AIRGUN DIARIES

A Plea Before Forever

2010-01-03T02:04:00.001-08:00

Time can be a liar, a joker, a magician, a fool, and a navigator. It will try to make you think that where you are is a permanent place, right before it tries to make you think again a second later. And when it has convinced you that nothing lasts, and nothing is worth keeping, it gives you a miracle.

You might, right now, feel betrayed by the seemingly random events that have brought you, and many of us, to this moment. You are at a hopeless edge of the cliff, where your only choice is to jump to where others have already jumped, to the river below, to partially drown in the waters of hate, partially swim while taking half breaths of resentment, to crash against the river rocks that bruise conformity into the flesh, and partially drown again before taking another half breath. And when the current slows to wash you against the first available shore, you reach out and grasp at the first handful of dry soil, and crawl, grateful, toward whatever salvation is not the river.

This is a plea to not let the drowning water drown you. This is a plea to not let the river rocks crush you. This is a plea to stand as soon as you reach the shore, and to look around, look far, look inward, to find something else.

It may be under your fingernails, wedged between tender skin and the layers of worldly crust that have accumulated while you were clawing at whatever was within reach. It may be the very first thing that you trusted when you were a child, an honest instinct that doesn’t discolor with age. It may be your first clear breath after you cough your lungs of everything that had been the drowning river. It may be as simple as seeing your bare footprints, how they mark fresh paths without the protection of shoes, the comfort of carpet, the apathy of concrete.

Whatever it is, it is your other name, what others would be calling you if names were never given, if words never existed. It is why you have breathed this long, regardless of how much air the world tries to deny you. It is your weapon, your shield, your shelter, your stronger arms, your more powerful legs, the armor that will not allow your spine to be broken.

But you have to find it, or you will be broken.

So, wait for the tide to recede, and move when it stops pulling you. Make sure you are steady, and move when it stops pulling you. Make sure that your eyes are clear, your mind true, and your heart pumping without a drop of regret. Then go.

Solstice

2009-12-21T14:21:00.001-08:00

I had spent a dozen years trying to obliterate my ego, trying to understand what it is that made me do what I did. I bought books that attempted to help me analyze every aspect of myself, paid people to listen to me and tell me what to do, spent countless days and nights at coffee houses and other gatherings, talking with learned friends and colleagues about the intricacies and machinations of life.

After learning so much, I made sure to be careful what I said, how I thought, applying the instructions to the letter, so that my actions were microscopically precise, and my conduct would be flawless in terms of showing that I had, after all, finally conquered myself.

I chose the right clothes to wear so that they were not ostentatious, yet still reflective of my spiritual campaign. I spent many days and nights preparing myself so that every person in the world would, upon meeting me, know what I believed in.

At the end of the dozen years, I found myself standing next to a gigantic lake. Its water was clear and abundant with life. Dozens of varieties of fish swam near the surface, close enough to catch by simply reaching out my hands. Deer and other four-legged wildlife patrolled the shore, while bees staked out their own territory among a row of trees, their work so overplenty that honey dripped out of their nests and onto the ground, and sometimes even onto the water’s surface. There were apple orchards, grape fields, row after row of every fruit and vegetable imaginable.

I walked the perimeter of the lake and helped myself to the food. As I was finishing an apple and about to begin to eat a handful of grapes, I saw an old man sitting behind a natural levee that supported one small part of the lake. The short levee was almost vertical, and had a small hole near the bottom, where some of the lake’s water dripped out.

The old man was dressed in rags that had no pockets. Nowhere around him did I see any signs that he had enjoyed the fish or fruits or vegetables that were within steps of where he sat. Every once in a while, he would cup his hand against the levee’s hole, catch some of the lake’s water, and drink it.

I asked him if he knew about the abundance of everything that was over the ridge, so close that all he had to do was stand up to take all that the lake had to offer. I asked him why, with so much within reach, with so much that he could have for himself, he chose to settle for this.

The old man looked up at me, smiled, and said, “If I am constantly taking a sip of humility, I will less likely drown in it.”

The Runaway Slave

2009-10-02T05:21:00.001-07:00

“It’s not a swamp, because the water moves. It moves slow, but it moves.”

The Everglades is one of the places featured in Ken Burns’ documentary The National Parks. It’s a place where people hid, from displaced Indians to runaway slaves, to thieves, deserters, outcasts. A politician named Napoleon Broward wanted to drain the Everglades and turn it into commercial land, redirecting the water to irrigate farms and provide drinking water to urban housing. He didn’t get his way. Today the Everglades, at 1.5 million acres, is the second largest national park in the country, next to Yellowstone. Its ecosystem helps provide a balance to the planet.

The Jazz Bakery just closed its doors from its old location because the building’s owner wanted to turn it into a furniture store. A new site hasn’t been announced yet. Even though the best jazz musicians who visit the Los Angeles area often wind up playing at the Jazz Bakery, because it isn’t located near a mall, a chain restaurant, or a nightclub, it never made that much money. Because it isn’t a restaurant where you can chew your food and suck down your glass of wine while the music plays in the background, drowned under casual conversation, because it isn’t that kind of place, it didn’t make that much money. When you went to the Jazz Bakery, you sat down, shut the fuck up, and just listened to some amazing jazz.

In November 1995, CBS lawyers ordered its show 60 Minutes to air an edited version of Jeffrey Wigand’s interview, to protect the company from any controversy while it negotiated a merger with Westinghouse Electric Corporation. The unedited version shows Wigand, a former scientist of Brown and Williamson Tobacco Corporation, discussing the potent effects of nicotine. In February 1996, after the information in the unedited version has already been revealed in the the New York Times, the New York Daily News, and the Wall Street Journal, the unedited version of Wigand’s interview is finally shown on 60 Minutes.

