All the lights are changing green to red.
Turning over TV stations, situations running through my head.
Looking back through time, you know it's clear that I've been blind
I've been a fool.
To ever open up my heart to all that jealousy, that bitterness,
That ridicule.

David Gray, "Babylon"
---
Packing up my things from the motel in Glendale, I noticed the piping of pants that belong to a tuxedo that I apparently forgot to return yesterday. Wonderful. Not only did I lose a cufflink in the process of chucking a decorative cantaloupe into the evening Burbank sky, but I'd have to pay late charges, too.

Chris mentioned that I had a penchance for being overly dramatic. I believe I have a penchance for unearthing precious metals from the inner core of my being. Okay, so maybe Chris has a point.

Let me tell you why I'm uncomfortable around Filipinos in large numbers: it's the language. Now I have a fairly healthy command of English. I do. I consider my ability to articulate something that sets me apart from my cousins, and I'm not sure if it's an indicator or a byproduct of hard work and dedication. I like to think of it as a means by which I can gripe.

Growing up, my parents would scold me, insult me, and express doubts over me and my intelligence. They did this with me sitting in front of them. They did this in Tagalog. I would come to associate the language as one that is ugly and hurtful and dismissive. Even as I got older, I would have reservations as to whether my parents were ever proud of me, but I knew without a doubt (after learning how to translate) that they liked to brag. Filipinos, in my mind, constantly engage in pissing contests and I detest it.

When I'm around my non-Filipino friends (read: all of them), I feel disconnected from that childhood. It's never too late to have a happy one, as I can attest now. Being around others speaking Tagalog, though, instantly transports me back to a different time and a different self. I'm visibly uncomfortable and psychologically unsure. This is why I can't stand large gatherings of other Filipinos, even among my own cousins. But damn the food is tasty.

Saturday I'm running wild and all the lights are changing red to green
Moving through the crowd I'm pushing chemicals all rushing through my bloodstream
Only wish that you were here you know I'm seeing it so clear
I've been afraid
To tell you how I really feel admit to some of those
Bad mistakes I've made

I remember sitting at a bar in Castaways, a woman to my left ignoring the drink that was bought for her. She and her friend stood up, hoping that I would give up or something. I'm not good at this game. I never was. I make money, not love. I sat there for a second, realizing that I had more interest in the score ticker running at the bottom of the TV on the other side of the bar. This is not me. This is not me. Close your eyes, Ron. Teleport yourself into the future. I can't. God, I'm trying, but I can't. You'll be fine. Open your eyes now. Where are you?

There's an oak tree. It's a warm evening in Pasadena and there's mirth in the air. A dozen kinds of single malts line the bar near the patio, next to a dozen bottles of wine, but you're sitting in the back, chilled bottle of water in hand. Our liver appreciates it. Tom is announcing something about a Caltech Culinary Institute. Professors and alumni chitter chatter on a manicured lawn. In the foreground, soft-shelled crab, grilled prawn covered in Old Bay, steamed clams, hamburgers, caramelized onions, and other assorted faire fill picnic tables like the coffers of kings. I exchange gossip and revel in the memories of classmates, regaling tales of their exploits. I tell the same stories to different people. The laughs are the same. I've lost interest in the plot months ago. Some would confuse my sense of humorous timing with "charm" and "humorous timing." I call it socializing on auto-pilot. I don't want to do this anymore. Let's go back to Burbank. I'm armed with a crystal ball that allows me to clearly see the past. Close your eyes again. Three, two,...

I'm sitting on the edge of a precipice outside of Castaways. The parking lot is about thirty feet below me, and the concrete looks uncomfortable. But I've found a nice place to hide momentariliy while I ponder why I've never picked up smoking. It would be a convenient habit, one that would allow me to disengage every now and then, and give me the armaments necessary to happily indulge my nervous ticks and restlessness. But here, on this ledge, I can relax and stay out of view and out of scrutiny. Here I can oh my god what is that walking towards me? That's a skunk, isn't it. I swear to God I don't want to have to explain to everyone why I smell like rancid tuna spooned out of a hippo's ass. I better stand up and try this socializing thing again. Engage auto-pilot.

Let me tell you my secret: I constantly doubt myself. It isn't a lack of self-confidence, it's an ingrained berating where I am my own drill sergeant, yelling at me on in the inside, telling me to drop and give him fifty dollars. I've spent a lot of time successfully proving the mid-1980's version of my parents wrong. One day my drill sergeant will approve of me also. I walked back into the ballroom, grabbed one of the color-coded drinks on the table, and stood in the back, staring off at La Reina de Los Angeles as she, too, ignored me. I faintly saw my reflection in the glass, a band playing behind me, people dancing, I'm sure. This is me. This is me. Taking a sip, I strolled back to an unpopulated table. All of my friends have dispersed. Half drunk glasses like tree rings etch memories on the table top. I then noticed a decorative cantaloupe.