What's Going On?

Sometimes, I have no idea what the hell is going on in the world. It just happens. I lose touch. Civilization keeps going. It doesn't miss me. I feel left out. Yet I don't feel like catching up.

Maybe I'm tired and sick. The sick is clouding my mind, and the tired is blocking the keyboard, defending any impending offensive. That is why I attack now!

I work nights and days, and in between the work, I sleep to catch up. I leave clothes to pile, dishes to soak, refrigerator to empty, emails to check, phones to answer, and wife to be alone. Now the sickness punches drain holes in my face, and I snort and I sneeze and I hock. My shoulders need kneading, my muscles need flexing, my gut needs shrinking, and I don't drink the milk or juice. There is no milk or juice. I am guilted by my childhood filled with milk or juice and I want to drink them. Instead I order three types of pasta at a corporate buffet line. Much better choice.

At least I flaked on grated calcium in the form of parmesan. There's my intake for the week. Oh, and I had two McDonald's cheeseburgers last night, each with a healthy portion of non-American cheese slices. Does fried chicken have calcium? Maybe I'll gnaw on the bones. Dead things are good for me.

I do watch movies. Based on my readings, I've been breaking down the acts. Around 25-30 minutes in, an event will turn Act 1 into Act 2. Then, 85-90 minutes in, another event will turn Act 2 into Act 3, later to be resolved in 25-30 more minutes. I'm trying to spot the act changes. And I'm analyzing the first 10 minutes of every film I've watched, attempting to see if the screenplay reveals the point of the movie in those 10, because consciously or subconciously, we make a decision on whether or not we like a movie in the first 10 minutes. That's what Syd Field says, anyway, in Screenplay.

Now I'm reading How Soccer Explains the World by Franklin Foer. Interesting read and history lesson on the world's game.

Now I leave Corporationia and have a date with my wife. Filipino food and a movie. Probably The Departed.

Weekends are so necessary when traveling to Corporationia.

Post-Katrina Coast Visit: Part 2

I've had a hard time getting back to writing this, simply because of time and my new schedule. It's also difficult to face the reality of our visit to the Gulf coast region. It wasn't all bad, in fact, we met and hung out with wonderful people at the wedding, many from Gulfport and Biloxi. They were a refreshing contrast to the constant stream of New Yorkers and transplants in our lives. These are true Mississippi natives, and although they were beaten down and feel the daily affect of seeing the barren and damaged coastline, they were quite happy to celebrate one of their own joining the marriage club.

The happy couple, being our New York friends, which means one is from Ohio, the other from Mississippi, invited an American sampling to descend into Biloxi. Guests from Georgia, Michigan, New York, Ohio, Mississippi, California, Colorado, and more I'm sure, hit one of the only operating casino resort hotels in Biloxi, recently re-opening its doors a month and a half ago, just in time for the wedding.

The Beau Rivage is like a beacon of commerce, gambling and hope in an otherwise emptied region. But I only realized this after driving back and forth from Biloxi to Gulfport several times, hotel to hotel to church to hotel. That's when I really saw all the excessive destruction first-hand.

From the Beau Rivage to Gulfport, along US 90, Beach Boulevard, is an eleven-mile stretch of coastline road that was once bursting with beach tourism, hotels, gambling, and wealthy Victorian and modern homes along the Gulf's beaches. It even had its own floating pirate-ship casino anchored off-shore, I was told by one of the sisters in the wedding party. One could walk or bike the beach promenade, fish along the many piers, or swim in the endless sea. Now, one is lucky to see any solid structures left standing, piers are either gone or platforms have been washed away, leaving posts and splintered beams signaling where piers used to be. Toppled tombstones are now just rocks atop a cemetery. Lonely beach-combers are sparse too, not only because of the off-season, but because No Swimming signs announce the hazards of swimming in debris-filled waters.

