Diff'rent Strokes, Diff'rent Folks.

I was asked the other day to name three things here that I find different from where I come from. I said:

1. Aggression
It's simply trademark of the place--for most it's what draws them here. It's fiercely competitive, people move here from all over the world to be the among the elite economically, socially, artistically, intellectually...according to my friend literally the world's best whistler lives here. Aggression, it's how they get what they want. Waiting for the subway, people are not afraid to cut in line or press up against you to squeeze in. That kind of tension sometimes explodes into yelling ethnic slurs (like I saw yesterday). But I've witnessed bold camaraderie as well as conflict. Strangers may laugh along, butt in, give advice or directions. These days I hand out fliers on the street corner for work; I encounter some of the most fearless snubbing I've ever seen (once by Tim Gunn), but I've also had a number of good conversations with others on the street, and they've always approached me first.

2. Respect for Art
Broadway has endured where other theater districts haven't for one reason: people attend more. They like going; they get excited about it, they buy subscriptions, they discuss its significance. Recently I was in Madison Square Park (not Garden), and I saw the field by the burger stand was closed off. Right in the center of the lawn was a collection of light bulbs suspended on strings. I thought to myself "man…only here…" Already a sight to see in the daytime, I couldn't anticipate what the nighttime would bring…
And for what purpose? Just to put art up, that's it! Art for art's sake. I was walking down to the subway in Herald Square earlier this week and I noticed for the first time, for no functional purpose, these giant blades hinged on bars that spun when the train came by. Art for art's sake, I hadn't previously conceived of a city that would spend so much money on that. New York has thoroughly restructured my understanding of and appreciation for art.

3. Connection to History
Over near Grand Central I stood one day, darting my focus back and forth between two adjacent buildings; one with colored brick and decorated with moulding, the other angular and consumed by windows. I pondered culture's transition from the former to the latter.
I have this picture in my room. In it I can see buildings that I pass by regularly, Central Park, and the Essex House sign that still stands today. Uta Hagen spoke of New York City's advantage over other artistic pools due to the rich presence of history, and how it connects us to them. You see the Statue of Liberty, the Chrysler Building, the public libraries, and as you delight in their beauty you can't help but imagine the lives of those who've encountered them in the past, the daily routines of others who've also sometimes walked by and thought nothing of it.

The day I leave this city, these are among the things I will miss most.

In acknowledgement of a Rock star.

When I was younger I used to read credits and wonder why someone would be comfortable being cast as "Ugly Guy #2." I mean, how would you like to audition for that role be told "why yes, you're perfect!" After a year in this industry I don't wonder anymore. Sure, he had to come to terms with being ugly, much more so if he didn't need any rearranging, but that little bit he did got him monies, his SAG card, and a step closer to sustaining himself as an actor.

Those one-liner folk you see on television, they're not just random people off the street some casting director saw and asked "hey, you want to meet Sally Field?" No, they're actors who have read the books, taken the classes, submitted the headshots & resumes, snagged the agent interviews, they've done their work. They're all brilliant actors who aspire to be like their brilliant screen heroes, and have labored often times for years to get to that point. One such case is this young lady:


Jee Young Han. We did drama together in high school, and she's one of the main reasons I'm even out here today. Last night I saw her utter a couple lines the average couch potato would just gloss over; but every actor out in the industry knows the work it takes to get to that place, and I personally know her journey thus far. Every actor in the industry knows what an accomplishment it is to have even a single moment, a single line onscreen on a major television network, on an Emmy-award winning prime time celebrity machine like 30Rock . So when the camera cuts to her face and she says with a furrowed brow "isn't it…Frasier?" I'm thinking to myself "…wow" (by the way, she had more than that exchange with Kelsey Grammer in the episode).

The odds are stacked against you a mile high. Just to get an audition like that takes representation (which takes an interview, which takes standing out among the thousands, which takes talent, business savvy, and a whole lot of patience). Even after you nab the audition, there's the thousands of other actors who made it that far too all vying for that same spot, and it doesn't matter how many people are just so talented and just so good looking and just so accomplished and just so in need of this job…it only goes to one person.

Keep on the lookout for this one, she's well on her way. I owe Jee a great deal of thanks for, among many things, helping me get representation right at the start of my career. That representation has gotten me into auditions for some fantastic shows, so while I commend her greatly for her career leaps (and, oh boy, she's had many), I'll keep sticking it out and see if I'll get my single moment one of these days...Lord-willing of course. Pray they keep writing more awkard skinny guy roles, Michael Cera is such a hogger.

Subway Observations #5

5:46pm, Flushing-bound
Asian male, mid-teens, looking like a page out of my sophomore yearbook. American Eagle polo, khaki cargo shorts, white tennies, gelled spikes with fade. Slip of printer paper neatly sized to fit in the spine of his binder reading SAT in Arial bold. Also, his name is Peter Park.

