Tag Archives: san francisco

Meal

It was a warm, quiet Christmas evening at the Art Box.  Or, for natives and residents of Thailand, just any other December night.  There was certainly more decorative lights and red pieces of flare than, let’s say, a September night.

With the population being primarily Buddhist, Christmas décor in Thailand was more a festive extension with the new year celebration that shortly follows afterwards.  For myself – being from the west – I did not visit Thailand because it was a mecca for Jesus’s birthday.  It was, in fact, the complete opposite.

I was here to escape home.

ex·​hale

The Art Box was an outdoor market in the Sukhumvit neighborhood in downtown Bangkok that gathered an eclectic collection of food vendors, bars, and gift shops.  I wasn’t alone, travelling here with my best friend, RQ, who we were then met by Gil, RQ’s cousin, who flew in from the Philippines.  We were frequent customers of the Art Box, particularly toward dinner time where we were ready to unwind from the day filled with visits to markets and temples, speeding on riverboats and Tuk Tuks, and admiring (then somehow ending up racing on the backs of) elephants.

The convenience of The Art Box was that it lounged around the corner of our hotel.  Its gravity were kind people, great food and art, and an energy that almost impossibly resembled the same feelings from when I’d spend my teenage years at a friend’s house solving the mysteries of how to talk to girls, and how to be a DJ (I was terrible at both).  Or hooping at the neighborhood park from the noon to dark, draining threes and airballing layups while avoiding jackers at the same time.  When a jacker did show up, it was a full sprint back with all my stuff in hand (wasn’t lucky every time) to the same house where we’d proceed with unsolved mysteries of how to talk to girls and how to be a DJ.  It even tapped into my roaring 20’s capsule, where there was nowhere else I would have rather been than being at my favorite bar in The City on a Thursday night with the boys.  No, I never became a DJ.  But I did reach half-decent levels with talking to girls.  The Art Box sparked a magical trifecta of these energies from various pockets in my life that had just enough of the unknown, anxiety, and danger that made it my kind of bliss.

Like the center of a multiverse where worry was non-existent in the dictionary.

But it wasn’t just this trip, this place, this moment that led to this decompression.  That Fight-Club-Tyler-Durden-just-let-go kind of moment, if you will.  Please allow me this opportunity provide some back story.

pre·face

For nearly a decade, I was in the mental fight for my life.  While very few people knew, I did not allow anyone to see or feel the extent of not only how completely defeated I was, but how much I actually chose defeat.  Like walking toward relentless speeding traffic with a blindfold on.  Doing the same thing over, and over, and over, and expecting different results.

in·​san·​i·​ty

It wasn’t until the second half of that decade circa 2014 – 2019, I decided to punch back.  I was rocked and brought to my hands and knees more than I could keep count and some days were too hard to answer the next round.  Some days pushed me three, four, five steps back while I only mustered one step forward.  But there was always a step forward, and that was all I allowed myself to control.  “I can’t win them all,” I convinced myself.  “But win some, and I’ll wise the fuck up along the way.”  I was content with this.

I travelled, a lot.  Some of it was for work, some of it had people on the other end of the destination.  But most of it was by myself.  Perhaps not the way I wanted it, but certainly the way I needed it during this time.

I took… things.  A lot (and I’ll allow you to piece together what you think that means – but I will say this – I’m sorry, mom).  Somehow I kept myself in enough fear of the things I took that I never fully succumbed to its hypnotism.  Staying scared saved my life, it’s strange hearing myself say that but it couldn’t be any more closer to the truth.  It was my darkest time, and while I wasn’t completely by myself, I couldn’t feel any more alone than I did.  Perhaps not the way I wanted it, but certainly the way I needed it during this time.

