...and Then I Discovered This Video On The Internet.

"Will You Love Me Tomorrow" - Roberta Flack

Rediscovered this gorgeously haunting version of an old favorite while loading some music on my grandma's digital photo frame (Happy 85th Birthday, Nanay!).

Surgeon General's Warning: May cause violent weeping, excessive longing, and soul-pulverizing despair at the thought of being forever alone.

after hanging out for a few hours, she had to go because her three kids were home from school ♥

Live look at the American Government right now:

I will have what she is having

A Eulogy

When I was younger, I was convinced that my dad had a magic power. Every morning, I would walk downstairs to the sound of sizzling Spam and the smell of frying bacon. Some days, I would wake up to at least three eggplant omelets and a silver tray full of tocino that he had been marinating since the night before.

Although my dad’s ability to cook such a massive amount of food in a single morning was sometimes an act of magic by itself, my dad had another special ability that is still a mystery to me to this very day. He could make a perfect boli boli.

In order to make a boli boli, my dad would take a handful of fried rice right out of the pan and mold it into a perfectly bite-sized ball. There were no magic spells or rabbits pulled out of hats; but somehow, my dad could transform that ordinary lump of fried rice into a chewy morsel of flavor and warmth that was somehow more savory and filling than any rice I scooped off of my plate with a spoon.

I got older and I tried to make boli bolis myself, with the same fried rice that my dad cooked the same way for years, maybe decades. And yet, as simple as it was, I could never make the boli boli the same way that my dad did–it always fell apart, it was never the right shape, and most importantly, it never tasted the same as it did when it came from my dad’s hands.

The boli boli was just one of the many little ways that my father showed his love for us every single day. It was something that only he could do, a small gesture that neither I nor my siblings could replicate. True to his name, Generoso, he was never selfish with these small gestures. He had this amazing capacity to remember the birthdays of his friends and cousins and his nieces and nephews and he always took the time to give them a call or, in more recent years, leave them a message on Facebook. For my mom, he would cut a single white flower from one of the sampaguita plants in our backyard and place it in a small dish on our kitchen counter.

I know that many people will always remember the huge feasts he threw together for our birthdays and christenings, our graduations and Pacquiao fights, Thanksgivings and Christmases. All of the kare kare, the sisig, the diniguan, the adobo. The huge fruit baskets carved out of a watermelon and the pinapaitan that used every single part of the goat. We’ll remember him for his irreverent jokes and the way that he yelled and cursed during football games.

I know that people will also remember him for the larger accomplishments of his life, from finishing twenty years in the Navy to supporting all five of his kids through college. I think that accomplishments like these became more difficult for my dad to celebrate as he entered retirement in the past year. On the outside, he seemed to be the same stubborn and proud person that loved watching American Idol and drinking Johnnie Walker Blue. On the inside, I think he may have lost sight of how all of the amazing things he did–and each of the little things in between–made a difference in all of our lives.

And when he died, I dwelt so much on what I could or should have done for him. Why didn’t I say thank you for everything that he had done for me? Why didn’t I make sure he knew how much he meant to me? Why didn’t I tell him how much I loved him?

Since that terrible Sunday, I’ve beaten myself up with these sorts of questions. It tears me up inside, but I know that there isn’t anything that I can do about it. Instead, I am choosing to be thankful for every single day that I had with my dad, and I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for every person who rushed to our side after he died. Everyone has been so generous, loving, and thoughtful in a way that would have made him proud. 

I would be more than content to let everyone remember my dad for his feats of amazement. Footing the bill for my USC education, spending all those months at sea away from his family, and making the journey from the Philippines to the United States in search of a better life–these are things that will never cease to astound me about the reserved man who I can still see so clearly, quietly smoking a Kool Filter King in our backyard.

Still, there are so many other things I will never forget, things that may have been unremarkable to him or to others but for which I am so profoundly grateful: how he FaceTimed with my brother and his sons on a nightly basis; how he danced with my sister at her wedding; how he hugged me after I told him that I was gay; how he made a perfect boli boli. But I am most grateful for the way he showed us the magic of gestures, both big and small, that let you know how much you were loved.

blogging FAIL.

no one but myself to blame!

well, there was also that trip to orlando.

and to san diego.

and...my outright laziness.

i feel like i started off the blog very quickly, at the very cusp of summer, with the renewed energy that comes with staying up until the early morning and waking up in the late afternoon. although i said that i'd blog about my preparation for australia, i've actually done the most of my preparing in the past few days, with only 2 days left to go before i board my flight.

i enjoyed the freedom to procrastinate. and that renewed energy only compelled me to seek other pleasures of summer, like finishing then we came to the end and watching vicky cristina barcelona. (both were excellent.)

but i just felt hesitation whenever i thought about my future travels, like figuring out what i wanted to do in australia would require tedious, almost scholarly, research, through the purchase of cumbersome travel guides and skimming of foreign websites. and now, everything feels rushed, and crammed together like the clothes in my bulging suitcase.

but i don't know that it's all bad. as much as i wanted to plan out every minute of the next six months, i'm reminded that traveling should be about adventure and spontaneity. and while i know better than to completely abandon making any plans, i'm sure that i'm going to have an amazing time.

it was a pretty great summer, after all.

One Friday night...

...I will challenge myself (and any other crazies that wanna join me) to accomplish everything in Katy Perry's hit song, "Last Friday Night." This means that I will have to accomplish several things in various time frames:

Friday night:

Dance on table tops

Take too many shots

Kiss someone and think that I forgot

Max my credit card (:[ :[ :[)

Get kicked out of a bar

Hit the boulevard (I'm thinking Las Vegas Boulevard)

Streak in the park

Skinny dip in the dark

Have a menage a trois (woo)

Be unsure about the legality of an action

Say that I'm gonna stop

The following Saturday morning:

Host a stranger in my bed

Suffer from pounding in my head

Find glitter all over my room...

...And pink flamingos in my pool

Smell like a minibar (so, like, alcohol, I guess)

Find a DJ passed out in the yard

Discover Barbie on the barbecue

Have a hickey or a bruise, and be unsure about which of the two it really is

Try to connect the dots

Be unsure of what to tell my boss 

Think that the city towed my car (:[ :[ :[)

Find the chandelier on the floor

Rip my favorite party dress (awww)

Have a warrant out for my arrest (:[[[[[[[[[[)

Need a ginger ale

Have pictures from last night end up online

Be screwed (oh well)

Struggle to remember last night, as it is a blacked-out blur

Assure myself that it ruled (dayum!)

Finally, next Friday night:

Do it all again.

...

TGIF

TGIF

TGIF

(Hopefully, I can work a Kenny G solo up in there somehow)