10:09pm
Always someone reading.

3:44pm
Two feeble women lug in two folding wire carts and prove they've got plenty of strength in them.

8:51pm
White male, mid 30's. Aaliyah tattoo on forearm.

3:56pm
Father, 30's, and son, somewhere in the single digits. Son anxiously giggles with excitement. Father swats at his hands feigning to be too slow, sneaking in brushes to his cheek.

9:50pm
Three women: two French, one American, all early 30's. American woman attempting to be conversation in French. Pretty much just a lot of hand motions and abuse of the word "avec."

9:04am
That clang clang clang is so much louder in the morning.

9:55pm
Two women, early 40's; one sitting, one standing. Seat opens up next to the one sitting, she insists the other sit down, the other woman defiant. The first woman huffs and turns away. Moments later they resume conversation as normal. I assume they're siblings.

11:16am
Girl, 6, on the phone, staring out the window. She shouts "mom I'm looking at the WORLD!"

2:10pm
Man, late 40's, with Meatloaf tour shirt ftw.

12:49am
Seeing how the people sleeping hold their backpacks feels like seeing how they hold their pillows at night. It can get very endearing.

11:45pm
I'm sitting down, cross-legged, one arm clasping the opposite elbow. I look to my left and see a skinny Chinese man, late 50's, with hair parted to the side, sitting exactly like me.

Year Won.

They say it takes a year to settle in the city. By the time I moved into my first apartment in November, I could tell you all the different subway lines in Manhattan, distinguishing between express and local; I could tell you bobbing and weaving methods for effective tourist swimming, and I could tell you that the chicken and rice cart on 53rd & 6th was owned by the same people who ran the one across the street, the one without the half-hour wait. Albeit still a few years away from gaining "local" status, I figured I was ahead of schedule.

Professionally speaking too. Thanks to Jee's help I came to New York with something most actors I know are still scrounging to get--representation. Within half a year, I had gotten callbacks for a national commercial, an off-Broadway play, and a major motion picture. Overall, I had enough solid auditions to blot out a couple disasters.

In the last few months, however, things started to slip. I wasn't getting the same response. I was starting to get more timid. I wasn't working as hard. Except reverse the order. I recently took part in an acting seminar that sobered me to how much more I need to be doing for my career. It's said that 97% of the people who start acting careers leave them within 3 years--and that's just counting union actors. One of my least favorite responses to my vocation of choice is "you're an actor? oh that sounds like so much fun, I wish I could just do that." You don't become an actor out of curiosity or because you love performing, you might audition for the school play for those reasons but you don't become a professional actor for those reasons. It has to be more than pursuing a passion, it's learning how to be your own business and coming to terms with the fact that the product you're selling is you. Nobody just does that.

It's September now, and last Wednesday marked my 1-year anniversary with the city. She's a high-maintenance gal. I'm realizing that whomever "they" are, they're right, I feel like I've finally settled in. I suppose sometimes it isn't until you've gone through a couple highs and lows that you get levelheadedness. That isn't to say this past year hasn't been an exceptionally fruitful and wise decision. There are many sins and weights that still cling closely to me, but I gladly confess that this the most disciplined I've ever been. Some habits true of today that were not true a year ago:

- I set time aside in the morning to stretch, spend time in His word and prayer, sometimes even eat breakfast. œ
- I've a voracious appetite for literature, plays, theology and learning in general.
- I keep up with correspondence (if you shoot me an update, I'll happily reciprocate).
- I check messages and delete old mail.
- I plan out my days.

And a lot more things that I'm a lot more of or do a lot more often. Of course there are always the New York merit badges, like surviving winter, expanded pallet, and the aforementioned city skills, but I don't mean to go on (notice the lack of boast regarding that vow to blog weekly). I've come a good long way, but there are still miles to go before I sleep. This year is starting with a renewed vigor, a restructuring, and a touching up. The endeavor continues as I push toward the things that inspire this journey most: a desire to support a family, and a calling to be a man of God. Now let's git it.

Mad dash.

I hotfoot it out the library in a huff, cascading down those massive steps of the public library, quickly turn a corner, and hop onto a marble divider in hopes of sidestepping the people traffic. I'm not sure whether it's my own tenacious procrastination or just the excitement of the city that causes me to scurry at the speed of the proverbial New York minute. It's most likely the former masking itself as the latter. Suddenly, out in the distance, on the other side of the divider, appears my instant nemesis, a fellow marble-rider. She's strolling atop the slab carefree, delicately swaying to and fro as her hot pink long-sleeves reach for balance. My eyes squint and internally mutter "I don't think so, sister." I shift my focus to her cheery grandma helping her along and ask myself what the heck I'm doing playing chicken with a little girl.