Today, some of the poorest countries in the world are suffering through devastating storms and floods, killing hundreds and displacing thousands. In America, social services are being shut down, university faculty and students are picketing to fight deep budget cuts and layoffs, while powerful lobbyists are winning the war to prevent any change in the way American healthcare is managed and to keep healthcare costs and profit high.

Somewhere, a man is spending almost all of his time figuring out how to take an extra penny out of every dollar that somebody else has worked for. Somewhere else, another man sees this but is so afraid that he will do nothing about it.

Somewhere else still, another man decides otherwise.

Middle

2009-09-21T04:33:00.000-07:00

The electrical system in my house is acting up again, and it’s bothersome. I’m not able to smoothly surf the Internet, watch my high definition television, and run the central air conditioning without a little bit of interruption every hour. Amazing how bothersome is a relative term.

Until the age of eight, I lived in the Philippines. In 1973, we were considered middle class but sometimes were called rich by our neighbors. My father was an engineer and my mother was a teacher. Even though the family car had a hole in the floor, we had the only car on our block, so we were considered rich. We had the only air conditioner on our block, a small window unit that could cool a 15 x 15 foot room that helped with my asthma. Again, rich.

There was martial law, and curfews at 10pm, followed by city-wide brownouts or blackouts which would last sometimes the whole night. We kept candles ready. I don’t remember us having flashlights.

Food was cooked using propane stoves, and everything else was manual. We had a refrigerator but I don’t remember using it, or getting ice from the freezer, if it had one. The only time I ate ice cream was when the ice cream vendor rode his bicycle down our street.

Our toilet did not have a seat, so you had to squat instead of sitting down. There was no toilet paper so you had to use a large cup of water, similar to a 7-11 Big Gulp, and your other hand to wipe. The bathroom was a concrete room with a hole in the floor for the drain. We took baths by filling a pail with water, dipping a Big Gulp-sized cup in the pail, and pouring the water over our heads. There was no shower stall, or bathtub. The only fixture was a single room temperature water spigot. If you wanted hot water, you had to go to the kitchen and boil a pot of water, bring it to the bathroom and mix the hot water with the tap water. There was a bar of soap, toothbrushes, and Colgate toothpaste on the top of the sink. The sink was also made of poured concrete. We didn’t know what dental floss was until we came to America.

We were rich, so I usually got one nice toy from my parents for my birthday. If I got more than one toy, I had to share with the other kids in our apartment building, even though I didn’t want to, because I am an only child.

We had a black and white TV. When my parents bought me a piano, the whole block came over to see it because most had never seen a piano inside a house before. I went to a private school.

During food shortages, rice was distributed to each household from large trucks. We were taught to finish our plates. We drank tap water with our meals. If times were good, we could drink Coca Cola. Steak was too expensive even for middle class people like us. I grew up drinking powdered milk and didn’t know what cow’s milk tasted like until we came to America.

When it rained, it flooded the driveway of our apartment complex up to our ankles. We folded newspaper and made boats that floated down to the street.

I don’t remember commercials on TV. I don’t remember asking for a toy that I saw on TV. I don’t remember window shopping. I don’t remember wanting more than one thing at a time.

gerardosandiego.com is live

2009-08-31T04:35:00.000-07:00

I wanted the web site to be a blank canvas. I wanted the art, design and writing pieces to be the most prominent elements. I wanted the design to be stark and to the point and in your face and to get down to business as quickly and efficiently as possible. Stop screwing around with the "interface" and just get the visitor to see the work, I told myself.

Kristie put the final exclamation point to the layout, by guiding me to create the identifying mark, shown above. Using Photoshop, she told me to enlarge the image, overlap it, run the layer through a color filter. When all was said and done, the layout was just as I'd pictured it in the part of my mind that I myself couldn't translate, but Kristie, for some reason, was able to extract that idea and show me how to get there. This is why she's the creative director for our company.

I'd wanted it to look like a scroll painting, using the picture of my reflection at the Hsi Lai Temple. I wanted it to convey simplicity and cleanliness. I wanted some Tibetan red. I wanted some saffron.

I got it, I got it, I got it. Now time to create some new work to add to this baby.

www.gerardosandiego.com

Disarmament Treaties

2009-08-24T04:41:00.000-07:00

I had this thought lately while watching a reality show.

“How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath to say to me that thou art out of breath?” –Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet

Whenever I hear someone arguing to the point of shouting, three things come to mind:

1. This person has enough energy to shout and fight.

2. This person has enough time in his/her day to engage in combat.

3. This person puts a priority in shouting and fighting over any other less combative activities at this moment.

If this person is shouting/fighting at me, I almost always give in. Yes, you win and I’m a coward I’ll tell them. Yes, I’m wrong with my beliefs. Yes, yes, yes, anything to end the argument.

I’ve realized that there is no winning most arguments, especially the violent ones. Just the fact that I’m in one means that I already lost, because it’s taken me away from the things that I love to do, which is napping, eating, creating something artsy or designy, watching a movie, or simply resting.

(I think, but am not sure, that there are people who actually like to shout and argue, as if shouting and arguing is an essential element of their existence.)

If just being in a fight/argument means that I’ve already lost, well, I may as well admit that I lost, end the fight/argument, and try to recoup lost time.

I heard someone say this, might have been Deepak Chopra, that a battle doesn’t exist unless both parties choose to fight. One person throws out a set of words as weapons of first volley, then wait for the counterattack. Many times there is a counterattack, in which case the battle becomes official.

But if there is no counterattack, the battle never begins. The absence of retaliatory words means disarmament on the spot.

