A Love Song for Walter Keefe

I stand here amidst the fall,
Eyes shut wide, my mind fully awake.
My feet hold onto the ground,
Leaves crackling under.

I woke up in the midst of darkness this morning. A solid seven hours of sleep. Or was it just a moment? The room was unfamiliar, but the bed somewhat comforting. I ambled out of bed and into the sparsely lit living room. The surroundings were becoming vaguely familiar as I stood in front of the mirror; introduced to a man I’ve grown to known over the years. The house--my parents. The bed--my father’s. The man in the mirror, his son.

I noted that I looked tired. Hair spiked from the evenings sleep and sporting a beard of two days I examined myself. The dashing good looks were no longer there. But I felt comforted noting that it was never there in the first place.

For the first time in what seemed like months, I felt ready for Las Vegas. Which also meant that my Saturday was suddenly free. Breakfast seemed like a good idea—the most important meal, the Breakfast of Champions. I decided to see if Mom felt like having pancakes. Now I personally stay clear of those sugary sappy flat clumps of dough, but somehow Mom has a thing for IHOP. I can always have a BLT, which according to me, is the true Breakfast of Champions.

I decided later on in the afternoon to visit Dad. It’s been a few months and the fall scenery might be nice to spend some time. It also occurred to me that I might take one of his books and read to him. Odd about the books he loved. Science fiction and fantasy were his favorite choices. From Tolkein to the Conan series—neither of which I ever enjoyed. Literature was more of what I bent towards; pulp fiction was his. But strangely his love for reading seeped into my DNA I suppose. I recall the Saturday runs to the library and lingering amidst the rows, only to emerge several hours later to find my Dad at the checkout counter.

Leaving for Vegas from Oakland didn’t seem to be a good idea. It meant finishing the presentation at my parents with continual motherly distractions. And of course with no Internet connection, it meant mad dashes to Starbucks to download and upload files. It seems crazy. But as Walt, my long gone mentor and teacher of bad habits, once told me, the day you stop loving the craziness is when it’s time to pack up. Besides, he used to remind me, how could you not love that rush as you exit the building, colleagues in tow for a round of drinks because you just absolutely killed them and left them all on the floor to die, beggin’ for more? Walt had a gift for eloquence. Or some would say, the lack of one.

Oddly enough, I suddenly recall that I was in a similar predicament this time last year. The Monday before Thanksgiving last year was the day for yet another major pitch. How fast the year had gone by. And while all of the things that I experienced flash by within a moment’s time, there are memories I won’t allow to casually brush through. While I headed to San Francisco for last year’s engagement, Vegas is the setting for this year’s. As much as I’m intolerant of that city and the population it draws, I’ve grown fond of the emptiness of strip. There’s something to be said of the attitude of tearing down and rebuilding. As if they weren’t able to get it right the first time. I guess there’s a bit of Vegas in all of us. I hope I do Walt proud.

And were an epitaph be my story,
I’d have a short one ready for my own.
I would have written of me on my stone;
I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.
Robert Frost

In the Arms of Your Significant Being: Mother’s Day Ball

I’m feeling restless today. It’s Mother’s Day and I’ve been at my Mom’s place for the last three days looking after her as she recuperates from her surgery. I’m also feeling somewhat sluggish and tired with all of the travel and crisis we had with Mom the last few days.

But I’m also anxious and bored. No errands to run. No movies to watch. Only endless chatter from the Japanese channel playing on satellite T.V.

There’s also this ongoing thought in my mind that I can’t stop. It’s about Grey. For some reason I haven’t been able to get Grey out of my mind recently. I switch the channel to the Food Network and there’s some show about a weekend in New York which makes me think of Grey even more.

I decide to go for a walk hoping it’ll take my mind off things.

I wander onto a lakeside trail at the college down the street from my Mom’s. It’s a bright day and the campus is deserted. I walk briskly for about 20 minutes and feel better as my mind empties and wanders about. New York is still on my mind. I reminisce about nothing in particular but my mind settles on Velma and the time we went for drinks. It was summer and the Met had a champagne happy hour event on their rooftop. It was a beautiful, warm early evening, and there was quite a large turnout. Velma looked particularly beautiful that evening in her simple white summer dress. She always had the most beautiful shoulders.

