Lots of Monkeys

I don’t know what it is, but if I’m in a CVS or a Staples or any sort of office supply store–I have to check the writing implements. I’m drawn to them. I won’t use I don’t know why I have to look, but I always feel that maybe there might be something new. Something I haven’t written with yet. I like writing, the act of putting pen to paper. However, the act must be consummated with a specific feel of pen. I can trace this back to when my father gave me a cross pen in grade school with my name engraved on it. I remember losing it.

After I graduated from high school, my father gave me a set of green marble and gold parkers that I absolutely loved. They were heavy, solid. The pen’s presence was defined by weight. The pens I write with nowadays feel like they’re going to fly out of my hand. I still have the set of three. One ball point, one pencil, and one fountain. They’re in retirement right now, but I still take them out of their case (a hard leather affair) when I need them. Usually for correspondence of some sort.

So, I’m picky. I have several boxes of the Better Retractable Pen from Pilot. All fine point. Pilot also makes a series of Gel Ink pens that I enjoy–but only in Extra Fine point. Fine and Extra fine–I can’t write with anything larger than that. Medium point makes me feel like I’m holding a melting stick of butter and trying to write into molasses.

With a fine point, there’s the actual feeling that you’re inscribing something. Etching an indelible trough into the paper, in addition to placing ink there. Rough, curt strokes are possible with a fine point that you just can’t do with a medium point.

And the ink can’t be too watery.

Go Korea!! I’m rooting for whoever she’s rooting for. I can’t read the rest of the text–but I’m assuming she’s some sort of model or celebrity. If anybody knows who she is–just drop me a line. I’m sure that everyone else wants to know, too.

It’s amazing what science can discover nowadays. I can already see the discussions. “Honey, it’s time for your medication.” And thusly, thousands of men were slapped instantaneously.

The PE course I should have had in high school. It’s unfair, I tell you. I would have rocked this course. I may have even taken PE both required semesters instead of waiving the last one for academic pursuits.

Years ago, my father warned me that he has an allergy to alcohol.

I, naturally, ignored this warning and blissfully went on my merry way.

This weekend, I believe I found a beverage I’m allergic to. The liquid in question is the fair amber Corona. Upon ingestion of said brew, I begin to experience palpitations, an increased heart rate, and shortness of breath. Well, at least I know. Nisa thinks its probably an ingredient in the beverage, perhaps the formaldehyde (or something) that they use during the brewing process.

Whatever it is, I’m not drinking it again. Not that it’s vile or anything.

It was nice, but not that nice.

And now it’s time for everyone’s favorite sport–drunken blogging. Much like curling, nobody knows why they do it. Today: Went to a baby shower and then went to a party at the Monkey Manor. Really good time. I was disappointed when it started to wind down. Ah well. Good day all around. Saturdays are so much different when you don’t have to come in to work. Even if “work” consists of you hanging around at a shopping mall and ringing up videogames.

I guess I’m atypical.

I’ve never been to the Philippines. Pretty much every other Filipino I know has been at least once, to see family. My parents, for some reason, never saw it as important. I’ve never known the joy that is a Manila traffic jam. I’ve never ridden on a Jeepney. I’ve never eaten at a Jollibee. I’ve never met my extended family. I don’t know Tagalog well enough to speak it. The first time I ate a boiled duck embryo was a year ago.

A lot of Filipino families I know go back to the Philippines. Some of them make a yearly trip, during the summer. Mine never did. When my brother and I asked, they asked us why we wanted to go to the Philippines. A question with a question. To this day, my brother and I still don’t know. We haven’t asked since then. We just wait stateside and ask other families to bring us back barrel men (don’t ask–trust me) and pirated software.

I don’t know what impetus drove my parents to distance themselves from the Philippines, but they did. It even manifested itself when they sent me to grade school. I attended Sacred Heart Parish School in Coronado. The city of Coronado, incidentally, is as “white” as my neighborhood is Filipino.

It’s strange what you remember. I remember “Uncle Larry.” Uncle Larry had no teeth, was missing an index finger on his right hand, and wore his pants well above his waist. I remember he’d pitch wiffle balls to us. We’d wield orange, oversized bats wrapped in white cloth tape. He pitched with the hand that was missing a finger, low easy pitches that we’d be sure to hit. He and “Aunt Mimi” would watch us in Spreckel’s Park, conveniently located right across the street from my school. Occasionally, Uncle Larry would have to point at something. He always used his middle finger (in lieu of the missing digit) which we found riotously hilarious.

Every Friday, the kids in my class would go watch a movie after school and go to Wendy’s. Everyone would bike home and change, then meet up after school to head off to the movie theater on Orange Avenue. I never went. I had to wait for my carpool to bring me back home. My parents didn’t want me gallivanting around Coronado, considering how dangerous it was.

Coronado is an island off the coast of San Diego populated by Navy brats and the retired. It has fought tooth and nail to remain in the 1950s. You can walk the entire length of Coronado in an hour, and you will have seen everything. The one screen movie theater. The public library. The white picket fences in front of perfectly manicured lawns. Two point five children playing in Spreckels Park. A lot of palm trees. Lots and lots of palm trees. There are cars in Coronado, but everyone gets around on bike.

It only took people ten minutes to bike home, change and then come back to school. I was always still in my uniform, while everyone else wore jeans and t-shirts. They always asked me to come. I never managed to make it.

I didn’t feel like I fit into my community, so I left.