

with sheets like this, camwhoring is a requirement.

Finance tips from the Messiah, please.

just because.

lost in chinatown

she stayed in this position for about 5 minutes.

my kind of intersection.

guess who's back...

with a vengeance!

Kavlog.

Before anything else, an admission: It’s strange, being in this limbo of unemployment.*

Rewind rewind rewind. Must supply a more accurate continuation of that thought: it’s strange…ly liberating. My darling mother Inday Lou’s worried soliloquies on Margaret’s Directionless Life (& my constant, feeble rebuttal: But I’m taking the Road Less Traveled, ma. Robert Frost and M Scott Peck forever. ) notwithstanding, right now, at this very moment in my life, I am holding on to this freedom that I know will be short-lived. So yes, you can choose to laugh at me/judge me all you want, but my heart is full, I am riding express on the Goodtimes Train **, and anyone is welcome to join me.

That being said, I do feel the need to be productive soon.*** And by ‘productive’ I mean start earning. And by ’soon’ I mean next week. Because a. The Real World beckons, at hindi naman ako isnabera. and b. I am broke. (Just keeping it real!)

Before Margaret’s Life of Direction shall commence, though, there are things to be done. Number one on my Non-Slacking Off List was Cleaning my cluttered hard drive, and whaddyaknow, I did that today. In the process I came across, roughly, a gazillion forgotten videos; it occurred to me that while the videographic remnants of The Life I Lived over the Past 2 Years may not be relevant to anyone else but me, I might as well share them instead of making them fester. So voila, I present the following:

In Vino Veritas: When Life gives you Lemons, Bring on the Tequila and Salt
The Eve of Jeline’s Despedida: Plagued by our own private dramas, we found solace in laughter & Inky de Dios’ secret concoction, a mysterious and lethal drink that we christened Nimfa.

Eh di Magsayaw Nalang Tayo: Wherein our Heroine with the Annoying Voice coerces Her Friends to Dance & surreptitiously records them
Apparently this is what I like to do in my spare time. I had more videos of the same nature but I couldn’t stand listening to my voice anymore. Highlights of this particular compilation include Ms. Morales’ stirring rendition of the Ispaghetti Song, and my thesis advisor doing the shimmy in a shady bar called HORMONE somewhere in the outskirts of Poland.

Minsan lang sila Bata: Child exploitation, brought to you by Yours Truly
Because I have turned into my lolo; I bribe kids with candy just so I can get them to entertain me.

Thank you for the music the songs I’m singing: Buendia versus Darnielle

Chris and I were obscenely late to the Eheads Final Set. There we were, in the car, looking for a parking spot when mothafawkinMagasin comes on (cue Maggie screaming aaaaaah so close yet so farrrrrrrr!!!!),followed by Walang Nagbago (cue Maggie’s HUWAT???? HUWHY AM I NOT THERE?? THIS IS MY SONG), then Maling Akala (cue frantic jaywalking whilst shouting like a crazed harpy: SORREEEEE BUT THIS IS A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH, then finally Maskara (Cue the abrupt decelerando of Maggie’s heartbeat, then Hmmm. Uh, we can slow down.).

Ely, Raimund, Markus, and Buddy (aka my High School Heroes) were just tiny specks from where we stood, but it didn’t matter. Surprisingly, I didn’t get all teary eyed and sentimental; was simply grateful that I had witnessed something beautiful and historical and final. Also, there was nothing more exhilarating and cathartic than being half-inebriated, singing O DIOS KO ANO BA NAMAN ITO DIBA TANG INA with a pilsen in hand and my brother next to me. god, we still knew every single word to their songs. ang saya saya saya. to the infinite power. salamat, ultraelectromagnetic ones.
—
Zia and I watched The Mountain Goats live, and I must admit that I dragged my feet a little bit because John Darnielle is a close second to Billy Corgan to when it comes to the Nasal Voice department. But I swear to God, I haven’t seen anyone more strangely endearing onstage, with his geeky references to Super Mario and his unselfconscious, Yes-I-have-White-Boy-moves-but-I-don’t-care-dancing. That cold night in October, I listened to This Year for the very first time of my life. And like every person in that small room who was singing that immortal refrain as if it were part-curse, part-credo, i felt as if it had been written for me:

There will be feasting and dancing
in Jerusalem next year

I am going to make it through this year
if it kills me
I am going to make it though this year
if it kills me

Roadtrippin’: Chicken dancing, a dash of Mexican Flavor, and a sobering moment with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Every time I hear Karen O’s plaintive They don’t love you like I love you I remember this afternoon: the five of us all slightly sleepy, squinting through the afternoon sunlight and driving through this strange land of fried food and hyper-Americana and beautiful beautiful mountains.

Life is a box of Chocolates: aka this is the Uncategorized Pile

Because other things were captured too, like the Obama win, and brushing teeth with my friend Carlos, and a poet, ruminating on marital love (We never envied the epic glory of the star-crossed), and opera (La Traviata–which is,about, hahahahaha THE EPIC GLORY OF THE STAR-CROSSED–aka OMG my first real date with Zia, documented!) and a child spouting improvised Warholisms – there is no such thing as real art or fake art. there is only famous art.” and a cruel, windy day in December.

(upon seeing the last clip, Chris said, So. At that moment did you realize that sometimes there’s so much beauty in the world that you feel like you can’t take it? Like your heart’s going to cave in?
I could’ve said Shut up dont be a hata, but I looked at him and said,
actually, now that you say it, yeah. )

* (Freelance Consulting ang tawag diyan, sister. Tsk, tsk, tsk. God. When will you learn The Art of Spin?).

** My most recent activities on the GoodTimes express have included the following: eating breakfast at 2pm & not saying no to helping you with your homework.Taking those stupid Gay/Crush/Marriage/StripperBot quizzes on Fezbook and publishing my results because this is vital information that must be shared. Not to be forgotten: drinking Pilsen with you til past 2 coz that it the Epitome of Funtimez for me.Taking that long bus-boat ride from Dumaguete to Cebu by myself and having coffee and pan de sal as I spaced out and looked at the blue ocean. Coming home. Talking about dumbass showbiz chizums on YM with you-know-who-you-are, and googling the starz that captured our hearts during our childhood years (Symon Soler, Lindsay Custodio (altho if you ask me: Guila Alvarez pa rin), Christelle Roelandts, Jean Garcia circa GMA Supershow & Valiente days) and the ones who irritated the fawk out of us ( i.e. Chucky Dreyfus, Caselyn Francisco, {although: bongga ang theater career ng lola mo ha} Patrick Garcia aka What Was J.M. thinking? etc etc etc ). Telling my stories and not feeling strange or awkward at the sound of my voice, because I have friends who listen. Sitting still and reading — not Lit Theory but actual Lit, goddamnit. Baking cookies until the sun sets, taking random pictures of you and the rest of the world around me, and trying not to give a fuck so much, and maybe by that I mean saying yes to being happy and attempting not to care if anyone thinks this happiness is deserved or not.

(Isn’t it about time we all learned to stop apologizing for our joys?)

And I will continue doing all this and more until this train stops, coz that, akong mga higala, that iswhachucall THE BEAUTY OF UNEMPLOYMENT.

*** (Why? For some reason the voice of the most annoying heroine in recent times, Reality Bites’ Lelaina Pierce, can’t stop ringing in my ears right now:

Leleina (referring to her equally grating soul mate, Troy Dyer): HE. WILL TURN. THIS PLACE. INTO A DEN. OF. SSSSSSLACK.
and objectively, I do have the sinking feeling that I may have turned this house into TroyDyerLand, albeit sans the sarcasm. Irony is so Gen X, it’s just not for me. In the spirit of keeping things real, here’s an incontrovertible truth for you:
My name is Mary Margaret Louise and I’m an uncool, angst-free Gen Y-er. )

P.S.
On an unrelated note, my sister Katie, one of this world’s Beautiful Souls, has a blog:
CLICK HERE AND VISIT. danke schon! uil

kataw-anan ba?

seryoso ni siya na pangutana.

but since i don’t want to be too emo, let’s listen to this version.

in fairnezz. nag katawaha pud ko.