I also thought about the gathering I had just before I left. We had also met at some rooftop place somewhere midtown just off of Park in the lower 30’s. It was the first gathering of the Group of 5. I got there pretty early and had a few rum tonics before the rest showed up. It was warm and we were all having a great time. I remember the sun setting over the rooftops and thinking how I’d be leaving all of this behind in a matter of a few weeks. I vaguely recall that we had dinner later on but I can’t remember where. Maybe that tiny Italian joint on 3rd or Lex and 40th just down the street from that Italian steakhouse. Oh yeah that steakhouse—I think it was the Tuscan Steakhouse. I can’t remember the name for sure but I do remember the dinners Mark and I had there. A round of cocktails, a magnum of a nice Super Tuscan and a veal chop.

Regarding the magnum, Mark’s theory was since \we’d polish a bottle in no time; why not order a magnum to begin with? There would be no need to fuss or deliberate about ordering the second bottle and it showed upfront commitment. Funny, I never questioned his logic. I think something about him being a philosophy major made whatever he said always convincing. And then there was that time where we invited Rich after the McGraw-Hill pitch. It was for the whole account...not just McGraw-Hill but for Standard and Poor’s plus their educational divisions. I remember how great it felt, as we nailed the pitch. And by the time Rich joined us, he had gotten the preliminary kudos’ from his insider at McGraw-Hill.

Of course we did the magnum thing again.

I veered off the trail and made my way to the campus track field. As I circled around the field I landed upon the subject of celebrities. In a city [Los Angeles] where celebrity sightings are commonplace, I hold the distinction of spotting nobody--celebrity challenged, I believe is the official term. Even around my neighborhood where apparently there are hordes of people who work in “the industry” [a convoluted term which drips of self-importance if there ever was one]. And while she’s not part of “the industry” someone recently told me that she spotted Betsey Johnson at one of the neighborhood joints. Now that’s pretty odd—Betsy Johnson in Toluca Lake? Besides, would you really recognize her? I can’t even recall what she looks like—doesn’t she look like Bette Midler’s younger, thinner crazy half sister? I think I can actually recognize her dresses more readily.

Ok, back to New York.

However celebrity-challenged I am, there have been two occasions where I have recognized someone. Ok, not quite your typical celebrities: Charlie Rose and Malcolm Gladwell. The two sightings were on different occasions, but in similar settings—small neighborhood eateries and both individuals alone, busily writing away.

I was in an English pub in Chelsea that had been getting some recent press when I noted Charlie Rose sitting alone in booth in the back. I was having one of their renowned burgers and a pint. The bartender told me that the booth was Charlie’s “spot” and I shouldn’t bother him. I was a little annoyed that the bartender would actually think I would bug the man. But I let it pass. And of course, I still think highly of Charlie as I’ve always been enamored with journalism. Of course the highlight of chance meetings was the time when an older gentleman asked I wanted his table just off the bar at Kuleto’s in San Francisco. [Bars are getting to become a recurrent theme here—have you noticed?]. I thanked him as I was meeting another party and it was such a nice spot. As he put on his jacket he asked me what I did for a living. I replied and he mentioned that it was a good profession. We said our goodbyes and later the waitress asked if I knew that the gentleman I was talking to was Walter Cronkite.

The spotting of Malcolm Gladwell was at a small, cute place just off Mott Street. I stopped for a glass of wine and saw an intense looking, wild haired man sitting alone at a table piled with books and paper. I confirmed my suspicion with the bartender and mentioned to him that I might go to his table. The bartender, amused, asked whatever might I have in mind to talk with Sir Malcolm. I responded to the bartender that I happened to have a few theories of my own which I’d like to pass by him. Perhaps another glass of wine might be a better alternative suggested the bartender. Point well taken and I signaled for another round.