During this period I also became a runner and trained for dozens of runs, and on the wings of a miracle I was able to complete a full marathon.  Maybe this helped counter the things I took.

nope

But it made me feel like I was doing something healthy along the way.  What running did teach me was to fight back from a place I’m not comfortable in.  I’ll be the first to tell you that I am not built to be a long-distance runner.  I’m not light on my feet, I’m not skinny, and I’m not lanky.  My thighs and calves are the width of tree trunks carved to sprint, push, and lift heavy shit up.  On top of that, my L4 and L5 discs in my lower back are beaten to a pulp, running didn’t make this any better.  This five year period of running was, far and away, the biggest physical fight of my life.  But what was clear as day was that my running was less about my own health – no – and more about being in:

lim·bo

I was running from fears I didn’t have the strength to admit to, and chasing something I was never going to catch; end preface.

RQ returned to Thailand in July of 2022, only to find that The Art Box just another victim to the pandemic that stole so much from us.  It’s now a under construction for a new high rise of luxury apartments, a sight all too familiar in The Bay.  Once a place that gifted me my biggest moment of clarity and escape weakened under the greedy patterns under my own home soil, thousands of miles away.  The best things in life are always designed to be fleeting.  This was a just a reminder.

iro·​ny; bitch

Travelling can never be bad for the soul, I truly believe that.  But this alone wasn’t the left hook that knocked out the other version of me that gave this version of me the win I was looking for.

It was a warm, quiet Christmas evening at the Art Box.  Or, for natives and residents of Thailand, just any other December night.  There was certainly more decorative lights and red pieces of flare than, let’s say, a September night.

For two particular Filipino women – Joy and Grace – both who worked at one of the food booths at the Art Box, it meant just any other work night. RQ’s Tagalog is fantastic. Mine not so much, and he decided to speak to them in our people’s native language. They also spoke English fairly well, but maybe hearing Tagalog greased the conversation enough to lean more genuine and less stranger danger. It probably also helped that this wasn’t their first conversation with each other. At first it was small talk – “hi, how are you, what a nice night it is tonight, How was your Christmas Eve, your eggplant fries with salted egg dust are so good!”

ma·sa·rap; de·​li·​cious

After a while their conversation began to pick up steam, with body language on both sides that resonated more than just your run-of-the-mill employee and customer talk.  I observed from afar, remembering to look up in between bites of eggplant fries with salted egg dust, seeing more smiles, more blushes, more giggles.  Then, RQ started to talk with his hands.  And when RQ talks with his hands, it’s a different ballgame.

“RQ knows how to talk to girls… I wonder if he learned how to DJ, too?”  A glancing thought.

Right at this moment my mind began to formulate ideas of what he was trying to do – as I’m sure you might be doing the same, too – though I assure you this story is nowhere near down that path.  The Art Box was closing soon, with other businesses wrapping their night up, and RQ came back with some unexpected intel to my ears.

“So, I invited Joy and Grace to eat dinner with us after they’re off work in a bit.  They said okay, but they’re shy.  Gil’s knocked out at the hotel, he won’t be coming.  Where should we go?  What do you feel like eating?”

I was hesitant to agree, since my interests here did not align with what I initially presumed were his.  But I can’t leave my guy hanging by himself, right?

“The ladies should pick, and I’m not picky.  I’m down for anything,” I said.

“Okay, I’ll go let them know, and we’ll just hang out until they’re done.  By the way, it’s not what you think.”  I am Jack’s current when it serves.

Joy and Grace were hesitant, I could tell, and that made it surprising to me that they agreed to grab a meal with us.  I still had my hesitations, too.  I was not yet privy to the bigger picture.

“So, you’re both from America?” Joy asked.

“Yes, we’re from California,” I replied.

“What part?”

“The San Francisco area.”

“Oh wow, that’s so expensive.”  We (more so RQ) learned that money was extremely scarce for them.  The way they described having the same shared meals for lunch – often that same meal split as their dinner – and never in any amount that fulfilled their appetite or required nutrition was enough to paint the picture.  The difference between their wages and mine was the size of the Pacific Ocean, so hearing this made me feel embarrassed that I ever complained about, well, anything.  But Joy didn’t say this with intent to make me feel guilt.  It was an honest reaction, one and I didn’t have any good reply or comeback to ease the awkwardness.

di·gress

“What’s another good place to eat around here?  What are you in the mood for?”

They hesitated again, and gave each other a concerned look before one of them provided their shared admission.