Nagsakit akong kasing-kasing pag-basa nako ani.

Usa pa: “Let’s spare our civilians. Don’t involve them in this. Do not make them part of the collateral damage..It is an act of brutality to involve innocent civilians in the ongoing conflict between the military and the Muslim rebels.”
– Cotabato Auxiliary Bishop Jose Colin Bagaforo

Mu-amin ko ug sekreto na dili patsada: ‘Mindanaoan’ ang tawag nako sa akoang kaugalingon pero sa tinuod lang, wala koy hanaw kung unsa ang gakahitabo sa Mindanao. Mu amin ko na kung makabasa ko ug balita na gi bombahan ang usa ka lugar sa Mindanao, nagapasalamat lang ko na taga Cagayan mi, na dili mi taga-Cotabato, o Iligan, o Jolo. Mu amin pud ko na usahay, kung naa na ko sa sulod sa eroplano paingon sa Manila, naa koy mabatian na dako na pagmahay sa ako gikan sa yuta na akong gitawhan. Dili ko gapanagad ani. Para dili ko makonsensyahan, mu ingon ko sa akong kaugalingon na, Ayaw ug kabalaka, mubalik pa ka. Mubalik pa ka.

Maypa mubasa nalang ta sa gisulat sa akong amiga na si Iris. Sa 2005 pa ni niya gisulat. Dili ni siya artikulo sa gira sa amoang rehiyon; ginapahayag lang niya na naay mga tingog na dili nato gakadunggan. Naay mga tao na atoang gakalimtan, kung kinsa man lang sila — mga lumad, mga Muslim, mga IDP o mga bata na onse anyos lang (diyos ko, ka edad lang sa akong pinangga na inaanak, si Mel Jane). Usahay, gapabungol bungol ta sa Mindanao.

O, muhilom na ko. Basaha gani:

Mindanao

By Iris C. Montellano

My cousin came by the house one day, wanting to speak with me. She works as an agent of a recruitment agency for overseas employment. Knowing that I am enrolled in Professional Education, she eagerly introduced her agency’s recruitment scheme.

“But I’m not going to America,” I said.

“What?!” She couldn’t stop herself from laughing out loud. “You just had a boyfriend and now you don’t want to go to New York?” She looked very puzzled.

I couldn’t blame her. I was, in fact, the most New York fanatic person in this part of the country. I used to think that every single quiz I had in my undergraduate years was a small step, each slowly bringing me closer to the Big Apple. I cut out articles in the newspapers that had New York City in it, posted photos of the Statue of Liberty on my cabinet door, and religiously watched Sex and the City episodes on HBO. I was already living the New York spirit before I could even get to the place.

But that was before I discovered Mindanao.

You see, after I graduated from college in 2003, I joined a volunteer program that allowed me to work with the indigenous people of Davao City. I was a teacher in a far-flung village and lived among the IPs for an entire school year. I saw Mindanao in its most remote form, seemingly forgotten by a nation that it supposedly belongs to. I found a family of my own in the homes of people who are neglected by the rich and powerful.

Every morning we would go out in the open field and sing the Lupang Hinirang as we gazed up to the Philippine flag we hung on a bamboo pole. My students never knew it, but I cried every time they reach the end of the song: “…ang mamatay nang dahil sa ‘yo” (To die for you.). There they were singing allegiance to a country that may never even know they exist.

I was ashamed to want to be a New Yorker. It even disheartens me to know how many of our citizens leave this country in search of good fortune elsewhere. How many of us left here are willing to stay and “mamatay dahil sa ‘yo”?

I am overwhelmed with stories of government officials being true public servants in their works. I thank God for jeepney drivers who stop to drop off and pick up passengers at the designated places. I feel honored to know of a group of doctors and nurses who volunteer to go to remote areas in Mindanao to operate on indigent patients, many of whom have not even seen a doctor in their entire lives. That, to me, is allegiance.