I later reflected on the bartender’s comment and was slightly offended. What made him think that I wouldn’t have much to converse with Malcolm? After all, my IQ has been tested at 140 [well, ok I cheated just a little bit as I took an extra 10 minutes on the test], which may not be quite MENSA material, but certainly qualifies for fringe status, right?

I’m feeling better as I make my way around the lake. Half running up the incline I spotted a golf ball. A Top-Flight. I grabbed it and threw it against the asphalt walkway. I’ve forgotten how high these golf balls bounce. Pretty soon I’m running across the walkway playing catch by myself. I slam the ball and as it shoots upward, I run towards the ball as it reaches the pinnacle against the bright sky and falls downward.

I can easily make a game out of this.

Memories of solitary ball games flashed forward. I remember playing endlessly with a rubber baseball throwing it against the kitchen cabinets. In my mind I was the pitcher and the goal was to catch the ball as it bounced off the cabinet and re-throw as if I the ball was being fielded to first. If I caught the ball, the runner was out. If I fumbled, or if the ball went astray and knocked into the kitchen table or the wall, the runner was safe. It was a combination of handball and baseball—my game of solitary.

I run across the parking lot chasing the white golf ball. Thoughts of Grey have settled somewhere in the back of my mind and even my New York musings are long gone. The only thing that occupies me is the warmth of the mid afternoon sun, the bright cloudless sky and the empty campus parking lot. And of course that small white, brilliant spot high up in the sky.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: The Amerasian

Rider always knew how to get to me. All she had to do was to call me Amerasian and she knew that it would ruffle my feathers. Of course she would never do it with malice.

According to Wikipedia, Amerasians are children born to Asian women fathered by American servicemen throughout Asia. What is implied, but not explicitly mentioned is the fact that these children and their mothers were left behind to fend for themselves. Ostracized by their respective society, these half-breeds never allowed to assimilate into their native culture and lived as outsiders. The term for Amerasians in Japanese is especially haunting: senso otoshigo. Quite literally, children dropped as a result of war.

It bothered me terribly growing up in Japan and being referred to by this phrase. Of course it shouldn't have, as it didn't apply to me. Well almost. While my father didn't desert us and we grew and lived as a family, the part about being an outsider was always present. I made light of it, as it's the way I usually deal with sensitive and hurtful subjects, but it did bother me as I was never not fully accepted within the Japanese community. And upon my move to American, I also sensed that I would never quite fit here. Whether in college or in corporate America, I was always an in-between. Oddly, because of this "fit" issue, I thought about moving to Hawaii while in college. I took a trip during spring break and It just did not appeal to me. Hawaii reminded me of the communities surrounding the military bases in Japan and the pigeon English never quite rested well with me and somehow represented the worst of multi-culturalism.

With this in mind of my background, a few incidences occurred recently which made me start to rethink and ultimately feel ashamed of my self-absorption.

It all started rather innocently with a telephone conversation with Rider. As usual we kidded with each other--I've gotten less sensitive about the Amerasian thing with her. I was still smiling to myself about how silly we can be as I settled into Murakami Haruki's book of short stories. I found myself on familiar grounds with his writing style as I read the story "Tony Takitani." It's a touching story of love and longing for a lost love. I've seen the movie adaptation, which was brilliant, and devoured the story. I had also forgotten that it was a story of a child whom was mistaken as an Amerasian because of his given name, "Tony". Not quite the common Japanese name, but a name given to him by his godfather, a GI who played the clarinet with Tony's father, a noted Jazz musician. H-m-m-m, I thought, I had forgotten about the Amerasian thing. Funny given my recent banter with Rider about the Amerasian thing.

I was still thinking about the story the following day, as I greeted Morita whom I had arranged to have drinks. Morita was an interpreter who specialized Korean-English legal translation. Being of Korean mother and Caucasian father, Morita was, as with myself, sensitive to the plights of half-breeds. We eased into our conversations as we had quite a bit to catch up. I asked Morita whether there had been any interesting gigs recently and apparently there was this jaunt as press conference interpreter for Yahoo dealing with the Korean press recently. However with another round of drinks, Morita welled up a bit as the story of the more recent assignment unfolded.

