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.)

and

b. jelehn, who made this the theme for our playlist blog (ahem. did you like my oh-so casual plugging? swabe, diba? aguy, ka mao gyud ni si maggie, o. )

so since i’ve established that yes, i am a sentimental fool, i might as well give you my senti slideshow tribute to the 2 years here.

CLICK

best experienced while listening to THIS. (sing it joe cocker, go.)

to dc, to georgetown and its black squirrels, to friends, family, and the future: MWAH. here’s to love and goodtimez.

* as with all tributes, this is too fleeting and inadequate to be considered an accurate representation of my 2 years here. so i end this with a disclaimer: this is not a nutshellization, or a best-of compilation: consider it, hmmm, just a random sample of the things, places and people that made my heart full.

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.

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.

Oh Michael Crichton.

Not many people took you seriously, but you were a huge part of my childhood.

I read Jurassic Park when I was neck-deep in my dinosaur obsession. In 5th Grade, I wrote a mind-numbingly boring essay entitled My Favorite Book: Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park, which detailed the intricacies of the dinosaur cloning process (and it probably went a little something like this: My favorite book is Jurassic Park, which is about a park inhabited by dinosaurs! How were there dinosaurs on this park?, you may ask. Well to make a long story short millions of years ago some mosquitoes bit some dinosaurs and then when they (the mosquitoes) died some of them got stuck in amber where they were preserved for a long time, then scientists (to be specific, genetic engineers) used the blood and filled the gaps in the genetic code with the DNA of living reptiles on earth. DNA stands for Deoxyribonucleic acid, by the way, and when you have DNA, you can clone any living thing on the planet, even animals that have been extinct for a long long time–like dinosaurs! ).

My life revolved around E.R. at one point (specifically that horrible time in 96 during my brief stint at a certain all girl’s school on EDSA), so thank you for creating Dr. Greene and Dr. Lewis. And oh my god, Nurse Hathaway and Dr. Ross).

In high school Congo was instrumental in sustaining my relationship with my brother. We still call each other ugly monkey. Isn’t that sweet.

And in college, when I proclaimed to the world on my Friendster profile that I read Nabokov and Joyce, Timeline was secretly one of my favorite books.

Okay, you weren’t perfect–so you had 5 wives.  So you were freakishly tall. So you didn’t really believe global warming was a serious threat. So your female characters were all basically the same person–tomboyish blondes with unmusical names (Ellie Satler? Beth Halpern? Jo Harding?). So you were kind of pikon.

But inspite of everything, Michael, you inspired a generation. If anyone doubts that, just look at this Craigslist post*–now if that isn’t inspiration, I don’t know what is.

*I have to post this here and immortalize it forever, in case the poster decides to pull the ad down:

best of craigslist > vancouver, BC > Seeking a sexual tyrannosaur for a romp in the park – w4m Originally Posted: Sun, 12 Oct 15:14 PDT

Seeking a sexual tyrannosaur for a romp in the park – w4m

PostingID: 876586707

I’m not too sure about sweet potato pie (never tried it), but that was just too goddamn cute so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. And Coconut cream pie? Magugustuhan siguro ni Barack ang buko pie ni Colette.

What about egg pie? I sincerely believe that egg pie does not get the props it deserves. I haven’t had a slice in years. It looks easy enough , so I should bake one after midterms are over.

As kids, Chris and I used to consume inordinate amounts of this because it tasted like leche flan inside a flaky shell. God. I really looked forward to Sunday because it meant going to the bakery in Divisoria (was it Ah Fat?)after mass and ordering an entire egg pie. One day, when I was 6 or so, I remember spitting out a bloodied tooth on the pavement right outside church. I had been wiggling that tooth with my tongue for a week, determined to extract it on my own terms. (Dad used to tie our teeth and pull them by himself. He would give a preliminary count off, saying he would tug on 3, but he would always, always tug on 2.) Delirious with pride, I picked it up and placed the tooth–coated with blood and saliva and God knows what lay on the sidewalk that day– in dad’s hands, saying–”I did it!” I recall him laughing and announcing, “Let’s celebrate with some egg pie.”

I am aware that my love for this pastry may be colored by my nostalgia.

But anyway. Yeah, Obama ftw.