No, I did not refuse my cousin’s good intentions because I have a boyfriend. I let go of New York when I was a volunteer and realized what it is to be truly Filipino.

Today, when people ask me how my volunteer year was? I answer, “It was great!” But deep inside me I know that “great” is not quite the word for it. For how can you encapsulate an entire year that made you laugh and cry, jump for joy and wail in anger, shout out and be silent all together? I tell them go and volunteer yourselves, so you may know what “great” means to me. So you too may know that Mindanao is not just what you read about in your History books as “the second largest island in the Philippine archipelago” or that “it is where you can find Davao City and Bukidnon Province”.

Mindanao may mean different things for different people. For those in Luzon, the place is a battlefield. People in Visayas see us as less fortunate than them. But Mindanao will always be home to me. Home. Nothing less.

there are places i remember

adtong ni-aging adlaw, gi retweet sa akong amiga si john mayer (usa ka tawo na maldito, KSP ug yaya ug tingog, pero inFAIRNEZZ maayo pud magsulat ang gagu). heniway. matud pa niya,

“There’s always a moment on a trip when you decide you want to go home. Fight it. Beyond that moment lies the best parts.”

Ni tubag pud ko:
“Right. There’s also that moment before an anticipated homecoming when you realize that perhaps staying isn’t too bad of an idea. “

Chinorvah lang, mga sistrelz. Kaulion na man gyud ko– bisag unsaon, balay nako ang pilipinas, noh. ug kwarto nako ang cdo, sala nako ang manila, kusina nako ang…. okay, wala pud ko nakasabot sa akong metaphor. asa na gani ko? ay, o. nostalgia trip napud ni karon. (o na lagi, WALAY KURAT. ) ingnan ta mo sa tinuod: murag 1960s home movie akong panan-aw sa kalibutan karon. kahinumdum mo sa intro sa wonderyears? murag ing-ana, bai. pramis.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-CZRudxD-NQ&feature=PlayList&p=6F14703FB4E63DCD&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=29

maybe this is why i’ve (un?) consciously taken pictures that are slightly misty and indistinct and yellow, and a particular senti track starts spinning in my head when i look at each of them. take, for instance, the following –

a child and a bench:

(cue apo hiking society: “batang bata ka pa…”)

friends on an amusement park ride:

(cue madonna: “this used to be my playground…”)

the house across the block :

(cue diana ross: “when i think of home i think of a place where theres love overflowing…”)

a rainy sidewalk:

(cue donna cruz: “rain gently falls whenever we say good night…”)

a group of navyboys running:

(cue hagibis: “legs legs legs mo ay nakakasilaw”)

and the list goes on.

while i admit that this sentimentality is of my own doing, i should point out, though, that it certainly doesn’t help when you have people like:

a. ate zeyah — who, by the way, asks the same question several times within the day — mamimis mo ba ang/si ____________ (fill in the blank of the most random thing possible: like robert pham, the guy in charge of the CCT lab. or wisemiller’s, the grocery/deli next to our building. or my special whole wheat breaded mickey mouse shaped chicken nuggets.)

btw, chazz, yes. i will miss all of those things. you, too, in particular. (xoxo, your BBF– best boy friend.)

restless souls unite!

watched werner herzog’s documentary about antarctica,encounters at the end of the world with ryan today. ryan didn’t care much for it (“god. i didn’t realize it would be about people. i just wanted to see a movie about penguins, goddamnit.”).

a secret: he likes to play the misanthrope when deep down inside he really isn’t.

like herzog, who delights in the restlessness (coughcoughcrazinesscough) of the human spirit (um. grizzly man, anyone?), i found the people fascinating. there’s a banker who quit his lucrative job to drive in the south pole, a linguist who abandoned a life in the academe to spends his days tending plants in a greenhouse, a 50something cellular biologist/ rabid science fiction fan who dives in icy waters and is simultaneously fascinated and repelled by that which he studies: the “horrible, violent world” below the ice. and the list goes on.

(“these psychos creep me out, maggie”, my dearest ryan opined more than once.)

you get the point. there are all these dreamy, philosophical nerds who are completely at peace in this vast & glacial & to me, at least–lonely– continent.