Even if there was a fight, how is the winner determined? Since at the end of most, if not all fights, no opinions are changed, nobody is any smarter than before, and nothing gets accomplished, except maybe one or both parties “got it out of their system”. And if that’s the reason for fighting, I suggest that we instead use our energies to dig wells and look for drinkable water, because that’s much more in short supply than escalating quibbles.

Flesh for Fiction

2009-08-21T04:47:00.000-07:00

As I was driving down Lakewood Blvd. today, I thought about fiction.

Why do we read them when we have our own imaginations that can come up with our own stories? Why do we trust what we read when it’s fiction? Why do we get angry or happy or sad or crying about made-up stories, when we know that that’s the intention of the writer? Why do we care about what happens to a group of fictional people with fictional histories who experience fictional incidents? I’m not saying this is bad, I’m just asking why.

When a writer writes fiction, why does he care if one direction of a storyline makes more sense than another, when neither directions happened anyway? Why does there need to be a suspension of disbelief? Why are we more satisfied with one resolution than another?

Why do we criticize a fictional movie for not doing what we expected it to do? Why do we feel more satisfied, or less satisified, with a fictional movie’s conclusion, if we can draw our own conclusions using our imaginations?

I noticed how an opinionated writer can pretty much tell the world what he believes without being criticized for it. Instead of writing an opinion or editorial piece, he writes a “fictional” story. Instead of the writer directly saying what he thinks, he has one of the characters do it. Instead of the writer saying that something is right or wrong, he has one of the characters perform an act whose consequence justifies the rightness or wrongness of that act, therefore proving the writer true. Because everything is happening through the characters in the fictional story, any fingerpointing or judgments are aimed at the characters, not the writer. The characters did it, after all.

If you want to talk about what you believe in, you can go two ways. One is by saying what you mean, straight from your own mouth, using your own words. The other is to create a set of characters to tell your personal truths for you, through fiction.

A Thought About Ignorance

2009-08-20T13:26:00.000-07:00

I don't know if somebody else has already said this just like this, but I had this thought while watching the news:

"During times of bounty, ignorance is like heaven. During a crisis, it's like the other place."

;-)

Con Trail

2009-08-07T00:14:00.000-07:00

It’s been a few months since I saw a live taping of the the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. Watching his show on TV compared to seeing it live is like watching a major league pitcher throw a fastball on television compared to actually standing at the plate and watching it coming at you at ninety miles an hour. I’ll explain later.

I’ve been reading some news regarding Jay Leno’s move to 10pm, leaving his successful 11:30pm slot on the Tonight Show to supposedly try to “save” NBC’s primetime lineup. Now Conan O’Brien is the new Tonight Show host, but supposedly has been slowly losing his audience to David Letterman’s show on CBS. There are rumors that say if Conan’s ratings don’t get better, he will be replaced in a year with another host.

I’ve been watching these talk shows for as long as I can remember, and I haven’t noticed a dip in quality with any of them. As far as I’m concerned, all the shows are/were pretty damn good and they never really had to change anything. But the only thing that counts in show business are the ratings and advertising revenue, and the 18-49 year-old demographic, it seems.

Meanwhile, Craig Ferguson is still at his 12:30am time slot on CBS, right after Letterman. Unlike the other talk show hosts, Ferguson doesn’t have a band or a big budget. He sometimes calls his studio a garage. I’ve been there, and he’s right.

(This is the awkward segue where I talk about the live taping that felt like a fastball.)

His studio is claustrophobic, and even though there’s a lot of waiting involved, it feels frenetic. We as the audience spent at least an hour waiting for the actual show to start, while a warm-up comedian mingled with the audience and taught us how and when to clap, what not to do, when and how long to cheer as loudly as possible. We were given false cues as to when “it’s showtime”, but then had to wait 15 minutes, 30 minutes, salivatingly, while things got set up. Before Ferguson came out, we listened to a band that we’d never heard before, then cheered like maniacs when they finished, then we watched a stand-up comic do her routine, and cheered again like maniacs when she finished, because we’d been taught to do so.

When Ferguson finally appears and does his opening monologue, you can’t see his face because he stands so close to the camera that the lens cover and teleprompter hood shields him from audience view. The only way to see him is by watching the overhead monitors, which is the same view you would get if you were to stay at home and watch it on TV.

By the end of the event, I found myself in a semi-brainwashed state, ready to laugh and cheer on command. Don’t know if it was the same for Kristie, but we both agreed that we were exhausted, our hands throbbing from all the clapping, our voices gone from all the screaming. We agreed that we probably wouldn’t be doing this again.

I’m glad I taped the show that I saw live, because when I was actually there, it felt as if I didn’t really watch it. It was three hours of sitting, waiting, practicing, anticipating, frantically cheering, clapping, being supporting characters to this production that would be seen around the world very differently compared to how it was originally created. It was similar to waiting in line for five hours to see a Star Wars movie when I was a kid. It felt like work.

(Nonexistent segue from the crazy fastball analogy.)

Craig Ferguson is one of the more truthful ones out there. He admits when his show is crap, he owns up to his own blunders, and he tries nightly to reveal as much of show business reality as he can without getting in permanent trouble with CBS.

And yet, the reality of his show is still very different from the edited piece that shows up on TV at 12:30 in the morning. I have a feeling that the other talk shows, in terms of this disconnect, are worse. The other shows have bigger budgets and more pressure to sell advertising space. They have more writers, more stagehands, more technicians, more everything. So much more, simply to fill an hour of television with laughter. Actually, there’s nothing simple about it.

Something Ferguson said in a recent interview:

“I don’t want to be rich enough where all I’m worrying about is keeping my job.”