The first time I drove the stretch, the damage is so in your face that it's hard to absorb it all. The rosy-colored excitement of being a wedding guest cushioned me from what I was really seeing. I saw the damage, gave my obligatory awe, and continued onto the rehearsal. Returning to Biloxi is when it began to sink in. There it was again. It wasn't going anywhere.

The third time, on my way back to the church in Gulfport, I drove alone since my wife was in the wedding party. That's when it really sunk in. Piles of rubble are everywhere, hollowed out first floors leave mini-malls looking like they were built on stilts. Once grand hotels with all the windows blasted out have no facades or outer decor except concrete or rusted steel bones. Only a few have begun construction and re-painting the obligatory beach pastel colors of tourist destinations. A Holiday Inn or Ramada are rebuilt and open, which seems like deep corporation pockets can afford to re-build within Katrina's anniversary. The wealthy fared no better.

The sister also described the booming beach town for me, so I could imagine the difference. Even though presently, that damage is on every corner, she said it was so much worse. Cars stacked on top of each other, the pirate ship moved thousands of feet inland, resting on top of a church, once the waters receded. Palms and other trees snapped like twigs and left amid crushed houses.

But before the storm, she explained, this was a wealthy community, with house after house of gorgeous, Victorian homes, a road one would drive on to look at houses and dream of the good life. In my third trip along 90 going west, I only remember two fully re-constructed homes of livable quality. The rest were under contruction or replaced by empty lots.

Some stand-outs - an owner left a sign in front of their dilapidated dwelling - "Gone to the Virgin Islands" spray-painted on a large wooden panel. Another one says it all: "We're home. We'll Shoot. Don't Lute." This spelling-challenged message is painted on the side of the house. The mall is re-opened, but restaurants are few. Waffle House has fresh bricks and a sparkling sign. The only thing remaining of McDonald's is a hollowed out signpost, the golden of the arches is gone(the photo is foggy but you can make it out).

To the east is a Bay of Biloxi oasis, tradition, and my high recommendation. You can't miss the ubiquitous ads on beach benches along US 90 - Aunt Jenny's Catfish Restaurant in Ocean Springs, Mississippi. Their website pitch is great - Elvis was there, but I didn't see the photos. I wonder if there is evidence, but since we were wrapped up in the rehearsal dinner, I never even knew at the time that the King had graced Aunt Jenny's cellar lounge. I was told there was once a bridge from Biloxi to Ocean Springs on Beach Blvd., but Katrina saw to that. So from Biloxi, lovers of all-you-can-eat, fried everything - catfish, shrimp, chicken, hushpuppies, and more - must travel north on I-110, east on I-10, then back down along Washington Avenue to reach this staple of Southern-style cooking.

Tubs of cole slaw were waiting for us on the table, waiting to be forked out. Buttermilk biscuit baskets were passed out with butter and apple jelly, but I mixed it up with one of the squeeze bottle condiments, next to the ketchup and cocktail sauce - honey. Since it was on the table, I did as the locals do and doused my flaky, buttered biscuits with the luscious, dark goo. This appetizer dessert balanced out the slaw's sass. I must be hungry right now because I'm craving it bad. I want my fix of bee-bourne sweet and salty, wet bread. It's not just the taste, it's the slow pour of honey over the wafting biscuitry, the tease of Gulf goodness.

Definitely a highlight. Need I describe the endless plates of lightly-breaded, yet greaseless shrimp, dipped in spicy cocktail, also squoze (I like saying squoze) from a transparent plastic bottle. I collected the shrimp tails in scores. And did I say chicken?! No chain from a colonel can compare. The catfish was the staple, and tasty, mind you, but I preferred my other two friends of the down-home.

(still to be continued; see more Gulfport photos)

Post-Katrina Coast Visit: Part I

I've never witnessed anything like this. It's hard to imagine a thriving beach resort area when you're observing destruction and devastation all around. First off, I never thought I'd be in Mississippi. What do I know about Mississippi except that it holds the name of the Mighty River, Tom & Huck, Civil Rights, and the Bible Belt. The capital is Jackson and Neil Simon wrote a brilliant World War II, semi-autobiograpical play, Biloxi Blues, a comic documentation of his basic training experience set in Biloxi. And I have no reason to go to Mississippi except that a friend of ours had a wedding there this past weekend. That's the only reason we found ourselves flying into New Orleans and driving an hour east along I-10, to Biloxi and Gulfport, neighboring towns on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi.