Q: what is it about these individuals that made them want to shed their former selves and live on this block of ice and subsist on canned meat and dried fruit? (seriously. one of the scientists was being interviewed in front of his cabinet & christ, the food selection depressed me. kinda reminded me of the astronauts & their freeze dried ice cream.)

i don’t know, man. there’s something fundamentally awesome and heroic about someone who can say aw fawk it. why not live in this strange,uncharted land that is plunged in darkness for 6 months in a year? why the hell not. and the even stranger thing is that they are geniunely HAPPY here. i admit it: i guess what i loved about encounters at the end of the world is that everyone here is a little bit off kilter. even the penguins.

i dare you to tell me that you don’t see a certain sad & bizarre poetry to this suicide mission. or that you didn’t see a part of yourself in this penguin. hay, mga dili maka himutang sa kalibutan! tara, let’s head for the mountains.

(be sure to bring more than dried fruit, though. i’m not the biggest fan of raisins.)

hello, how are you? im fine thank you.

Dear Dad,

What’s up, Dad?

Ugh. I know, I know. This is a corny, overused narrative device/slightly self-exploitative springboard technique. Yeah, a letter to a deceased father. How original, right?

Eleven years, man. Eleven years.

Hmm. This is awkward. Do eleven years of no contact warrant these painfully stilted sentences (this one included)?

Hey, dad.

What’s up.

….

Eh. You know, I’ll just answer the 25 Random Things about Me Meme. I mean, the entire planet has tagged me, anyway. And instead of writing some schmaltzy tribute that doesn’t capture you or my feelings at all, dad, I’d rather do what comes the easiest to me: talk about myself.

Ha ha ha. Joke lang, dad. Dala tinuod.

Seriously though, I almost feel the need to reintroduce myself to you, now that I’ve decided to go along with this whole letter writing thing. To kind of, I don’t know, clear the awkwardness or something. And to be honest, even though it’s your death anniversary, I‘d prefer to not talk about that day or the crash or the grieving or moving on because I’ve done that too many times and hay, basta. Let’s keep it light, okay? Brace yourself for 25 random things about your 26 year old daughter, dad. It’ll be riveting stuff, I swear.

1. As a kid, one of my favorite movies was Brenda Starr with Brooke Shields and Timothy Dalton. As soon as it was over, I begged you to stay and rewatch it with me, because I sincerely believed that:
a. Brooke Shields was absolutely the most beautifullest (there’s nothing like super-superlatives to illustrate your point) girl in the world.

b. I was going to be a kick ass reporter like Brenda, complete with a 1940s wardrobe when I grew up.
c. Timothy Dalton’s eyepatch was cool.

And you complied without any complaint whatsoever. No one wanted to stay in the theater (particularly Chris) so they left, but you decided to stay with me. I caught a snippet of it recently and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD it just might be the worst movie of all time. So I gotta give it to you. What. A. Great. Dad

2. Little did you know that your financing of my Broadway album collection played a big role in my development as one of the gayest, most stereotypical fruitflies I know. Not only can I sing any showtune at the drop of a hat, but I pepper every three sentences with either of these words: charing, chuva, or chiz, 91.7% of my close friends are gaygaygay, I love Bette Midler, Barbra Streisand and Judy Garland, and I cried when I heard Ugly Betty would probably get canceled. Also: I got into a very heated discussion with Pierre, one of Aunt Carol’s house guests last Thanksgiving because he dismissed Liza Minelli as an untalented has-been. “Ack-zhullee”, he said, “she’s a never-wuzz.”
Ohnohedidnt.

That cleavage! Those lashes! This crazy bitch is the fiercest, yo!
(Sadly, that was the gist of my argument.)

3. I like looking at old men in sweater vests. For the record, I believe you would’ve made a very distinguished looking old man. I don’t think you were the sweater vest type though. You were 49 but you still wore the torn up shirts you had in college.

4. That being said, I raided your closet after you died. Those shirts are holey and almost transparent, but man, they are the softest shirts in the world. So I guess I kind of get why you still wore them.