I wonder what Conan and Leno and Letterman are worried about.

(By the way, I titled this “Con Trail” hoping to talk about Craig Ferguson’s newly acquired pilot’s license, then comparing the kind of plane he flies, which is probably a prop-driven two- or four-seater, to the jets that other bigger celebrities fly or get flown in. I wanted to mention the condensation trail that a jet leaves in its wake, and how the contrail doesn’t really do anything except show you where the jet has already been, and how both propeller planes and jets basically do the same thing, which is fly. But I couldn’t figure out how to add all this stuff in, so I’m mentioning it here.)

Drone

2009-08-04T03:54:00.000-07:00

A moment before the alarm clock wakes up the day to play the radio, there is a very quick hum that precedes it, almost imperceptible, and only those who are already awake before the alarm goes off can hear it.

Many cable boxes that are equipped to record TV programs hum even when the television is turned off. Televisions themselves, even when muted, are not totally silent. And I wonder if those wall-plugged pest repellant boxes emit an electronic drone that can actually be heard by humans, even when instructions say they cannot.

The street traffic drowns out the crickets, the mockingbirds drown out the cars and insects, and barking dogs, awakened in the middle of the night because their owners work the nightshift, drown out almost everything, except for the police helicopter chasing its spotlight.

Early in the morning, in stop-and-go traffic, the car heater is drowned out by the radio, turned down during a wireless call, while the inside of the driver’s mouth sloshes around coffee and whatever solid food was available in the kitchen. The cellphone and its matching bluetooth earpiece mimic each other’s beeps to tell the user that both are available.

At work, fluorescent lights have buzzed since they were invented, but are drowned out by clicking keyboards, printing printers, water coolers kicking in to refrigerate and heat the dispensed water, computer speakers being adjusted, computer monitors being degaussed, the dozens of distant and local telephones ringing, beepers ringing, PDAs ringing, iPhone and iPod sounds trying to escape from little holes drilled into little earplugs, other sounds trying to escape from little speakers that are snuck into little spaces, each cubicle and pod person trying to find a little sense of individuality in whatever little space they are given.

The lunchtime walk is one rapid wave after another of cars and trucks and service vehicles, intermittent processions of people rushing to maximize their midday breaks, the trees and wind and birds doing their best to call attention to themselves, doing their best to remind us what we were working for in the first place.

A few people will not be talking on their cellphones. Some will be sitting, doing nothing during that moment when the mind decides to reset itself.

During that moment everything becomes silent. The hundreds of dollars worth of electronics that live inside each available pocket or purse, at that moment, is muted by the noon sun forming a film of sweat on a forehead, a cheek, the tip of an eyelash. At that moment, when the wind reiterates its message, it has a better chance of being heard.

Corazon Aquino, 1933-2009

2009-08-03T02:45:00.000-07:00

I don’t quite know how to mourn and celebrate Corazon Aquino, except to improve my knowledge of her life and accomplishments. This is some of what I’ve learned so far:

She is the first woman president of the Philippines. She is the first woman president of any Asian country.

She was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.

She was Time Magazine’s Woman of the Year.

She won the 1986 Philippine presidential election despite aggressive illegal election-rigging by her opponent’s supporters.

Her political platform was peaceful, democratic reformation.

House Speaker Tip O’Neill called her 1986 speech at a joint session of the United States Congress “the finest speech I’ve ever heard in my 34 years in Congress.”

She won the Martin Luther King Jr. Nonviolent Peace Prize.

She was a deeply religious woman.

She is called “Tita Cory” by Filipinos as a sign of endearment.

"In giving we receive, in losing we find, and out of defeat we snatched our victory." —Corazon Aquino, speech before the United States Congress, September 18, 1986

Craig Ferguson: Why Everything Sucks

2009-07-22T13:10:00.001-07:00

This is a great example why I watch Craig Ferguson:

District 9

2009-07-22T00:17:00.000-07:00

Whoah.

Imaginarium

2009-07-11T21:41:00.000-07:00

(click on the picture to go to the web site)

The project took about 2 weeks to finish, about an hour a day. One hour to tape the model kit pieces together to see if they fit. Two hours to glue the pieces together. Two hours to spray paint, two more hours to hand paint. One hour to apply the decals, another hour to take pictures. The rest of the time on my computer with Photoshop, cleaning up the pictures and making a little web site.

Here it is: www.interknight.com/honeybee

Here's the model on my worktable:

While researching quotes to add to the web site, I ran into this:

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” —Howard Thurman

Take Five

2009-07-07T03:58:00.000-07:00

Most everything I do, in terms of time, is estimated, from actually getting up as opposed to when the alarm first goes off, to driving from point A to point B, to meeting a group of people somewhere. Because of traffic, the telephone, forgetfulness and bad estimations, rarely am I ever at an exact place at an exact time according to my calculations.

As I’ve gotten older, I thought I would be better at pinpointing my space-time coordinates, especially with so much technology to help me. My cellphone is accurate to the second and calibrated with satellites connected with the World Atomic Clock, or so I’ve heard. My computer comes with programs and widgets that keep track of my schedule. My e-mails are sorted and prioritized chronologically, so that older work requests do not undermine, overlap, or duplicate newer work requests. The files that I work on have time stamps. Some of my favorite shows come on at two minutes past the hour, just enough time for a quick bathroom break, and if not, I can always record the show on the DVR. Because the running time is given for every movie on TV, DVD, or in theaters, I know when it will end before it even begins.

But even though everything is so controlled, so precise, I am still late. I am still stressed. Because I know that I should have more control, and the fact that I don’t, makes it worse.