Apparently Morita took on this immigration case involving a Korean family whom had overextended their stay on a tourist Visa. Long story short there were three of them--the mother, an older sister and a younger brother. Apparently the older sister had somehow arrived earlier and after much hardship, I assume, graduated recently with a Master's from a noteworthy Ivy League school. The mother had also applied and successfully petitioned for legal residency. But the legal case was for her son. And it was a deportation case hearing.

Apparently the son had been caught with possession of marijuana. A small amount, which would have meant a misdemeanor for you or I. Unfortunately for him, it meant the immediate halt of his permanent residency application and he faced immediate deportation. Of course what it really meant was being returned to a country where society shunned him. As an adult of mixed breed and of no formal higher educational schooling, it would surely mean trotting the path of an outcast.

Morita had tears welled as the story was told to me. I had a lump also. While we didn't really comment, we knew all too well the consequences. Being an outcast was hurtful enough. And now in his adult life to be alone with no family, walking the streets with the eyes of society beating down on him. It's the same as if being rejected by your own mother.

Fast forward to today. The post delivered my Netflix movie: The Beautiful Country--a brilliant film written by Sabina Murray [she's of Filipino descent, won the Penn/Faulkner award and has worked with Terence Malick]. Directed by Hans Petter Moland, a Norwegian director whom I'm not familiar with but apparently much acclaimed, it's such a beautiful, moving and heart-grabbing masterpiece. The topic? What else but an Amerasian who after much tragedy leaves Vietnam in search of his father. Of course the one hour and forty-seven minutes captures his tragic life and journey, but in the end, the bittersweet reunion with his father is beyond what any words may describe. It brought tears to my eyes as the ending of the film faded and the kind of film which brings you to your knees and makes you think not twice, but three times. And truthfully, there shouldn't be too many things in life which you needn't think three times. Unfortunately, there are.

I've always been incensed when mistaken as those from subordinate Asian cultures--meaning I always held in high regard the Northern Asian cultures as being more refined. But as I've given more thought over the past few years and certainly the last few weeks of the plight of children whom have experienced the wrath of men and the lifelong resultant plight, I feel ashamed of my smugness. The pain I felt as I child was but just an insect bite given the enormity of pain felt by my fellow Amerasians.

--

Sidenote: the title links to aahope.org. Hope lives in limited sprinkles.

In the Arms of Your Significant Being: Spring

Is happy a feeling that visits often?

I heard from Sayuri recently and she cites that "happy" was a feeling that has started to visit her often. She also comments about the welcoming burst of spring being uplifting as it brought remembrances of comfort felt long ago.

As for myself, I welcome this spring only in a partial way. While the world around me is coming alive, I'm not fully engaged. I continuously feel as though I've forgotten something important--but as I leaf through my mind there's never a trace of that forgotten item--just a trace remembrance of something past. Similarly, my taste buds seem to also have taken a temporary hiatus. As for my vision, colors which surround me aren't quite as brilliant as if there's a layer of frost on my eyes. The exception are the flowers blooming just outside the kitchen window. For some reason the radiant color of these simple flowers embrace me and also captures my complete attention and focus.

Hara hachi-bun me. Literal translation: stomach eight-tenths full or consuming to the point where you're just about full leaving you wanting more. It's a common Japanese saying with Chinese equivalents and I’m sure among numerous other cultures.

I was thinking about "hachi-bun me" the other day as I happened to catch it in a Japanese movie. It stuck with me and I started to think whether it applied to all things in life. Is it indeed possible to attain 100%--say in terms of happiness? Or is the feeling of just enough and wanting more, be where you want to leave things?

I'm not certain. And I'm not sure if it's something I wish to ponder extensively as makes my head ache. It's bad enough that my ability to concentrate is at an all time low—these cosmic wonderings are beyond what I can handle.