“There’s nothing here we can afford.”

RQ steps in, “Oh we’re paying!  Please, let us.  We wouldn’t ask you to pay.  This is nothing more than a Christmas dinner with kaibigans [English translation: friends].”

Still with hesitation, still with a concerned look toward each other, Grace shared, “What if you just run off after dinner when we get the bill?”  I mean, that’s a pretty damn valid concern, right?  At this point RQ and I were still just two creepy ass Americans trying to have dinner with them.  I assured them that’s not who we are, while RQ reinsured this in Tagalog.  That might’ve been the key in easing their anxiety as Grace said with comfort, along with a few steps forward, “there’s more restaurants down the block here.”

I can feel the anxiety slowly melt away from Joy and Grace with each step.  RQ has that type of voice that can do that.  After two long city blocks we get to a quaint, well-lit court.  Forgive my memory here – there was restaurant blah, restaurant hmm, then the third option was Korean BBQ, and you can see their senses drool over Korean BBQ.  Before making this final decision we studied the menu alongside the entrance door.

“I think this is it, you can’t beat bulgogi!” RQ exclaimed.  Joy’s anxiety kicked back in like a sudden gust of wind.

“This is too expensive.  It would take months of work to have a dinner here.  We can’t eat here.  I can’t accept to eat here.”  I was halfway around the world, maybe this shouldn’t have been a surprise to me.  For me, it’s without question the cheapest Korean BBQ restaurant if this exact place were rooted in The Bay Area.  For Joy, this restaurant is the most expensive place that she’d never dare to walk in.  There’s struggle, then there’s third world struggle, and seeing the latter at ground zero you easily start taking less things for granted.

“Joy,” I said as I pulled out my wallet to hand to her, “You and Grace are not paying tonight.”  Two thoughts immediately came to mind.  First thought was, “I wish I knew how to say that in Tagalog.”  Second – “if she takes my wallet, gives me a right cross/left hook/leg sweep/curb stomp to the nuts combo and sprints off in what would have hoodwinked me into the most massive twist of my life up to that point, then Buddha, let me willingly take this L.”  A few days prior I rode piggyback on a man while riding a motorcycle, only to find out after we got to our final destination that he was missing his right eye, and his left eye wasn’t holding on too well either.  Suffice to say I was feeling lucky, and this was no different with attempting to hand over my wallet to a stranger.  After a moment of stand still, RQ sneakily and smoothly opened the door encourage them in.  Joy did not take my wallet, but my offer still stood.

Nothing shuts people up better than good food.  And soju.  But we did not shut up – we spoke comfortably and fruitfully for hours as we ate and drank like we were royalty.  Regardless of where anyone is from, people find common ground on challenges, ideas, and endeavors.  It struck a chord with me to hear that Joy sends money to her daughter in the Philippines without receiving a receipt of gratitude.  Every phone call between them started with her daughter saying “did you send the money yet?” even before “hi mom” was seemingly formulated as a thought.  “But that’s my daughter.  And I’ll always send her support,” Joy said with a few tears.  Before getting her work visa and permit in Thailand, Grace worked tirelessly in Macau trying to earn enough money to replace her dad’s boat that was completely wrecked in a storm back home, with the only piece of the boat her dad was able to salvage was a splinter of its former self the side of his hand.

As I process their stories and emotions my mind began to race through endless avenues.  Some new, mostly old, but even going down these familiar roads I noticed a shift in my mind’s eye.  Still in the driver’s seat, but thinking less about the control and more about the ride.  That Fight-Club-Tyler-Durden-just-let-go kind of ride.  Even after absorbing their heartbreaking stories, I knew they were better off than me and it had nothing to do with money.  Sure, money can solve an abundance of problems, and solving problems makes you happy.  But in order to solve problems you need to have purpose.  Something these two women have – which I completely and utterly lacked – and finally understood what I envied more than I could ever describe on this warm, quiet Christmas evening.  Or, just any other December night in Thailand.