And so, one day, I purposely made myself late. I had just gotten out of the shower and was staring at the cordless phone’s clock (oh yeah, there’s one more place that tells you the time), trying to estimate how long I can dry myself, apply deodorant and other miscellaneous lotions, get dressed, arm myself with my wallet, cellphone, keys, sunglasses, pen, and writing pad, and get to my car with enough time allotted for the average freeway traffic at that time of the day, that day of the week, that time of the year.

I was thinking about all these things when I just stopped.

Wrapped in a towel, I thought about how nice the parks must be this time of year.

Dripping, soaking, I thought about what I wanted for Christmas.

For five minutes, I didn’t move. The passing of time, as much as the towel, dried my body.

And then, when I got bored of not worrying, I resumed my ritual of getting ready. When I met my friend, I told him all about it. He didn't even realize that I was late because he had taken the time waiting for me to call five extra minutes’ worth of people. If I’d never said anything, it never would have been an issue.

During our lunch at an outside cafe, we agreed to purposely spend five minutes not talking, and just watch other people and the midday traffic. We silenced our cellphones and Blackberries. We purposely sat there until we had had enough of our own silence, of giving ourselves a break from cramming every nanosecond of every day into something “substantial” and “productive”. When we resumed talking, we talked more slowly but didn’t waste words. We talked about a lesser number of topics, but each topic had better taste, because we had more time to chew.

We never looked at the time. We didn’t rush. And when we were good and ready to leave, we returned to acknowledging the clocks on the walls, in our pockets, on our wrists, in our cars, clipped to our belts, grafted to our lives.

It was five minutes before we had initially planned to leave.

Naps of Our Fathers

2009-06-21T15:10:00.000-07:00

I’d been wanting to re-watch the movie Flags of Our Fathers for a couple weeks now, and got to do it last night. The movie follows the story of the three surviving members of the soldiers who raised the flag on Mount Suribachi, during the famous WWII battle of the island of Iwo Jima. Here’s the famous photograph:

The movie talks about how this Pulitzer-prize winning shot was of the second flag raising, staged for political reasons. Both flag raisings took place on the 5th day of a 35-day battle, before American soldiers actually secured the island. The photograph and the three survivors, Ira Hayes, John Bradley, and Rene Gagnon, became promotional pieces to sell more war bonds and raise the morale of the American public.

While they toured the country during the war, making celebrated appearances in stadiums, fundraisers, and banquets, Hayes, Bradley, and Gagnon were provided the best accommodations. After the war, they were basically forgotten.

Today, we celebrate Father’s Day. We celebrate the hard work and sacrifices that good fathers keep to provide for their families. Out of 365 days a year, fathers have one official day to themselves. I don’t think their birthdays count, because how many fathers do you know actually celebrate their birthdays? As for Christmas, fathers are usually too busy working out the logistics of that holiday, putting up the tree, putting up house lights, buying presents, working overtime to make extra money to buy presents.

Just like Mother’s Day, many spend Father’s Day organizing breakfasts, lunches, dinners, parties, barbecues, picnics, get togethers and family reunions. Fathers, who may want to simply relax in front of the TV, watching golf or baseball or nothing at all, in bed or in their favorite recliner, on their one day of the year, instead become drivers for the family, cooks for the barbecue, grocery store runners for whatever supplies are in short demand, and payers of party and outdoor supplies that need to be bought in order that the celebration, on behalf of them, can be enjoyed by all.

While my barber cut my hair yesterday, I asked him what his plans are for Father’s Day. He said that he’d like not to have any plans. He’d like to maybe barbecue, but only if he feels like it. He’d like to maybe watch TV, but only if he feels like it. His brother, who has no children, wanted to celebrate by getting the whole family together for a picnic party. I have a feeling that my barber, who worked on Saturday, is right now probably taking a nap in his living room.

If my own Dad were in town this weekend, he probably would be with us, his family, and others of our extended family, waiting for an hour or more before we got seated at an overcrowded restaurant, waiting to eat food that will be served by overwhelmed servers, cooked by overwhelmed cooks. Token gifts and overpriced greeting cards would be given to him before he winds up paying for the majority of the bill.

Instead, my Dad is with my Mom in Las Vegas this weekend, on his own time and schedule, without the burden of everyone else’s agenda. Even though I am hundreds of miles away, I am celebrating the day with him, by getting out of his way.

Fear and Liberation

2009-06-16T14:26:00.000-07:00

Conan O'Brien, from his Inside the Actor's Studio interview:

"Comedy isn't a science. Science isn't a science. We're learning that all the time. We're learning that in Wall Street. Nobody really knows what they're doing. And there's two ways to go with that information. One is to be afraid. The other is to be liberated. And I choose to be liberated by it."

Reveille

2009-06-02T12:12:00.000-07:00

One of the ways to keep a car running healthy, especially when it’s older, is to be gentle with it in the morning. Revving the engine soon after you start the ignition, quick starts and stops, and forcing the car into higher gears before it’s warmed up is a surefire way to shorten its life.

On some mornings, I make the mistake of checking my e-mails soon after waking up, even though I know it will contain at least fifty marketing solicitations, another fifty pornographic advertisements, another fifty pharmaceutical advertisements for products that are directly related to the pornographic advertisements, and about a dozen “as soon as possible” work requests.

If I’m lucky, I will get a handful of e-mails from friends and family that talk about what they’re currently doing in life, that has nothing to do with politics, the current war, or e-mails that I have to pass on to ten other people if I am to guarantee that I will have a nice day. Out of two hundred e-mails, I will sift through and read my cousin’s recipe for egg roll first.