After landing in New Orleans International Airport, I felt this excitement that we were taking a break from New York, and getting a chance to tour post-Katrina New Orleans. I had been there for the Sugar Bowl at the end of the '95 college football season, when Virgina Tech lost to Texas, and I experienced a resemblance to Mardi Gras for New Year's '96. I was hoping that after more than a year, life might have begun to return to the once thriving Crescent City. The ominous Superdome had re-opened for the Saints return, so I thought that that signaled a start to recovery. I was only partially right.

We decided to grab an authentic cajun lunch in the French Quarter and contribute to the local economy, before heading east to Biloxi. Taking I-10 downtown from the airport, we saw the crisp white dome from the highway, surrounded by skyscapers. It looked brand new, but hidden beneath, I couldn't help remembering the images of human suffering, so publicized by the media. Driving further, questions arose: What was underwater? What was it like before?

As we exited onto Esplanade, the northern border of the Quarter, we encountered damage for the first time, in the form of collapsed housing and piles of wooden debris, completely wiping away large lots. This has been covered again and again, but I've never seen it first-hand. It was awful. And this is only the visible manifestation of nature gone wild. We parked our rental car on Burgundy Street, close to the Hotel St. Pierre, my haven a decade ago, and walked past a closed and vacant corner bar on the corner of St. Anne, which used to overflow with leather-clad men. My first encounter with a gay bar back then, but now the streets were empty.

Blue flags hung high along buildings, donning the Saints' fleur-de-lis and claiming New Orleans' "Rebirth." The sound of hammering and sawing echoed along the silent streets and breeze at noon. This was not the vibrant city that we had once visited, overflowing with people. Not even on the famed Bourbon Street was debouchery pouring into sidewalks for lunch hour cocktails. Scattered tourists and convention goers (I overheard a passing patron) left ample room to wander, and aside from two or three re-opened bars broadcasting jazz and pop hits on loudspeakers, Bourbon did not boast it's party atmosphere. Many neon lights were lit for business despite the lack of customers.

Although we had to hurry on to Biloxi for the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner, I doubt we would have stayed much longer. There was a quiet sadness in the air, much like, as my wife put it, New York City after 9/11. I tend to agree. So we got the heck out, only after being lured into a pastry/candy shop by the aroma of cooking pecans and pralines. Our first contribution to local business. After a quick and spicy gumbo at Cafe Beignet, we bolted, leaving a fallend city behind.

On the road, along the raised highway, we surveyed the damage from above, which was still clearly visible. So many homes destroyed, and especially on the way to Biloxi, crossing the swamps leading up to the Bayou, whole communities are the skeletal remains of once, suburban neighborhoods. Gas stations, malls, Six Flags... all ripped apart and left to give passersby a constant reminder that a horrible tragedy occurred here, and there is still so much to be done.

(to be continued)

Yo Asian-Americans!

Last Thursday, we attended a fundraiser/roast for the New York Asian Women's Center in honor of Kyung Yoon, TV journalist. My lovely wife sang with Juan Pineda, roasting Kyung Yoon, while artists, Heather Greer, Liubo Borisov, and Woody Pak presented their installation, LivingPortrait. Pretty amazing stuff. Many of the Asians in journalism in New York were there as well: Cindy Hsu, Ti-Hua Chang, Juju Chang, David Ng, and as MC, the one and only, Connie Chung.

No matter what has transpired in the past year, replayed on the entertainment shows and YouTube, and with the controversy regarding Newt Gingrich's mother, causing her departure from CBS news, Connie Chung is a pioneer, not just for women, but for Asian-Americans in general.


