iPhone365 #9: military day

I spent the afternoon aboard the USS Midway today with a visiting aunt and her husband. I think they were wondering why of all the jet planes, helicopters, gadgets, and equipment, I was taking pictures of medals and pins.

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iPhone365 #8: calories

We all complain about needing to lose weight, but what do we eat at work?
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iPhone365 #7: favorite shirt

I was folding laundry today and looked at the shirt I just placed on top of the pile. It was the first shirt I bought in a foreign country: my first trip to Japan more than twenty years ago. It's still my favorite.
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iPhone365 #6: ready for the 80's

After this morning's baritone section rehearsal at our house, I spent the afternoon on YouTube watching 80's music videos of songs that we will be singing in our summer concert: Really Awesome 80's.

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iPhone365 #5: the view

I finished work early enough so that I had some time to kill before heading to the airport to pick up Michael, so I decided to head to Harbor Island. I have been living in San Diego for ten years now, and not once have I set foot in this corner of the city. Today I discovered what I had been missing all these years: a beautiful view of the city skyline.

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iPhone365 #4: hot stuff

There are two HOT things that I want every morning: hot coffee and hot shower. Unfortunately, the latter has been cut short by the current water shortage we are having in San Diego.

man in the mirror

Our relationship had been a strange one. Michael Jackson and me, that is. No, I didn't know him personally. I knew him just as millions of people all over the world did.

I like his music. I admire his talent. I am in awe with his success. And -- today I'm realizing -- maybe more than I would care to admit.

You see, I looked at him as one would look admiringly at an uncle who is the coolest guy in town, friends with everyone on the street, but shunned by his own family. Each time I was asked if I liked him, I always had a disclaimer like, "I like his music, but not his personal life."

But his personal life is exactly what it was: his. It was not perfect, just like yours and mine. And he probably tried to make the best of it the best way he could, just like you and me.

So, if you think I am a closet fan, I wouldn't argue, because that's what I am.

A co-worker told me today, "You know, I've heard this song forever, and I never really listened to the words. Today I did, and it is really good!" She was talking about Man in the Mirror.

I'm starting with the man in the mirror
I'm asking him to change his ways
And no message could have been any clearer
If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself, and
Then make a change

It is a good song because Michael Jackson made good music. And that is the only thing that should matter at the end of the day.

iPhone365 #3: sunshine

If we put solar panels in all San Diego parking lots, we should be able to generate a decent amount of power. And shade.

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iPhone365 #2: trolley travel

I see more people taking the trolley now. It's not only people going to and from school/work, but also doing errands like grocery shopping.

iPhone365 #1: bread and butter

Today is the first day of my year-long photojournal, iPhone365. I will post an iPhone photo everyday for one year, each one providing a glimpse of my day.

The microscope above is my daily companion at work. It helps me get a good perspective on life -- every disease that I find helps me appreciate the good health that I have.

Today is also my birthday. And today I am thankful for a number of things in my life: Michael, Eli. good friends, loving family, and dental floss.

father's day

We all have said it with horror at one point or another in our lives: "Oh, my god, I am becoming my father!" Or mother, grandpa, or grandma. It's interesting how we only notice this when we catch ourselves doing or saying something that strongly reminds us or what our parents used to say or do, and it's something negative or we didn't like.

I have been saying this phrase a little too much recently. I don't know if I am just becoming more self-aware or if I am really becoming my father. Nevertheless, because of this I started thinking about him. My father.

I think it is easier to understand our parents if we look at them individuals, not as people who raised us if we can remove all the relationship issues accumulated through the years.

As a parent, my father is not perfect, but he isn't a bad one either. He married my mother when he was twenty-one, and had me when he was twenty-three. I could have had a twenty-three year-old son today.

My earliest memory of him was of this time when I was probably three years old. It was early morning, I was sitting up in bed and bawling my eyes out in frustration because he had brought home a giant pair of eyeglass frames -- it might have been part of a clown outfit -- that he wouldn't let me wear. Instead, he put it on and made me wear his regular sunglasses.

Another early memory was of him walking me through a bamboo grove along the river behind our old house. I remember being terrified of the twigs and thorns, and screaming my lungs out. He was laughing the whole time. My father tells me today, though, that I was crying because I thought we were lost. If his version is the correct one, he was probably teasing me and telling me that we were lost and couldn't get back home.