Something I noticed about my reading work related e-mails first thing in the morning, before all my senses and balance have kicked in: the work requests seem as if they’re much more important than they really are. If I first take the time to go to the bathroom, walk around my bedroom, open the drapes to let sunshine in and listen to the birds outside, drink a little water to get my fluid lines going, if I first do these things, it seems as if the work related e-mails, although they are necessary for my livelihood, aren’t so immediate, important. Which reminds me of something Charles Bukowski said:

How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?

When I was younger, I thought that in order to be a “good person”, one was supposed to do the above things, suffer the requisite suffering, and live in a certain degree of ignorance and denial, enough to be able to get the day’s job done. I thought that stressfulness was next to godliness.

I recently read this from C.S. Lewis’ The Screwtape Letters, with the demon uncle giving advice to his demon nephew. Here, as in the rest of the book, “The Enemy” is God:

Never having been a human, you don’t realise how enslaved they are to the pressure of the ordinary. I once had a patient, a sound atheist, who used to read in the British Museum. One day, as he sat reading, I saw a train of thought in his mind beginning to go the wrong way. The Enemy, of course, was at his elbow in a moment. Before I knew where I was I saw my twenty years’ work beginning to totter. If I had lost my head and begun to attempt a defence by argument I should have been undone. But I was not such a fool. I struck instantly at the part of the man which I had best under my control and suggested that it was just about time he had some lunch…Once he was in the street the battle was won. I showed him a newsboy shouting the midday paper, and a No. 73 bus going past, and before he reached the bottom of the steps I had got into him an unalterable conviction that, whatever odd ideas might come into a man’s head when he was shut up alone with his books, a healthy dose of ‘real life’ (by which he meant the bus and the newsboy) was enough to show him that all ‘that sort of thing’ just couldn’t be true. He knew he’s had a narrow escape and in later years was fond of talking about ‘that inarticulate sense for actuality which is our ultimate safeguard against the aberrations of mere logic’. He is now safe in Our Father’s house (Hell).

and this:

We want a whole race perpetually in pursuit of the rainbow’s end, never honest, nor kind, nor happy now, but always using as mere fuel wherewith to heap the altar of the future every real gift which is offered them in the Present.

C.S. Lewis has an interesting take on the Past, Present, and Future. Here’s a snippet:

In a word, the Future is, of all things, the thing least like eternity. It is the most completely temporal part of time—for the Past is frozen and no longer flows, and the Present is all lit up with eternal rays…Hence nearly all vices are rooted in the future. Gratitude looks to the past and love to the present; fear, avarice, lust, and ambition look ahead.

Memo to myself to research this further.

It took me about two hours to write this entry. In between the writing, my cat wanted to play, I did two loads of laundry, and talked with a couple friends on the phone about life. When my friend Brad answered his work phone, I sang my first two sentences to him, guessing that he was probably in meetings all day and probably had not heard one musical note since he stepped inside the building. I also wrote down some African poetry and proverbs that I found on some web sites, to use on a future pro-bono project. Here's one, a proverb from the Fulani tribe:

"Patience can cook a stone."

I will now do some real-world, paying work, sifting through written notes and e-mails to find the proper requests, file attachments, double requests, ASAP requests, making sure that everything is properly documented, double checked and prioritized, because these are very very very important things, you know.

But first, lunch.

The Trough Periods

2009-05-28T22:30:00.000-07:00

About a month ago, I called my church and asked if they needed help with anything, whether it’s driving food or groceries to the infirmed, or helping finish their web site. The web site work will resume in a couple months, when the church organizer is caught up with his other non-church duties. The other thing they asked me to help them is with the Eucharist.

Without celebration or ceremony, I became a Eucharistic Minister, also called an Extraordinary Minister of the Eucharist. “Extraordinary” being the opposite of what one would think, since I am not ordained nor have any authority to perform a mass. I am “outside” the ordinary. “Ordinary” Ministers are priests and bishops who have paid their dues, done their time, and have a really good idea of what they’re doing. I am simply a Fedex guy that brings holy bread to those who can’t make it to church because of illness, injury, or old age.

And so my church gave me a pyx (a small container that holds about 25 Hosts, or holy bread), a burse (a leather pouch to keep the pyx inside), a name tag, a small stack of books and pamphlets about what it means to be a Eucharistic Minister, and an address and a phone number regarding my first gig. Last week, I went to a senior retirement home and rehab center, and gave Communion to around 20 people, some in groups, some in their own rooms. I prayed with those who had the strength to pray out loud, and for the others who barely had the strength to open their mouths, I did the praying.

Things are tough right now. Some of my friends are losing their jobs, getting their hours cut, or having trouble paying their mortgage. It is now the reverse of the dot-com era, when people had more money than time. This also applies to me, with my clients suffering from this recession. I now have at least three new hours a week to use as I wish, to either panic about the world’s financial situation, or to spend that time doing something constructive that has absolutely nothing to do with anything that I’ve ever done before. I chose the latter, and now spend one afternoon a week bringing Communion to others.

Last Sunday’s homily by Father John was about two books by C.S. Lewis, the same author of the Narnia stories. The first book, which I have yet to read, is The Great Divorce, about people who are stuck in Hell that are about to take a bus ride to spend an afternoon in Heaven. One by one, they complain about trivial things, whether it’s the person sitting next to them, or the way the bus driver drove, to the point where complaining about the road to Heaven was more important than getting there.

The other book is The Screwtape Letters, a series of letters that a high-ranking demon, Screwtape, writes to his nephew, Wormwood. Wormwood is a fledgling demon who has been assigned to “guide” a human to do everything possible so that he ultimately winds up in Hell.

