Cigarette Stacy

Person: Stacy, 37-year-old Caucasian female from Phoenix, AZ.

Place: Whiskey Girls – San Diego, CA; Friday 1:00 a.m.

Thing: Conversation and a cigarette

After several attempts at trying to dance to “Sweet Home Alabama” and seeing my friends’ pathetic tag team pickup tactics fail miserably, I took the painful walk of shame outside to the patio area for some much needed fresh air. With my buzz fading with each dizzying step, I brushed my way through a small crowd and sat down alone at an empty table. I peered through the window back into the bar to see a mass of happy, inebriated faces singing and drinking the night away, silently judging them but quickly realizing how out of place I really felt.

I flipped open my phone to check the time, a feeling of tired resignation clouding over me. It was still early, and I knew my friends, the giggly masochists that they are, were still scheming to find that diamond in the rough who would finally allow them to rub their unexposed genitalia upon her backside.

Feeling dejected, I sighed and turned my head slightly toward the entrance where I caught the eye of my unbeknownst muse for this piece, Stacy, a character worthy of the title “desperate housewife.” Holding a box of Marlboro Lights and fishing around her black leather clutch for a lighter, she awkwardly bumped into a security guard. Laughing to myself, I didn’t think much of her until she actually started stumbling toward the empty chair at my table. Crap.

“Please, don’t sit here. Please, don’t sit here,” I mouthed to myself. But of course, to my dismay, she sat down next to me, and conversation ensued.

Without even introducing herself or asking if she could have a seat, she sat down, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. For several seconds, which all seemed like an eternity, I sat nervously, anticipating her next move. Her hazel eyes burned through mine like the cigarette cradled between her fingertips, begging and pleading for me to pay her a compliment to tame her insatiable desire for male companionship.

Now, I don’t want to bore you, the reader, with details of the actual conversation for it consists of the usual small talk you’re probably familiar with. What’s your name? Where are you from? Who are you with? Blah blah blah.

After talking to her for a couple of minutes, she flicked her cigarette butt into the street and pulled out two more cigarettes, one for her and one for me. It’s funny how much you can learn about a person during one cigarette. Sharing one with another person is a like an informal, pseudo-speed date where the cigarette acts as a sort of hourglass.

Drag by drag, she gazed off into the horizon of the San Diego night life, stammering on about her neglectful husband of ten years, an overworked pilot for Jet Blue on a red eye flight to New York, and her two out of control sons back in Phoenix. Legs crossed, leaning back in her chair, she combed her dainty fingers through her hair, bouncing her short blonde curls as if to lure me into more sexy conversation.

With Britney Spears’ “Womanizer” coincidentally playing in the background, I remained silent, taking drags from my cigarette and pretending to check text messages on my phone. The friendly yet slightly annoying chitchat turned into a semi-comedic rant about relationships and family.

She grabbed my wrists, showing off her diamond wedding band, revealing the anguish of an aging woman, and said, “I have one piece of advice for you, Mike. That’s your name, right? Whatever. Never ever have kids. Don’t. Don’t get married until you’re fifty! You hear me?”

I sat there stupefied, awkwardly nodding my head, wearing a fake smile. She sighed, gazed off into the distance once more, and took the last drag from her cigarette. She gathered her things together and adjusted her bra to reveal a little more cleavage…You know? For the boys.

“When you go back in there, you owe me a dance, ok?” she demanded.

I replied, “Sure, I promise.”

I never did keep my promise, and the last time I saw Stacy she was being escorted out by security, her friends propping her up and encouraging her not to throw up.

Whiskey Girls. San Diego. What a night…

Person: Mom vs. Manny

Men should never be allowed to plan a birthday party for a woman. Never! It’s just not in our genes. There’s just something about flower-scented candles, hand lotions, and a medley of fruit salads that doesn’t quite hit the right chord with us guys. But for some inexplicable reason, women absolutely love it and we’ll never really know why.

For us guys, it’s simple. Barbeque, beer, and a big screen television equal the picture-perfect gathering. Forget the females. There’s nothing like paying 50 bucks to watch two sweaty men beating the living crap out of each other. That’s just the way it is, but women insist on complicating things more than it can possibly get. Buy this. Buy that. Move this table here. Put those chairs there.