I didn't like what happened, and was slightly disgusted because as a viewer, I want to hold our news professionals to a higher standard. But despite that, I used to watch Connie Chung all the time growing up, and especially with my mom, being the Asian of the family. It was like one of our own was out there, and as I look back, I feel proud that Connie Chung broke the barrier down for all the Asian-American journalists that pepper local and national news. In all markets, serious journalism tends to have an Asian-American on their TV screens, like the ones noted above, including others like Liz Cho and Nina Pineda in New York City. There are others, but I don't have the names.

I am by no means a new correspondent or journalist, but I appreciate the placement of these people in the public eye. It reaffirms the changing face of America, and I am fine with that. America's face has always changed, but all the uproar surrounding immigration and closing our borders in the wake of 9/11 makes me sicker than Kathryn Gingrich's interview. The GOP is wants to keep out the Latins, the Asians, and any other race that doesn't blend nicely with their own pale complexion.

So, I say, hooray for Connie Chung and for what she has acheived, and despite the efforts of the right to keep ethinic diversity out of America, a more colorful representation will continue to grow and prosper here in this land. If it doesn't, another country will take over as a rich melting pot of cultures.

I have more to say, but I have to get ready for work.

I've been working my second job, nights. Coming home at 3am, keeping me away from my wife, although I love the job, and it's only been my first full day after completing the training. I like it there, but maybe I can change the schedule a bit. It'd be different if my wife worked nights too, but the opposite schedules will keep us apart three days of the week. It's only temporary. It's all temporary.

I'm watching FC Chelsea vs. FC Barcelona in a Champion's League match as I write. How will it end? So far, 0-0 at the half.

Stripped and Painted

We are a collection of our experiences, our history, a summation of what we've learned from books, interactions with the world, and with other human beings.

In the process of finding ourselves, that journey which all human beings go on at some point, as we discover and strip away our fears of what everyone, the world has told us about ourselves, what is left?

What if I choose to wipe away everything, good or bad, that anyone has told me? Take away their observations, compliments and insults. Strip it all away, so that I may form my own opinion?

What if I had been praised wrongly? That maybe what I"m not good at was only encouraged by praise so that I wouldn't feel bad?

"You are a brave soul." What if I told that to my child at three years old, then again at four, and five? What if he or she is not? How would that change him or her?

That's what I mean by all the praise you've received since birth. What were the motivations behind them? And were they completely true? Or were they irrevocably biased to begin with, coming from a parent or teacher who was from from expert on particular matters?

Strip it all away, and what do you have left? Is it a pure, unvarnished, untouched soul? A floating spirit or entity (without recourse), universal in nature, like all other souls, or unique? Would we then be one with all or completely isolated?

I wonder this while sitting on a subway, wondering as my soul is propelled forward, within the body, to a physical location.

I have changed my job, my career and interests many times. And these decisions are based on my learnings, my experiences.

What would I then do if I was to strip it all away? Where would I go? How would I live?

Perhaps that is the essence of daily life. Stripping and adding, like a coat of paint. Two coats. No wait, it's time to clean house. Back to the wood and dry wall. Raw.

What would you be, raw? I know who I am more than ever, but this present is different than that moment I've just left behind.

This is me now, stripped and painted, stripped and painted.

It will always be...

Morning Glory

I'm sitting back atop the investment banking shrine to money-making, and it feels... okay. So far, they've left me alone. So far, I've been able to eat my breakfast in peace. Oatmeal, raisins, and two tablespoons of brown sugar, that, when left for a few minutes, melts into a gorgeous caramel pool, sunken within the mound of meal. Raisins swim freely in my clandestine, Chocolate Factory, oasis in my cubicle, also known as a styrofoam bowl. At least the raisins are able to enjoy their hot, yet all too brief summer by the pool, unlike myself. For that, I take a bite. And another. And another. Until any liquid that was once heated recreation for age-d grapes is but a fond memory, cast into non-existence. Or in the raisins' case, disintegrated and re-formed in foulness.