He is known for pushing our buttons, his kids, especially in our younger years. My cousins were not immune either. He drove my little sister to tears from his teasing. Is it because he is a kid in a grown-up body? I don't really know, but my mother is convinced that he is, just like how millions of other wives out there look at their husbands. "My husband is my oldest child," is something I've heard a lot.

Growing up, it seemed to me that there was a distance between me and my father, something I would later conclude that was probably mostly in my head. I am the first child. I used to think that my brother, five years my junior, was his favorite. Now I don't see it as anything other than sibling rivalry. I was the only kid for five years and resented having to share my parents' attention.

That my father loves sports -- basketball and tennis -- didn't help this distance that I felt. I was never into sports. I still am not. I remember playing in a kid's basketball league in our village because everybody else did. I wore the uniform, but never did much throughout the season. I barely have any recollection of the whole game season at all except for what had been preserved in photographs.

One day my father told me, "You shouldn't play basketball anymore. It will make your fingers too stiff for the piano. Just concentrate on the piano from now on." To this day I don't know if this was his way of accepting the fact that I was never going to be into sports as much as he, or if he really was really encouraging me because he saw where my true interest really was.

I would like to believe the latter, because my father loves music as much as he loves sports. Because of him, I had a very early exposure to all kinds of music. I grew up around piles of 33 and 45 vinyls that he played a lot. I knew how to operate the turntable, playing any record that I could get my hands on. The US Army Marching Band. Strauss Waltzes. Trini Lopez. Waltzing Matilda. Filipino folk songs. Readers' Digest easy-listening box sets. Pilita Corales. Paul Anka. Paganini. The Light Cavalry Overture. Elvis Presley. Capriccio Italien. The Beatles. John Coltrane. Chopin. St. Paul Girls' Choir. The Tijuana Brass Band. Grace Jones. Yoyoy Villame. Tchaikovsky. The Reycard Duet.

He isn't a musical connoisseur. He just bought music that he liked to listen to, from tacky comedy songs to classical masterpieces.

When I left the country to come to the United States, I didn't know that my father cried for days. When my mother told me about this a few years later, I didn't know what to say. I was surprised and touched at the same time. I never thought he cared that much about me. Well, I know he did, but to cry for days?

Now I realize that most of my father's shortcomings stem from the fact that he is not the best communicator. It's not that he doesn't try. I think he just doesn't know how. Like his choice of music, his communication doesn't follow a prescribed set of rules. It's more instinctive, more reactive, often resulting in conveying confusing or even contradicting messages. Something that I catch myself doing every now and then these days.

He was just a guy who did things for us the best way he could, within whatever constraints and limitations he had.

Despite his shortcomings, though, he gave me one of the things that I cherish the most today: the gift of music. For this I am and will be grateful to him for the rest of my life.

Happy fathers' day, Papa.

morning

Morning, my favorite part of the day. This, despite the fact that I'm not an early riser. Is it the quiet air punctuated by chirping birds? Is it the anticipation of the new day's limitless possibilities? Or is it the fresh-brewed coffee?



It's the coffee.

green

Sitting in Marilyn's sunroom in Brookline and looking outside, I suddenly realize how brown San Diego really is.

nick

I met Nick in 1994 a few days after I moved to Bethesda, Maryland, for a 13-month Navy training program. It was at a video bar called Trumpets near Dupont Circle in Washington, D.C. My roommate Victor and I went to check out the place and to say hello to a friend who was working at the coat-check counter. Nick was there chatting with our friend when we got there.

We all became good friends, Nick, Victor, and me. After he finished his lease at the house he shared on the other side of town, he moved to Battery Lane, one building away from us in the same apartment complex.

When we finished our training thirteen months later, Victor and I went to our next duty stations. He went to San Diego and I went to Okinawa, Japan. Soon after that, Nick packed up his clothes and moved to San Francisco. I would like to think that having met Victor and me had something to do with his decision to uproot himself and head west.

Nick is one of the most pleasant people I know. When we met, I was struck by his genuine curiosity about people. He had a certain air of innocence and simplicity that draws you to him. He was always ready to offer a helping hand. He had a hearty laugh for every joke I cracked, clever or stupid.

I remember thinking at one point that if anyone deserved to meet someone special, it had to be Nick.

And meet someone he did. His name was Michael. I never met him in person, but from what I heard, he was good for Nick.