There is a reason that I didn’t, but I wish that I had known about this book a long time ago. It uses irony and reverse perspective, where God is the “Enemy”, and every advice is the opposite of what it should be—although I’ve caught myself rereading some passages because some of Screwtape's advice is the same exact advice I had read in very popular financial and self-help books.

I had underlined some passages:

If he is of the more hopeful type your job is to make him acquiesce in the present low temperature of his spirit and gradually become content with it, persuading himself that it is not so low after all.

In 1994, I worked four days at a job that was a very good paycheck but made me feel soulless. My friend back then had told me to stick it out for six months, and I’ll probably wind up not minding it so much after that. I was desperate to have a job back then. I quit after four days.

It is during such trough periods, much more than during the peak periods, that it is growing into the sort of creature He wants it to be…He cannot ‘tempt’ to virtue as we do to vice. He wants them to learn to walk and must therefore take away His hand; and if only the will to walk is really there He is pleased even with their stumbles.

Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy’s will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys.

Orange Kitty Donation, Ducks, Charice on Oprah

2009-05-14T21:57:00.000-07:00

I'm posting this until they get enough donations for the kitty's surgery. If you're one of my friends or family and you have some spare change, anything will help. It's a quick PayPal donation.

Here's the story:

http://organgekitty.chipin.com/mypages/
view/id/bc1504445b642459

Another story, nice ending:

Parade Leads Ducklings to Safety, on ABCNews
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=prRmQ-OldyE

As soon as the video embedding is available, I'll embed it here.

One more, this is amazing:

Charice singing "Note to God" on Oprah:

Lyrics transcribed from the Oprah performance:

If I wrote a note to God
I would speak what's in my soul
I'd ask for all the hate to be swept away
For love to overflow

If I wrote a note to God
I'd pour my heart out on each page
I'd ask for war to end
And for peace to mend this world
I'd say, I'd say

I'd say

Give us the strength to make it through
Help us find love 'cause love is overdue
And it seems like so much is going wrong
On this road we're on

If I wrote a note to God
I'd say please help us find our way
End all the bitterness, put some tenderness in our hearts
I'd say, I'd say, I'd say

Give us the strength to make it through
Help us find love 'cause love is overdue
And it looks like we haven't got a clue
Need some help from You

Grant us the faith to carry on
Give us hope when it seems all hope is gone
Cause it seems like so much is going wrong
On this road we're on

No, no, no
We can't do this on our own
So

Give us the strength to make it through
Help us find love 'cause love is overdue
And it looks like we haven't got a clue
Need some help from You

Grant us the faith to carry on
Give us hope when it seems all hope is gone
'Cause it seems like so much is going wrong
On this road we're on

No, no, no
We can't do this on our own
So

If I wrote a note to God.

Check Engine Light

2009-05-14T12:12:00.001-07:00

I stumbled onto the above picture this morning. The picture is in various places on the Web. I don't know where it originated but if you do a Google image search for "define necessity", you'll see the other web sites and blogs that have posted it before I did.

The picture reminded me that I have almost 175,000 miles on my 98 Accord but it's still running great, knock on wood. I almost bought a new car a couple years ago, thinking that it was a "necessity", but I decided not to.

For the last week, my car's check engine light had been on. Yesterday, I finished a meeting early and on the way back, ran into traffic on the freeway. I decided to take the surface streets and stop by my mechanic so he can take a look at the check engine light. Within a couple blocks of the mechanic shop, the check engine light turned off. I kept driving and now have one less thing to worry about.

"A man who as a physical being is always turned toward the outside, thinking that his happiness lies outside him, finally turns inward and discovers that the source is within him."
—Soren Kierkegaard

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Help donate while testing your word skills at www.freerice.com

An Old Prayer for A New Year, Christmas Card Version

2009-05-12T12:35:00.000-07:00

I'm planning on making my own Christmas Cards this year and using a shortened version of what I wrote on New Year's Eve of last year.

Let us not speak these words only once a year,
but with each breath, every day.

May we understand ourselves without medallions of success, nor burdens of sorrow, that we may instead lighten our souls through compassion and humility.

May we find balance between labor and rest, and do work that promotes welfare without excess, comfort without indulgence, diligence without pride, and effort without exhaustion.

May we give so much to others that we never know the feeling of greed.

May we give enough to ourselves that we never know the feeling of want.

May we find insight to our own affairs and stay blind to the affairs of others.

May we see the world as precious and limitless, and each of us as the extension of the infinite.

Three Stages of Day

2009-05-08T02:36:00.000-07:00

I.

During the earlier part of the day, I thought about this quote:

“Boredom is the root of evil.”

I searched the Web for references to it, and inevitably found Soren Kierkegaard’s Wikipedia page:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/
Philosophy_of_S%C3%B8ren_Kierkegaard

Kierkegaard is famous for having said the quote, “Boredom is the root of all evil—the despairing refusal to be oneself.”

After reading a bit of what Kierkegaard and other writers have said about it, I think I know what it means, but it’ll probably take years before it really sinks in.

This other part was interesting, called the Three Stages of Life:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philosophy_of_S%
C3%B8ren_Kierkegaard#Three_stages_of_life

Craig Ferguson sometimes mentions Kierkegaard during his nightly monologues, when he wants to appear sublime and scholarly, before he reverts back to a joke that mentions a party at Elton John’s house. The last time Craig mentioned Kierkegaard, he rambled on about existentialism and theories, then stared at the camera and sarcastically said, “You don’t know me!”

II.