On a Saturday in March 2008, my mommy turned 54 years old. Bless her heart. My mom’s a very simple lady: a registered nurse for over 25 years and immigrant from the Philippines. She simply wanted a small dinner to invite family and close friends - nothing spectacular or over the top. It wasn’t her fault that her birthday so conveniently fell on the same exact day every single Filipino, man, woman, and child, would be glued to the tube to watch the highly anticipated rematch between my hero, Manny Pacquiao, and Juan Manuel Marquez…but it did.

There is no Filipino household that does not know the legend that is Manny Pacquiao – or so I thought. He is the pride of the Philippines, and there is no other celebrity or political figure that matches his presence. He is truly a god among men, the quintessential king of the boxing ring, the greatest Filipino who ever dawned a pair of 10-ounce gloves.

For my father and me, my mom’s birthday was the greatest excuse to invite everybody we knew to our household and to turn what was supposed to be a close, intimate gathering into a bona fide spectacle for dozens of people my mom barely knew.
Luckily for us, she wasn’t too upset when she discovered our shenanigans, and after a little bit of begging and pleading, she gave in despite her displeasure. However, there was one guest she had a little problem with: Manny Pacquiao. It turned out she had no idea who he was.

In 1938, the peak of America’s Great Depression, Joe Louis united a disheveled United States through boxing. His historic bout with Max Schmeling, the fighting hero of Nazi Germany, broke down social barriers and brought all Americans together. Rich or poor, white or black, the whole nation rallied behind the warrior, Louis. Although the name ‘Manny Pacquiao’ may not resonate with your average sports fan, for Filipinos alike, he is our Joe Louis.

The Philippines, albeit a tropical paradise to the naked eye, is an impoverished nation whose people struggle to feed their families like most third-world countries. While economically developed in very few areas, the country as a whole remains a rural and destitute land that lacks the opportunities the U.S. offers. So when someone makes it to the big time, you’d better believe that it’s a huge deal. The Philippines is plagued by mediocre singers, American Idol runner-ups, crooked politicians, and flaming transvestites. In my tiny Filipino world, Manny, simply, is all I have.

To hear my mother ask, “Who is Manny Pacquiao?” was like hearing nails on a chalkboard. I couldn’t help but cringe at the very notion of her not knowing what this man means not only to boxing fanatics like my father and me, but also to the people of where she came from. Why was it that she was completely and utterly ignorant to the world around her? How can it be that with all the technology and innovations in communication we have that she not know who Manny is? It was absolutely absurd.

As I watched Michael Buffer conduct the pre-fight festivities, more and more people poured into the living room to find a seat. My uncles stood up waiting in anticipation for the bell to ring while my mother and her nursing friends chatted about the latest gossip while sipping on diet sodas and ice water. The room was definitively divided into two: the men who were there to watch Manny fight and the women who were actually there for my mom. As to where my affiliation was at, all I have to say is that hey, I’m a boxing fan. Sue me if my motives for this party weren’t a hundred percent for her, but at that particular moment I was solely there for the fight and nothing else.

But before I was about to declare my undying love for Manny and everything about Filipino culture, my mother gave me a significant dose of reality check.

“And now singing the national anthem of the Philippines,” Buffer announced, “Ciara Soto.”

There it was. Reality check number one: I had absolutely no clue what the Philippines’ national anthem means at all. Without a minute’s hesitation, a chorus of several slightly tipsy, petite, Filipino women, my mother included, broke out in song: “Bayang magiliw, Perlas ng Silanganan, Alab ng puso sa dibdib mo’y buhay.”

Okay, so I didn't know the national anthem. Big deal. The fact of the matter was that Manny Pacquiao was there to fight, and not to listen to a song. When the bell rings, I was bound to cheer my hardest.

But then it came again. Reality check number two: women are louder than men – much louder. Boxing is simple to understand and easy to watch. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to break down the so-called “sweet science.”

“Patay! Patay! Patay!” my mom screamed to my surprise. The first round of the fight was inaudible to the point where I couldn’t even here myself think. Hearing her yell, “Kill him!” in Tagalog reminded me that I wasn’t the only Filipino in the room, let alone the world. A few moments before, she had no clue who he was, and now she became his biggest and most obnoxious fan. How? The woman who taught me never to get into fights was now cheering a guy whom she learned existed about 2 hours ago. Perhaps she felt the spirit of her heritage sweep through her veins. Perhaps it was being around her fellow countrymen and women. Perhaps it was because her inherent Filipino spirit never died in the first place. I just don’t know.