Last Saturday, early in the morning, Michael passed away. He was supposed to be doing well with his chemotherapy, but with these things one really never knows.

I have been thinking about Nick since I heard the news that morning. I have not had any contact with him for years now, except for a random email every once in a while. Then, even that eventually stopped. Keeping in touch is one of those things that are so easy to neglect and let fall down the wayside. Life gets in the way.

I cannot imagine what Nick is going through. After almost a decade of being with somebody, how does one say goodbye and let go? I wouldn't know what to say if I were standing in front of him right now. Maybe a hug would be enough.

Yes, I think I'll do that.

limang dipang tao

A pop version of Limang Dipang Tao performed by Barbie's Cradle

Back in my college days, Ryan Cayabyab released an album titled One containing ten a cappella songs with Ryan singing all 16 parts. My favorite was Limang Dipang Tao, roughly translated as "five arm-spans of people," or, simply, a throng.

I guess I'm a sucker for songs with a story, which also explains why I like American country songs. Limang Dipang Tao, which is set in a frantic high-energy tempo, tells a story from the point of view of a woman who was on a jeepney passing through an avenue with throngs of people waiting for a ride. She looks out and happens to see a man in crowd, walking with a woman.

She screams for the jeepney driver to stop, gets off, and runs after the couple. In her rush, she trips and falls flat on the ground. The man sees her, turns and helps her to her feet. Their eyes meet, she looks at his face, and says, "I'm sorry, I thought you were my husband."

The song ends with the woman standing in the crowd, waiting for another ride, regretting that she had gotten off the jeepney just to satisfy her nosey-ness.

The other night, I googled the song and found this cover performed by Barbie's Cradle. This version preserves the cuteness of the narrative but does not have the frantic urgency of Ryan's original arrangement.

I also have a guitar version performed by Florante Aguilar. Since this one doesn't have vocals, the listener would need to be familiar with the song to fully appreciate it. What I like about Florante's version is that it maintains the character of the song by preserving the original choral arrangement: the descriptive first part, the build-up to the face-to-face meeting, and the pull-back and second build-up at the end.

As I listened to the song again, it occurred to me that the song is actually open-ended. The listener never finds out if the man is really a stranger that looked like the woman's husband, or if he was actually the woman's husband or boyfriend and she simply decided to say that she was mistaken to avoid a scene, or if the woman was simply being nosey about someone that she had no business being nosey about, consequently being stuck in the crowd because she just had to get off the jeepney to chase him.

As the woman says towards the end: "At ako'y nagsisisi sa aking pambubusisi." Loosely translated, "And I regret putting my nose into other people's business."

short cuts

It just occurred to me that my dog Eli's annual battle with dermatitis might actually be caused by fleas. It happens in late spring, early summer when wildlife -- specifically skunks -- are out with a vengeance. With their new offspring nonetheless.

Since he is on flea meds, fleas don't stay on him. But I'm sure that one or two fleas manage to grab a bite and start a major itch. He usually gets spring/summer heat rash around the armpit and rump areas. These completely makes sense to me. But rashes in the middle of the back can't be anything other than flea bites.

The other night, Michael saw two juvenile skunks outside the kitchen, most likely the offspring of the two adults that were mating on the deck outside our bedroom a few months ago. This explains the fleas.

So this morning I spent a few hours giving Eli a trim. Now he doesn't look like a fat dachshund anymore. He looks like a skinny dog with a head a tad too large for his body.



After the three hour ordeal, he ran around acting cool and refreshed (a pound of fur off his back), but each time he paused, he looked at me as if saying, "What have you done to my beautiful fur!" (See the look in the picture above.)

So to show sympathy and brotherhood (but maybe mostly to assuage my guilt), I headed out to the barber and got myself a similar cut: "The Short."




I am with you, brother Eli.

finger painting

Okay, I'm an iPhone geek. I'm owning it. But there are a few cool things one can do with it.

The other day, I read that the most recent New Yorker magazine cover was "painted" on the iPhone using an application called Brushes. So I checked it out. And I bought it.

It's pretty cool. For a sale price of $3.99, it's worth every cent.

I was in the 5th grade when I last did a finger painting, and this application brought back all the fun that came with it.

Without the mess.

trekkie me

Am I a Trekkie? We went to IHOP and I ordered a 2x2x2. When it came, all I could see was the USS Enterprise.