During the middle of the day, while I worked on an Excel file and Kristie worked on putting together a rosary as a gift for my niece’s First Communion, we watched the movie Black Snake Moan, with Samuel Jackson (Lazarus) and Christina Ricci (Rae). The climactic scene happens during a thunderstorm. Lazarus plays his guitar and sings to Rae the blues song “Black Snake Moan”, about the evil that creeps into a life and drives that life into a bad direction. Lazarus is recovering from a betrayal, and Rae is recovering from sex addiction. As Lazarus plays louder, the storm grows louder, and the room’s lights flicker and the guitar amp falters. Lazarus plays and sings even louder, defying the storm. Rae sits on the ground, afraid of the storm, and hugs his leg while he plays louder and louder. The storm ends and Lazarus finishes the song.

I pointed to the TV and screamed, in my own geeky way, “That was an exorcism!” Kristie said, “Yup.”

III.

At the end of the day, I checked my voicemail. One was from my local church, whom I had contacted and offered my services for whatever they need, whether it’s to run errands or drive supplies to wherever or food to whomever in the community. They’re looking for someone to bring holy bread to those who can’t make it to church, while the eucharistic minister goes on vacation for 3 weeks. According to the voicemail, it will be taking the eucharist to a rehab center.

Batteries Included

2009-05-06T03:46:00.000-07:00

Each human eye initially transmits upside-down images to the brain, which in turn, rotates these images to the way that we understand and remember them. Everything we see is actually turned 180 degrees, all the time.

The brain, depending on the physiology of that person, will see colors slightly more differently, will notice more or less details, or not notice some things at all, compared to another person.

A person’s history, heritage, upbringing, social class, and educational level, among other things, will further affect that person’s perception of the originally upside-down, slightly off-color, variably detailed images.

Taking photographs of images will add another set of lenses, curves, perspectives, and a different physical process by which the images are reorganized and disseminated.

In order to preserve as much of the original visual information that was taken using the above process, continuous tone film is used, or the images are saved in uncompressed digital format.

And then we run it through a Photoshop filter.

According to the Shambhala Dictionary of Buddhism and Zen:

Consciousness, attached to the senses, leads us into error by causing us to take the world of appearances for the world of reality, whereas in fact it is only a limited and fleeting aspect of reality.

I asked my designer friend recently, “What do you think we spend more time on, creating or formatting?”

She said, “Formatting, because it’s easier than creating.”

Whenever I begin to think about writing something new for this blog, as opposed to doing a visual redesign, I ask myself:

On writing: “Do you really want to continue killing yourself for days and days, sometimes weeks, to try to hatch an original egg of thought, which you probably won’t be able to do ninety-nine percent of the time, since you’re part of a civilization that thrives on the commercial repurposing of ideas?"

On visual redesign: "Or wouldn’t you rather spend a weekend taking a real life photograph of yourself, running it through some Photoshop filters to make it less uninteresting than other people’s pictures, sprinkling some clipart and stock images throughout the visual composition, and creating something that looks fantastic, according to current design trends? By doing this, you can make your blog seem fresh, even if you don’t write anything new.”

As if I’ve ever written anything new. As if.

Pieces of Watergate

2009-05-01T15:14:00.000-07:00

In the summer of 1974, only half a year after coming to America, my parents and I went to see a drive-in movie. My father worked three jobs—full-time as an engineer during the weekdays, driving a taxi cab on weekends, and as a cook in the kitchen of the concession stand at a drive-in theater. One of the perks of working at a drive-in theater was that my dad could take his family to work and let them watch a whole night of movies for free. We arrived an hour before the gates officially opened, when the parking lot’s tire spikes were still lowered to allow employees to come in through the exits.

I remember watching a double feature of Disney’s The Three Caballeros and Gus, the football-kicking mule. I remember being eight years old and sitting in the driver’s seat and pretending to drive. I remember almost crashing the car because I accidentally shifted it into reverse without the emergency brake on. The car was a Ford Pinto so it wouldn’t have done much damage, but that was probably my first official “this is the end of my world” moment, the first of many to come.

I remember falling asleep in the back seat during the drive home, and then waking up to hear the radio talking about the new president (Gerald Ford) pardoning the old president (Richard Nixon). Back then, I thought that Gerald Ford was a democrat and Richard Nixon was a republican. I thought that when a republican got kicked out of office, a democrat would automatically take over, and vice versa. I thought it was like baseball—when the Yankees weren’t World Series champs, then it was probably the Dodgers. I didn’t yet know how politics worked, and I didn’t know that the president had that much power.

Years later, during college, I rented the movie All the President’s Men, with Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman. Older movies were $1 rentals back then, so I wound up watching a lot of westerns, Hitchcock movies, as well as 70’s political thrillers, including Marathon Man (also starring Dustin Hoffman) and Three Days of the Condor (Robert Redford).

Since then, I have watched All the President’s Men at least a dozen times, often in pieces as they pop up on cable TV and when I watch my DVD copy to watch a specific scene. Over time, my understanding of Richard Nixon, Watergate, Woodward and Bernstein, and everything else involved, becomes more complete, but still remains unclear. We now know that Mark Felt is Deep Throat, we have now heard the tape recorded meetings between Nixon and his aides, and Ron Howard’s latest movie, Frost/Nixon, uncovers yet one more piece to this mosaic of understanding that for me began thirty-five years ago.

But it still feels like a puzzle to me, and I don’t know why. Maybe when I understand a bit better how political lobbying works, it will be more clear to me. Or when I understand how the presidential chain of command is really structured. Or if one more movie, or book, or an Associated Press report comes out, maybe that’s when I’ll be able to complete the puzzle.

Or maybe that’s the point, that the puzzle isn’t meant to be completed, or even understood. Maybe the pieces were never meant to fit. Because if all the pieces did fit, there would be a certain acceptance of the whole mess of it.