(Of course they were a bit too transparent for me. I remember hearing someone say “Tan-awa ra gud na siya, ga pakita sa iyang bra” about me behind my back. I got labeled as “igatan” and “ga pa duding sa boyz” for a while. Then people eventually realized I wasn’t a flirt; I just had weird grieving issues. I wore some of of your shirts in college as well. That is, until Roselle staged a mini intervention and told me bluntly: “Mags. Mura kag batang yagit.”)

5. I still laugh at how you wrote about us to your family as we were growing up. Essentially, we are still the same people:

Exhibit a: Christopher was chosen to represent his class in an art contest. His forte is drawing super heroes (superman, batman, etc), but the theme of the contest is peace, so he may be temporarily at a loss. But he really is amazingly good at drawing–not inherited from me, of course. He is also dying to get into a karate class and will probably be starting up with that fairly soon. (Sometimes he practices on his sisters for his self-taught karate, which is not so cute.)

Exhibit b: Maggie is quite happy to be in school. She goes in the afternoon, which is just fine with her since it means that I can’t force her to take any naps.

6. In grade school I secretly read all the Sweet Valley books I could get my hands on, because even though you didn’t say so, I had the distinct feeling you thought they were silly. Don’t judge me, but I think I kind of had the hots for Bruce Patman.
Rarrr.

7. I don’t remember the last conversation we had.

8. I hated those papaya shakes you made us drink every morning. And that huge enervon C capsule, which I had to chase down with a glass of powdered Anchor milk. YAKKK.

9. I find it easiest to talk to kids who are between 7-14 years old. Like you, I naturally gravitate towards the youngest people at parties because they’re so much more fun to talk to.

10. The last book you gave me was The Yearling. I haven’t read it yet.

Yeah, that was the cover.

11. Remember that time when I was 8 years old and you were explaining the rationale of negative numbers to me? I nodded vehemently at everything you said, pretending I was the genius you obviously thought me to be.

I recall tracing the little number line you drew with my finger, hoping that this tactile connection to your lesson would help me understand, but honestly, I had no clue what the hell you were talking about.

12. I curse a lot (and in all four languages, no less) but this isn’t something I am particularly proud of. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit your habit of self-censorship (“I am so blankety-blank disappointed in your behavior!” or “That Son-of- a-Gun.” ), and neither did I pick up mom’s not-so-subtle-pseudo-profane expression: ay, bisanggay.

13. I secretly dream of walking up Mt. Sumagaya one day. I will do it, one of these days.

14. I still recall the first time you let me drink coffee. It was the night before my third quarter Chemistry exam and you were trying to explain the concept of mass moles to me. I remember nodding way too intensely. I recall retracing your drawings of the revolving electrons, hoping that somehow I would learn by some mystical process of osmosis.

I also remember having a very strange feeling of de ja vu. (See # 11.)

15. I’m sorry, I am just not a fan of those black teas that you loved (Orange Pekoe, English Breakfast, Darjeeling, etc). I like the sissy teas that you dismissed, though. Jasmine, chai, chamomile, mint.

16. I made a video in honor of you and everyone who was on that flight for a project in class last year:

Mom hasn’t seen it yet, but I don’t think she will ever want to. I totally understand.

17. If ever I have kids, I don’t think I’ll tell them that Santa Claus exists. Colleen was horrified when I told her this. Children need some fantasies. There’s nothing wrong with make believe, she said. But I don’t know, dad. I mean, it was fun while it lasted, but it really hurt when I found out. And I ended up feeling incredibly stupid and just kind of duped in the end. I also remember thinking to myself, “Goddamnnit. So that’s why Santa and mama had the same wrapping paper.”

18. I still find myself irrationally drawn to men with mustaches. God, I remember thinking to myself once, you know, Hitler mustn’t have been that bad, coz he had a mustache too, just like dad. Really randomly, I think one of the main reasons why I loved There Will be Blood so much was because of (nope, not Jonny Greenwood’s score or that milkshake speech) but Daniel Day Lewis’s awesome mustache.