After 12 thrilling rounds of excitement, which I vaguely remember today, Manny took a split-decision over Marquez. Although it was a great fight, I still cannot get the picture of my mother out of my head. Screaming, kicking, throwing her fists in the air like a madwoman. Why?

Come to think about it, it really wasn’t about boxing, nor was it about sports. There is something about one’s home country, place of birth, one’s origin that brings out the inner fan in all of us. My mom wasn’t a fan of boxing by a long shot, but it was certain that she was a fan of her country, her roots, her Philippines.

I finally figured out the meaning behind the lyrics to the Filipino national anthem. “Beloved country, Pearl of the Orient, the Heart’s fervor, in your bosom is ever alive. Chosen land, you are the cradle of the brave, to the conquerors, you will never surrender.”

My mom never surrendered her heritage once she moved to the U.S., and she continues to remind me everyday in the tiniest ways to remember who I am and where I came from. That’s sports. That’s life. That’s my mom.

Thing: Memories

Remember

I can picture it now; Faces are different now.

Funny how things change when you look in a crowd.

Retrospective visions once picture perfect are now distorted.

Quite nostalgic...but it’s time to paint another portrait.

Images of past and present blend with vivid colors.

Haters, lovers, sisters, brothers, babies, dads, and mothers.

Wildest dreams captured in the still frames of a photo.

Lights flash before your eyes. The moments move in slow-mo.

Ringing around the rosy running red rover right over.

Living to be an astronaut in outerspace when I got older.

Chasing the girls getting sent straight to the principal.

Telling all the kids at school my grandpa was invisible.

Playing tackle football at the park in elementary.

Counting “One Mississippi, two, Mississippi three!"

I’m seeing differently. A few more mysteries.

Sipping on soda pops. Now sipping Hennessy.

No turning back even though I wish I could

Reverse the hands of time and relive a 2^nd childhood

If life could be that easy, I’d raise my hand and do it again.

Know where you’re headed and remember where you’ve been.

One Moment

Finally, I've reached the coming of age. Seems nothing has changed,

but times are ticking, now I've got something to say.

‘87 is long gone, but never forget tradition

Or Lola in the kitchen killing the children’s nutrition.

Cookies and fatty foods. No, I ain’t mad at you.

I hope you always knew there could never be a substitute.

You are the world to me, from now until the end.

Moments of life, we should do it again.

Do it again. I wanna live to one hundred and ten.

Cousins and friends always made it fun to pretend

To be a hero with superpowers, the hours just flew by

Cartoons on Saturdays and swimming in July.

In due time our lives transcend beyond the pains

Good times remain, I’ll promise to keep all of your names. 

If life could be that easy, I’d raise my hand and do it again.

Know where you’re headed and remember where you’ve been.

Person: Ode to Lisa

Close my eyes and imagine.
Running fingertips up and down her hips, the faint aroma of a cigarette.
The smell of money, alcohol, and some cheap perfume
Keeps the boys coming back to the secret room.
It’s like it’s dejavu.
Everybody needs some paper, and we all gotta pay our dues.
Professional or amateur,
I don’t know your name, but I really like your character.
As soon as you step off stage,
Show me your prerogative, and I’ll show you Mr. Washington.
So she approaches, and I catch a glance.
She bends over, and she whispers, “Do you wanna dance?”
She’s really digging me, and hopefully she’s not pretending.
I like her, but it’s too expensive for a happy ending.
Thoughts maneuvering, the questions are numerous.
What’s her name? I wanna know who she truly is.
I only see the surface, makeup defeats the purpose.
She’s confident, but underneath that smile she’s really nervous.
I break the ice, ask her name, and she says it’s Lisa.
I say, "Hey Lisa, I’m Mike, and it’s nice to meet ya."
Twenty dollars and a dance, damn, it’s that simple.
She takes my hands, places them on her back dimples.
Souls intertwined, both with nothing to lose.
Broke college student flirting with a mother of 2
I assume. Perhaps she has another tale to tell.
She has imagination, has goals and aspirations.
She doesn’t have excuses; she puts food on the table.
She acts a little naughty, but she’s a little angel.
I guess I’ll never know, identity is hard to show
After 3 songs, it’s time to leave you gotta go.
I try hard to interpret it’s hard to understand
What she’s doin for money pleases another man.
Thank you for your business, gotta get home to my princess.
She’s waiting up, and goes to bed in a couple of minutes.
But I can’t help but wonder what she does and what she likes
Is this really her life? dancing with strangers at night?
I can’t answer the question. How can I make the judgement?
How do you strip humanity from a wonderful woman.
So is this how it really ends?
Flesh to flesh, and we’ll never ever meet again.
Lisa, I’ll never forget you.
It’s true, because I do believe in dejavu.