Onto the yellow core of a boiled chicken embryo; my prisoner. It thought I didn't know it was hiding behind it's white mantle, but I knew. I know, you sly sphere. So I peel away the soft crust of its globe, after ample salt-seasoning, and without a lawyer nor a tribunal, I gulp down in tortuous pleasure, its only safety. I place the yellow remnance back into the plastic disposable from which it came, and watch it watch me. Naked. Unrealized. Doomed.

That is how I start my morning. That is how I transcend my day. Dare any soul contest the fate of the fearful? Not on my watch.

'Tis but a lonely leaf, quivering in the breeze, finding a new home on the dirt in autumnal solitude, crisp and dead. A leaf among a Universe of leaves and leaving this realm for another. Not mourned. Not missed. Simply, gone.

And it gives me yummy goodness and uppity energy, all the live-long day!

For my Love

The reason why I put links to screenwriters' blogs is for my own personal inspiration. Working two jobs has given me a new outlook on what I want in this world. I have to make my mark. I know that I'm a good writer and I haven't actually written a screenplay yet, but I know that I will. It's in the cards. It's hard-wired into my being.

I may not be acting in anything at the moment, so writing this blog is my creative outlet, besides attempting to learn how to write a screenplay. I'm training at my retail computer job, where learning about the products I find exciting. I need a side career or a side of me needs to grow and learn something that will have an immediate impact on my life, and this computer job is providing that for me.

This may not be the stragitforward way of learning how to edit films, like going to the creme de la creme of film schools, NYU or UCLA, but it's roundabout, and Roundabout ain't just a theatre company in New York. It's the way to get an education without having to pay obscene amounts of money for tuition or textbooks. In fact, they will train me to learn so that I can teach others. That's the food stamps way. And although I don't live on food stamps, I can appreciate the glue-y quality of adhesive paper squares.

I'm putting my heart into it. I am a trained actor, but I am an untrained screenwriter and filmmaker. I consider myself a film-watching expert, analyzing, breaking it down, and respecting the artform for all it can provide humanity. I beleive in film, and I want to partake, somehow, some way, I will be in or make films in some matter. That's why I'm taking my introductory screenwriting class write now. My classroom... the subway. My text books: Screenplay, Story, How Not to Write a Screenplay.

That's enough for now. I'm taking it a chapter at a time and doing the exercises. It's not NYU, but it's a start.

It's for my love of art and expression, and for the love of my wife. We are doing this. We are having a family. We are buying a home, and are able to live comfortably. That's the mantra. That's the way.

So, I link to professional screenwriters as a part of the mantra, and despite what is going on in the world, the fear-induced return to the nuclear threat and a war with no end in sight, I will have this. I have my love and that is how I'll change the world.

Fugliness, Fox and Foley

As I sift through the many videos surrounding the Republican Congressman Mark Foley Pedophile Scandal, I am finding a need in me to be a man of integrity. I want to claim responsibility. But before I do, let's let Fox Report, and You Decide. Maybe it was a simple mistake, or maybe Fox tried to label the alleged pedophile, online, sex predator, Mark Foley-Florida Republican, as a Democrat, because it was a tiny attempt at disinformation. You decide:



"We Report [non-fact-checked, accusatory lies to pander to our conservative-based audience, then retract only after the false word is out]. You decide."

I like the new Fox News motto.

The second slippery reaction to Rep. Foley's scandal is from many Republicans:



Then there's blaming the Democrats for even having the Congressional Page program to begin with, because if it weren't for the pages, then Congressmen wouldn't be tempted to solicit online sex.

That's like blaming parents for having children, because how could they have children when they know sexual predators are out there.

Someone needs to take responsibility, and since know one is doing it, including Foley, blaming his alcoholism and victimized molestation by a clergy member in his childhood, I will.