Our conversation slowed and settled in sync with our buzz, plates empty but our bellies and minds full of good. We kept our promise and paid the dinner tab. If I could Michaelangelo the shit out of this moment I would paint the looks on their faces – soft, kind, with more than enough belief that worry was non-existent in the dictionary – and everyone would have called it a masterpiece. We walked back toward the direction of our hotel, where their bus stop was conveniently nearby. As their bus approached we gave each other a hug, and I knew we would never see Joy and Grace again. But the memory of them will continue to serve as a beacon of truth that life isn’t intrinsically designed to be cruel.

Joy and Grace safely got on the bus, RQ and I went back to our hotel, and we called it a Christmas night.

It’s taken me four years to share this story. I’ve often wondered if this was something RQ practiced on a regular. Maybe it doesn’t have to take place on Christmas or any other holiday, or in another country – but the way he quarterbacked this entire dinner out of thin air has always made me believe that this wasn’t the first time. He denies this notion in his signature nonchalant manner that only makes me believe the complete opposite. This is a debt I owe RQ I can never repay for a lesson in purpose orchestrated through a simple meal with two other perfect strangers that led to the most important night of my life.

The very last night I chose defeat.

pre·​vail

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Growing up in Honolulu I knew a girl.  Her name was Sasha.  She was a few years older than I was.  I was two.

I knew Sasha through my Uncle Ray.  One day, we were in a room of a hotel that my Uncle was employed at.  I don’t have a clear recollection of why we were there.  Perhaps he was babysitting us, or maybe we went to visit him, anyone’s guess will be as good as mine.

Sasha and I were comfortably sitting on the soft feathery carpet, avoiding eye contact for most of the duration of our stay.  Meanwhile, Uncle Ray drenched himself into the single seat couch, looking out the window and staring into the dark eyes of Diamonhead Crater.  I sat there criss cross applesauce style and still as a photograph, not uttering a single word to Sasha or my Uncle.  She, on the other hand, was seven notches more active than I was.  Sasha drowned herself into the television set presenting some program I had no interest in. Every commercial break or so, she’d turn around and indulge herself into the one detail of this memory I remember the most – mini sugar powdered donuts.  She didn’t share with me.  What a bitch.

So I continued to just sit there, ogling at her crumby plump rings of sweet pastries. Suddenly my mouth began to water; to keep myself busy I played with my fingertips and nervously fondled with the carpet like it was my mom’s hair.  My attention began to move frantically from Sasha, the television set, my Uncle Ray, my fingers, and to the coveted donuts.  This process stayed on repeat to a point where I couldn’t take it anymore.  So I did what any other hungry fat, isolated little island boy would do.

With my quick-like-a-cat greedy little hands, I pounced on one of her delicious donuts while she wasn’t looking and shoved it into my mouth.  Sasha didn’t catch me in the act.  She did, unfortunately, realize that her once family of four donuts were down to three.  She also couldn’t help but notice my peculiar white, powdery lips and my cheeks bulging at maximum capacity.

Fast forward nineteen years.  I’m living the Bay Area in California. At the time I had a girlfriend.  I was twenty-one.

We’re drying two baskets of clothes at a laundromat we frequented.  Being the big, bulky guy that I am, I get pretty hungry while staring at the colors and the whites go round and round.  Lucky there’s some neighboring food places – a Mexican restaurant, a liquor store, a 7-Eleven, and a donut shop.

I chose the donut shop.  I treated myself to an apple fritter and decided to get an old fashioned chocolate doughnut for her.  I devoured my pastry in two seconds while she gracefully and neatly picked at hers, breaking off small portions seemingly every five minutes.

So I continued to just sit there, on top of the counter ogling at her crumby rugged ring of chocolate covered pastry.  Suddenly my mouth began to water; to keep myself busy I played with my fingertips and nervously fondled with my Dr. Pepper cap.  My attention began to move frantically from my girlfriend, the clockwise spinning dryers, my cap, and to the coveted donut.  This process stayed on repeat to a point where I couldn’t take it anymore.  So I did what any other hungry, fat grown up living in the Mainland would do.
I asked her if I could have a bite.  And without hesitation she said, “Go ahead!”  I gently broke me off a piece, popped it in my mouth, and life was good.  I finally earned redemption for stealing a donut nearly two decades prior.