Place: What Happens at Commerce

Don't let the picture fool you. The city of Commerce is not a desert oasis where tequila-induced one-night stands or random hookups with the hot girl’s not-so-hot friend happen. Billboards adorned by pudgy weight loss models and cracked concrete walls tagged with indiscernible graffiti line the sides of the 5 Freeway. For newcomers feeling lost, bearing wallets of several crisp 20-dollar bills, Commerce Casino reveals itself, hiding in the distance behind its very own Star of Bethlehem - a dimly lit Carl’s Jr. logo, smiling in the foreground of Commerce’s lusterless, smoggy night horizon.

Commerce Casino, simply put, is not Las Vegas, and Las Vegas is certainly not L.A. Five dollar steak and egg dinners served 24-hours a day are replaced by Vietnamese pan-fried noodles, and the bright lights of the strip are matched only by a mile-long stretch of power lines that extend throughout an overcrowded parking lot, filled with dented 92 Toyota Camrys and self-repainted Pontiac Sunbirds. When you step into “The World’s Largest Poker Room,” the air, despite an instituted “smoke-free environment,” reeks of lingering Newport cigarette smoke and unbathed men wearing cheap cologne who, on occasion, proudly say that they have not gone home or seen their wives and kids in several days. Wannabe card pros, imitating their favorite pseudo-celebrities from ESPN’s broadcasts of the World Series of Poker, dress in attire suitable only for the likes of rebel pre-teens: bland colored hoodies and sports caps tilted ever so slightly to the front, barely covering their dark sunglasses, which they tackily wear indoors in fear of giving the competition an “advantage.” Ipods are common accessories that scream, “You can’t psyche me out! The music helps me concentrate,” but only a large stack of chips can bring true credibility to these expressionless gamblers.

There are no burly pitbosses in pinstriped suits, 3 feet margaritas, or girls screaming or flashing their breasts from the sunroof of a stretch limo. Rather, cake-faced cocktail waitresses, hiding behind their ruby red lipstick with fake smiles, wearing long black stockings, short skirts, and high heels, strut around selling Starbursts and cigarettes. These subdued servants’ faces, continuously sighing and rolling their eyes, reflect a strong yearning to slap every sleezebag across the face and give them a smug “Fuck you!” As one waitress paces slowly back to the bar to retrieve more $6 Budweisers and Coronas, she painfully grimaces following another bad pickup line while the failed pickup artist whispers sweet-nothings under his breath, giggling to himself like a seven year-old. All in all, Commerce Casino boasts an eclectic cast of characters, but it’s less than spectacular design and atmosphere makes one think about how it came to be the poker Mecca of the world, flourishing in the pits of Los Angeles.

The Foreword

When pieced together correctly, words transform into a mythical creature, penetrating souls like a fisherman's harpoon. When pieced incorrectly, you get this first sentence.

Often times, people, myself included, nonsensically manipulate words into a meaningless mess, creating mumbo-jumbo chicken scratch akin to a college student's doodle masterpiece. Delusional, self-proclaimed "wordsmiths" indulge in the creation of metaphors, believing that nirvana can be attained at the slightest glance of the words on the page. Similes, overused to the point of pointlessness, have become mindless wordcount fillers, failed attempts at comparative comic relief like fat people falling and squirrels riding jetskis. Writing, today, would have Aristotle turn over in his grave.

However, writing, the masterbatory exercise that it is, reconciles the mind and body, giving a single thought its own unique form and identity. Reading is what makes this solitary self-pleasuring into a make out session atop Lover's Lane. Writing and reading...soulmates wholly dependant on each other to make beautiful music.

Like Socrates, I hope to make this site an open forum where dissenting opinions can meet and make love, planting new seeds in the bosom of human discussion. Whether it be about a person, place, or thing, let this forum become an outlet for the unheard voices, the delusional wordsmiths, the aspiring writers and artists alike. There is no perfect author. There is no perfect piece of literature. You will come to notice that my style is uncommon, never proper.

Enjoy...