But what made be smile to myself was the play on words which sprang into my mind. If you substitute "Hara" [stomach] with "Haru" which is Spring, it becomes "Haru hachi-bun me."

It seemed like an apt phrase for how I felt. It hasn't been a totally fulfilling spring, but perhaps I should be pushing myself away from the table feeling that what I’m feeling is fine and I shouldn’t keep wanting more. Maybe that’s when I’ll stop feeling that I'm forgetting to do something. And in the end, instead of trying to effect things, I should just be content with where I am and let things be as it may. And if it were meant to be, it’ll somehow happen.

Somehow a warmer feeling of embrace presented itself as I thought about my Hachi-bun me no haru. My spring of eight-tenths, in the 49th year of my life.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Grey

I was in New York today. Well, at least it was a day which brought back memories from my days in the Big Apple.

I decided to knock off early today from work today and being that it was Friday and things seemed to settle down relatively early I thought maybe a movie was in order. I knew that the "The Namesake", an adaption of Jhumpa Lahiri's novel, was out and the previews looked great so I decided, "why not?" Making things more interesting, it was playing at the Arclight in Hollywood which I've never been so a quick hop onto the Metro and I'll be there in no time.

The movie was good--touching at times, but really didn't do the book justice. In the novel, Lahiri spends quite a bit of time on the emotional composition and development of each character. The movie glosses over the conflicts of the characters quite a bit, perhaps hoping that you may have read the book. But I enjoyed the movie for the most part as it did bring back the bits and pieces of the book. I also lingered over the scenes of the City--the apartments, SOHO, and all the what-nots associated with that city. It also occured to me that the memories of my experience in New York are mine only. It not as if I'd shared it with anyone as I was pretty much alone the entire time. And there really isn't anybody I can pull over and reminisce. The weekends that I roamed the city from sun up to sun down. The extended weekends which I always seemed to spend alone. How I longed for the weekend to be over. Monday through Friday were my weekends. I remember staying late at work til nine or so and walking home. It didn't seem to matter whether it was freezing cold or blistering hot, I still loved walking the 30 or so blocks home. Oddly it was similar tonight. Granted it was the streets of Hollywood, but the thoughts, emotions and the hurried pace were the same.

An odd thing happened after the movie ended. As I shuffled out of the theatre, I spotted Grey. For a split second I thought, "could it be her?" Of course it wasn't, but from behind, it was her...maybe not exactly, but the hair was just about identical. I always loved Grey's hair. It was so sensual, and uniquely hers. I walked past the girl and took a quick glance--mid 30's, similar facial shape to Grey's, not quite as attractive, but still, attractive in her own way. Chinese, rather than Korean, would be my guess, but her hair was just done in jsame manner as Grey's with luxurious, flowing curls.

I hadn't thought about Grey for a few hours as I was preoccupied with the movie. But the spigot turned itself on and thoughts of Grey start gushed into my consciousness.

As I walked towards Sunset, I thought to myself how odd--here I am in Los Angeles taking the subway to the movies. And of course, my audience, I find once again, is within the company of myself. Strange how things repeat. Yet this time there is one difference--Grey resides in me and that warmth is what will make me revisit this evening each time with fondness.

As Falls Wichita, So Falls Wichita Falls.

“I need to get out of the City,” I remarked to Ritchie.

“You mean for good?” deadpans Ritchie in a way only he can.

I’m having lunch with him today. It’s our first lunch since his Mum passed away. Kenji decides to join us. Between the two of them, I’ve known them since maybe the fourth or fifth grade. Odd how I haven’t really made friends since my grade and high school friends.

Well, maybe with two exceptions. Big Lick and Brucie would be the first exception and of course, West and Rider would be my second.

Back to Ritchie. He’s one of these silent guys. You know, the kind you have to draw out which at times can be exhausting. Plus at times he’s rather boring. But as he’s the “brains” of my group of friends, maybe that’s just him being tolerant of simple minded me. Odd how at times he reminds me of Grey and vice versa. Both are super smart and own wide-open hearts.