Fast forward thirteen years.  Dare to D.R.E.A.M.; donuts rule everything around me.  And this shirt is available for purchase here:

https://www.IRUNSF.com/onlinestore

Oh, and I’m sorry Sasha.  Wherever you are.

— – —-

Originally written in 2005.  D.R.E.A.M. segment was added for the ’19.

Dream

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Doors

“Good afternoon everyone, I’m currently looking for Crystal Roland here at Gate 53 flying to Seattle, Washington with Virgin America, flight number 211. Once again, this is for Crystal Roland, and you have 307 seconds left to get to Gate 53 – well – 305 seconds now. Please get here as soon as you possibly can, I’d hate to close the door on you. One final time – Crystal Roland, Gate 53 to Seattle, Virgin America flight number 211. 292 seconds left and counting. Hope to see you soon, Crystal.”

This announcement echoed with hope sincerity throughout Terminal 2 as I walked away from Gate 54 after landing home to my San Francisco fog, a complete and welcoming contrast from the dry 94 degree heat in Austin I was in prior to.

276, 275, 274, 273. I found myself counting down and still rooting for Crystal. I’ve been in this situation once, and I know how it feels to have to showcase your best effort in the barefoot sprint after passing through airport security, dodging other travelers, their luggage on wheels, and the tired air.

Time took Gold that morning. I won Silver and five additional hours with uncomfortable chairs in Gate 12 at Oakland International. Needless to say, it wasn’t a good feeling. However, there isn’t anyone within my sights that are in any hectic rush to make the gate. She’s nowhere to be found; the barefoot sprint doesn’t look like it’s happening anytime soon.

Each passing second continues to raise my curiosity over the two possibilities – will she make it, or miss her flight? My walk becomes a sluggish stroll toward the exit, and now in front of me is the backside of the security checkpoint entrance, and still I see no one in a rampant rush. My thoughts begin to wonder about this stranger – who is Crystal, where is Crystal, and is Crystal okay? Perhaps Crystal went to the wrong terminal, or airport even? Does Crystal even care?

I guess there’s the chance that she doesn’t even want to catch this flight. It’s possible she’s willingly somewhere else – somewhere where she’d rather be – not having any worries in the world that she has 180 seconds left before the plane takes off without her.

I’m now at the exit door, and unlike Crystal’s, this door will stay open for me. I can turn back around and have a few drinks at the Vino Volo and absorb all that wine (I don’t even like wine) with a breakfast burrito at Andale Mexican Restaurant (I love breakfast burritos) while I read the latest issue of People Magazine (I don’t read People Magazine) that I picked up from the next door gift shop. My point is I can do all that and more, despite if my interests are piqued, and my exit door will still be there with its same open arms. These speakers aren’t booming with warnings that I have to leave within any certain time frame. I can decide to exit on my own terms, I can decide when I want to go home.

I can even turn around and fly to Seattle.

It’s comforting knowing that some doors will never close, but not all doors are built that way, are they? Most doors have a clock on them, exactly like Crystal’s, whose door to Seattle is closing in 126 seconds. Some of our doors are always there, and they just need an easy turn of the knob. For certain doors, you may decide to be aggressive, kick them right off its hinges, and tear your clothes off as your walk through, letting everyone know of your arrival and loudly share how much you oppose the answer “no.” If you choose to, you can wait patiently, or anxiously, for doors to unlock or open themselves.

Every door is different, and new doors always present themselves at opportune times. One door may be locked now, but it could possibly open in the future. Sometimes, we find doors to a place we want to be, but were never really meant for. Or even doors that were once unlocked, but are now bolted down and the key is lost forever.

Either way, each door is a decision – regardless of how impactful – and you live and die with all of them.

You have 78 seconds left, Crystal. Good luck.

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Torture

I’m going to rant and vent at the same time. Let’s call this… rent. I’m going to rent. Or… vant. Whatever, you get me (either way I’m coining both terms).