I am responsible for Foley. He is my bequeathed and I taught him wrong. It's not his fault that he is gay. It's not his fault he asks young boys if he "makes [them] a little horny?" It's my fault for not speaking up earlier when I knew my child was going down the wrong path of God's fallen. I'd like to blame God for making him like this, and I'd like to blame God for making the rules so hard that Foley could never live up to them, but I must blame myself.

For your entertainment, the Daily Show's coverage:



Ah, there's all the angles. Normally I would just chalk this whole scandal up to a man with a problem, but because it's Congress, I can't help but enjoy watching the hypocrites flounder.

Whistle Blows

Smoke poured from his head, as the walls squished and squeezed upon his life force.

Whoa, nelly! Hold her down! Don't let the fray tear from the scalp!

He grasped and tugged, digging his soles into the carpet. Not only was the floor rumbling from this great row, but the grumbling train below reminded the fighter, that it was time to go!

Leave the work behind!

Scattered and Sleepy

In case you're wondering, I've started training for my new job. I love it so far.

I'm hooked on Studio 60. I'll go into it more at another time. Just finished The Nine, and it has got some excellent acting and writing. I never even got into Lost, but these actors have sucked me in, along with the concept and a story that keeps me asking, What happened? Tim Daly has got some chops, as well as the whole ensemble - I don't know their names... yet.

Julie and I are trying to find a way to get to Miami, the 2nd week in December. We need to get out of the City. The only beach we went to this summer was on the broken-glass sand of Coney Island, Memorial Day Weekend. Easy access, 5 stops away on the subway. Now you know our pain.

My mind is scattered at the end of the night. It's back to the bank tomorrow morning, then back to the store on Friday. Maybe I'll start catering again, but then I'll never see my wife. Ah, I'll pass.

It's time for bed.

The parents are up from Virginia, visiting with my tita (aunt) from the Philippines and her friend, so we're heading to New Jersey again for the weekend. That's vacation enough, I guess.

Highlight of the day: watching the sunrise from the subway platform with my honey.

Be the Change

I used to welcome change and bend like a reed to the winds of the unknown, taking pride in spontaneity and living in the moment. Today I start a new job at a large computer retail store, and I am filled with fear. Fear that I'm making the wrong decision, fear of the pay cut by almost half, of not being able to use tickets to a Broadway show with my wife this week due to my unusual schedule (seems petty, but we have little money to spend on Broadway shows and we had to see a friend of ours perform), and, especially, fear of not seeing my wife.

The three days of part-time work will be the opposite of the daily corporate routine that Julie will continue working. My schedule is at night, and that cuts into our moral support of each other getting through the day. I know we'll be fine, but this is a drastic change. I'll be getting home in the early morning hours just before she is waking up. People do it all the time, but it's new to us.

It's only temporary, we always say, on the great journey of our goal-oriented lives, and working with this company is, intellectually, a big deal. Emotionally and financially, however, it feels like the wrong decision. Maybe in the next few months, as they see my dedication to learning and the job, I'll get a raise and/or change positions. Maybe that is when I'll feel like I've made the right decision. When we move to California, and getting a job this company is easy, then my decision will feel better.

I'm also diving into a completely new environment; retail is a sector I avoided die-hard, as I sought to become an engineer in the past and actor in the present. I've worked in offices, waited tables, bartended, been a bellboy, catered parties, and of course, acted, but never have I crosed into the realm of retail. Aah, I'll be fine. I'm already over it as I write.

I just hope that the goals that I've set for myself, that I'm working toward, and the reason for being in New York - to be a working actor that can live off of work - will benefit by the choices my wife and I are making now. I also want to be paid for writing, so this ongoing blog is practice for the future.

Without this free resource that I learned about during my interview process, this continuous creative outlet might still be a twinkle in my subconcious. Though, I plan to graduate to another blogging website, purely my own with my own web address, so that I can join the blogging community. Blogger, Wordpress and beyond!

The love in my heart is what drives me forward, for my life and for my wife. Without her support and love, I wouldn't be making this change. With her, I feel all things are possible.