I felt bad for Ritchie when his Mum passed away. I could feel his pain. He loved his Mum and I felt this immense warmth and sadness at the same time. You see, I never felt the same about me Mum. His hurt touched me in a way where it made my heart ache. I felt so helpless—here was my friend feeling emotionally raped and I couldn’t do anything for him.

As things have a funny way of happening, Ritchie and I have since then had a series of conversations. At first it was awkward and strained, but in the end I felt connected with him. I appreciated his openness and felt a brotherly closeness to him.

He called me a last week to tell me he received “honorable mention” with a haiku he wrote. Apparently his Mum had submitted to some national contest. I was especially happy for him as his Mum was a haiku aficionado and it must have brought a special closure to Ritchie.

The call also came to me on a day where my relationship with Grey was crumbling. And thanks to him, Ritchie’s call was the one uplifting call during my dark days dealing with the hurt I had affected to Grey.

[The city where I had lived now remains only a shell of what once was.]

My Pop and Me.

It’s my Pop’s anniversary on Saturday. Unfortunately it’s the kind of anniversary that weighs heavily on me, as it’s the anniversary of his death. My Pop died last year. It’s been a year already. My. My. How time flies.

Well, it does, really.

It was only a moment ago that we hung out together on our drives to Zama and Yokosuka. For some reason I was his buddy and we just drifted around in the car going from base to base. It was on one of these occasions that I told him that I was going to be an archeologist.

“Why,” he asked.

“I want to dig up mummies,” I replied.

He smiled encouragingly. You see that’s what Pop did best. Nothing fazed him and I amused him. I was just some zany kid that had an odd imagination several times bigger than me. And he was my audience.

Decades later and now that he isn’t around, he’s still my audience. I still check in with him. Funny how I never sought his approval when I was younger, but as I matured [well, sort of] his was the only opinion which counted.

So now that I’m at the age where I shouldn't be doing things which may be deemed idiotic, shameful and downright stupid, I wish Pop was around to smack me a few times. I thought about this today. How easy was it back when he would be around to knock some sense into me. How I could’ve used that slap of awakening recently.

Pops, I’m really ashamed to say I’ve done it again. Another unforgivable, irreversible doosey of a, well shall we just say I pulled yet another Philip?

I’ll see you Saturday Pops. Ok. Ok. It's really Dad. He was never Pops.

Miss you all the same.

Love you.

Your son,

Philip

In the arms of your significant being: Grey Goose

The bottle has been sitting in the corner of my kitchen for over a month now. Funny how I greet it every morning as it reminds me of her. Something you need to know—I’m not a Vodka drinker. As a matter of fact I’ve only had it once where I actually appreciated it and it was probably because it was such a desirable setting: after a late breakfast, 40 degrees outside, a Sunday, cigars and a batch of Martinis with good friends. An impromptu session, but stuff you remember into the dark old days when the sharers of those memories are not longer around.

Ok, but this entry is about the Grey Goose. She brought such a smile to my face. I’ve never met anyone as precious as her. Words would never describe her.

I found myself tonight face to face with the bottle. Of course I knew it was never going to be opened nor enjoyed by her. It was a bottle that represented all of the good times I had hoped to have with her. It now sat quietly in the corner. When our eyes met a sad sensation arose in me. But just as quickly, I was greeted with warmth and a cherished sensation akin to a wonderful memory.

“She was the girl, wasn’t she” the bottle seemed to say.

“Yeah she was,” I replied. “In more ways than anyone would ever know. Besides, her memory is mine to keep and not meant to be shared with anyone.”

“Why?’” Wouldn’t sharing not ease that lump you have in you right now?”

“Grey” I replied, “as much as sharing eases your pain, there’s a thought I prescribe to. It’s where the more you share your memory fades. You see, it just becomes a well rehearsed story where details are altered, and events as well as moments of tenderness fade into the background. And while that in itself isn’t necessarily bad, there are memories where it needn’t be altered, nor shared. With her, I’d rather leave all the memories to myself—just the way it is, in the arms of my significant being.