I love baseball. I love the San Francisco Giants. I love the San Francisco Giants broadcast team. They’re the best in the business, and it’s not even close. But probably the worst thing they ever came up with – and I guess I’ll be looking straight at you, Duane Kuiper – is the whole Torture movement. To his credit, it has caught on very well amongst all levels of Giants fans.

And for the record, I’m not mad at him. Nor do I dislike or hate him for starting the movement. As fans, however, we should have known better to support it and feed it the gasoline that led it to grow into the ugly wildfire it has become.

I’m not one of the supporters of the Torture label, not even a little, and nor will I ever be. I cringe when I hear it, and I frown when I read it throughout the news and social medias.

“Torture” came about in 2010, the year the Giants won their first World Series in San Francisco. It was birthed when the marriage of our great pitching and just-good-enough timely hitting won us so many close ballgames.

But we won. We. Won! That is what I will never completely understand. Why is that torture when we earned that W? I love it when the Giants win, regardless if it’s a 10-2 laugher or a 1-0 nail biter. A win is a win and it’s a great feeling. How did that become torture?!

And against all odds (surprise, surprise) we are back in the postseason, trying to pull together and play the best baseball we can play for one magical month. And, without a hitch, the torture label re-surfaces from thousands of fans.

The other day, we won the Wild Card game in Pittsburgh. We won again today against an extremely tough Washington Nationals team for Game 1 of the NLDS. I will question once again – why is this torture when we’re winning ballgames?

I’ve been watching Giants Baseball for as long as I can remember, and that only really means that I hold a lot of memories with this team. And I’m going to take this moment to share some of those with you. Maybe, just maybe, you begin to re-think what you understand as torture –

1989 – The Giants and the A’s square off in the infamous Battle of the Bay World Series. Earthquake aside, the Giants get swept, and it was never close. And Jose Canseco did us with a mullet. TORTURE.

1992 – The franchise is poised to leave San Francisco for Tampa Bay. It wasn’t until Peter Magowan and other friends with fat wallets save the team and stay in SF. That waiting period before that decision was made… TORTURE.

1993 – The Giants win 102 games and don’t even make the playoffs, because the Atlanta Braves won 103. TORTURE.

1994 – Will Clark signs with the Texas Rangers. He was and still is my favorite ballplayer of all time. And to see him don another uniform other than the Giants was too painful. So I also became a Rangers fan as well. Then baseball as a whole decided to go on strike. TORTURE.

1996 – A 94-loss season. TORTURE.

1997 – The Giants get swept in the NLDS against the Florida Marlins. TORTURE.

1998/1999 – Mediocre seasons with no playoff appearances. TORTURE.

2000 – The Giants get eliminated by the New York Mets in 4 games in the NLDS. And Mike Piazza did us with a mullet. TORTURE.

2001 – After clawing through injuries, the Giants come up short against the Arizona Diamondbacks and watch October baseball on their couches at home. TORTURE.

2002 – The Giants make their first World Series appearance since 1989 and lose in 7 games against the Anaheim Angels and a rally monkey. TORTURE.

2003 – We meet the Florida Marlins once more in the NLDS and we are eliminated in 4 games in bone-crushing fashion when, in the final play, JT Snow is out at the plate after a clean collision with Ivan Rodriguez, who was able to hold onto the baseball. TORTURE.

2004 – The Dodgers eliminate the Giants in playoff contention when Steve Finley hits a grand slam to seal our fate for October-less baseball. TORTURE.

2005/2006/2007/2008 – Four straight severely losing seasons. Emphasis on severe, and emphasis on emphasis. TORTURE, and emphasis on TORTURE.

2011 – A collision with Scott Cousins at the plate takes Buster Posey out for the season that could have ended his then young(er) career. TORTURE.

Seriously, people. If you’re a Giants fan, re-think what you call torture. If you truly believe that 2010, 2012, and the current 2014 are “torturous” seasons, you either have unattainable standards of a 162-0 season along with clean sweep of 11-0 in the playoffs, or you were given an antonym book by someone who lied to you and told you it was a dictionary.

I’ll let you borrow my 2002 World Series DVD if you need a reminder what real torture is.

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