19. I still haven’t broken a bone or sprained anything in my life, ever. I would love to say that this is because you were such a martinet about my milk consumption as a child, but it’s probably because I am the least physically active person I know.

20. Here’s a letter I wrote to Grandma & Grandpa in December ‘97, the last holiday season we spent together:

Dear Grandma and Grandpa,
>
> Hi. Mom left this morning, so it’s just me and Dad. I miss her
> already.
>
> Today has been pretty boring. I had to catch up on my
> homework. The only good news about school these days is that my
> Chemistry teacher has been out for two weeks.
>
> Do you know that Dad’s arm is in a cast? It’s a “lineal
> fracture in the carpal bone”. Don’t worry, it isn’t as serious as it
> sounds. He says it doesn’t even hurt anymore. I had to type his speech
> for a coming debate (He’s the speechwriter).By the way, he wants to
> know how Notre Dame has been doing. Did they win the last three games?
> What were their scores? When Dad read your E-mail, he complained, “Mom
> didn’t even mention who scored the touchdown!”
>
> Besides writing speeches, Dad also wrote a Christmas play this
> year. It’s called “While We Were Sleeping”.

>–WAITAMINUTE. I’M SORRY. “WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING”, DAD? Hahahahaha. I love you dearly but…that’s kind of um, dorky and corny.

> Oh yeah, Dad says he’s sorry about the gas cap. you can pay for
> it with money from their Crystal Lake account.
>
> The other day we had our auditions for the school play. It’s
> going to be “Man of La Mancha”. I did my best, but I don’t really
> think I was good enough. I hope I passed.
>
> We just had our first group of carolers for the year. They’re
> just little kids. Sometimes its funny to hear how they mix up the
> lyrics. I guess their timing is good because today is the first Sunday
> of Advent. Dad says he’s willing to bring me to early morning Mass up
> until Christmas. We’ll have to see how good we are at getting out of
> bed at 5:30 in the morning!
>
> That concludes the news for the day. Thanks so much for
> writing back. I love you both.

>
> Your granddaughter,
>
> Maggie

21. I still remember what Katie wrote on your cast: “My dad, the poor invalid.”

22. I picked up your copy of T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland & Other Poems and randomly opened it to a passage from his poem Ash Wednesday which you had underlined, a long long ago:

Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.

Felt oddly comforted. This makes so much sense to me, at this point in my life. Thanks?

23. Hey dad. I believe in this dream of yours for Cagayan: “What this city needs, in fact, is a real live cultural center, with room for a museum-cum-art gallery, classes for would be artists of all ages, and a good sized theater with proper acoustics.” Again: one day.

24. Read an old essay of yours about the chess match between Deep Blue Vs. Gerry Kasparov the other month:
“Okay, machines can think, in a manner of speaking. But they don’t know the first thing about courage or love or pity. They have nothing to do with faith (which means believing in something, even when the data tell you not to) or hope or love.

High five, man! Here’s to being unashamed about being um, a blankety-blank, sentimental & nostalgic son-of-a-gun. Ha ha ha.

25. Hence, here’s some nostalgia for you (and me):

Do you remember this? I don’t. I remember that dress though. Blue velvet, one of my favorites.

Hay ambot. I don’t know how to end this. It’s kind of funny how the 25 random things about me are about you, too. Guess it’s because you are–and always will be– a part of me. I just love you, dad.

maayong pasko kaninyong tanan!

mao kini ang akong krismas gift para sa inyo.

pasensya nalang sa mga tao na dili makasabot. pasensya nalang pud sa mga bisaya na dili maka relate. (pero, huh? dili mo maka relate? kaluoy ba ninyo oi kung wala mo nakakita ug goat da wonderpol.)

pero kung makahinumdum pa mo kang teban ug kang goliat, mag hagik-ik gyud mo ani, bisag corny. pramis, azzz in, hahahahaha.

(For more bisdak goodness. Yeah, I’m sure you’re so going to click this. )

And to everyone else: here’s to being happier and cornier. Merry Merry Christmas, friends.