Urban Oasis.

There I lay, impotent in the grass until breaths become louder than streetcars. Days like this come not too often, a light overcast keeping out harsher rays; this is not an afternoon to squander under shelter. The green bed cushions the backs of my knees as I rub together blades of grass between my knuckles. Tension built up from hours locked behind the cash register pass away like chaff in the summer wind. The ever-hospitable Bryant Park is small but mighty, a square lawn bordered by concrete and pastimes delicately grafted into city stresses. A bonafide urban oasis, a fertile ground for calm, a cool drink between nagging thoughts.

My eyes scale up metropolitan towers, far past the trees that protect this place, up to where imagination is untethered. Higher and higher, window after window, to the furthest point of the furthest-reaching building where I spot some visitors: interplanetary diplomats, ambassadors of a galaxy not unlike our own. Their headless eyes peer over the edge, two large squares, and a metal beam for a mouth. Talk about a stiff upper lip. I smile back and nod with discretion as not to alert the other residents of their presence.

Unknotted and awake, I rise refreshed and begin to peruse the premises. Time strolls along with me around the perimeter of the park, observing bookworms in the reading room, dining socialites in the upper terrace, ping pong rivals on the iron tables locked in bitter stalemate. An emcee halts my saunter as peculiarly even-tempered New Yorkers crowd shoulder-to-shoulder in the artists den, and still afar off I catch a garbled announcement followed by uproarious applause. By now the light has gone down in the sky and come up on the stage and surrounding courtyard. Suddenly a larger light floods the plaza, brilliant enough to herald in a seraph. I trace it back to the top of the building I visited earlier and find some old friends. I smile back once more, giving another nod, this time of gratitude.

I don't know who is playing tonight, there are no signs or logos around, but after a moment of thinking I decide that it's fine with me. I may never find them again, but there was a day when people were able to live with that--a time where if you only caught the tail end of a catchy melody on the radio there wasn't much you could do about it but archive the fragment deep in your mind and hope you would serendipitously stumble upon it again. If I consume myself with inculcating lyrics I'll miss everything that's happening right now. So instead of words and phrases I take in my surroundings. Sure, I may not know their name, but I know how their music makes me feel. If all I can take from here are memories, then I'll take with me the way the lead singer's voice soars through the city, the way a man stealthily crawls beneath the scaffolding just to be closer, the way a young daughter notices her hips dancing as if for the first time, and the way faces of awe and thrill stitch together a joyous multitude.

There is art that endures into vintage, and there is art that's a bang. Concerts cannot be recorded, and theater cannot be replayed.

Bright Lights.

I had not sweat so much in a long time, sans one short-lived stint with jogging. In my reality I wasn't capable of sweat, the act was nothing but a secondhand observation of human life. Yet there I sat, onstage, saline bullets cascading down all sides of my head. It wasn't until this night I realized how long it's been since I've been in a play, actually casting my craft into that sea of silhouettes hoping for a love connection. I am so out of shape, even for playing a robot.

I play Walter, an advanced programs system designed to protect my inventor's wife. It's quirky, at times tongue-in-cheek, and I get to play a robot. Thanks Mike, Tony, and Marlo, I've been getting a lot of commendation on my animatronical physicalization. More than those things it's real live theater and these days, like never before, I appreciate the value of real live theater.

The Elephant In The Room, a short play festival, runs July 29-Aug 14, 7:00pm at 13th St. Repertory Company. I also wrote one of the plays. Come and support!
Photographed: Michael Hodgson and Brian Lonsdale in Lee Hall's The Pitmen Painters at the National. Photographer: Tristram Kenton

Subway Observations #4

3:58pm
Lady sleeping next to me, her head falls onto my shoulder. I don't fight it.

2:15pm
Man playing yazz flute.

2:18pm
Guy doesn't hold on and falls down when the train moves. n00b.

5:42pm
Crocs with leather tops...and shoestrings.

11:27am
Girl asleep, Brandy blasting from her headphones. Das ma girl.

2:40pm
Just caught myself acting out a Gabe Bondoc song, but it looks like nobody noticed. Oh wait...no the lady across is staring.

9:47pm
Full car. I mean absolutely full. I grab hold of the top bar and stand at ease. My eyes look downward to notice a nice woman forced to sit directly in front of my crotch. I look at her, apologetically.

10:05pm
Acid wash jeans. Nuff said.

11:39am
I spot a Christmas gift bag with Marsupilami on it. Filled with words of joy to share I follow the hands up to discover the face of an old woman, tired and trying to get some shut-eye. Alright lady, you've evaded my conversation this time...

12:09am
I notice a familiarity in the air that reminds me of that summer in Italy, which I then identify as the smell of European sweat. Just then the guy standing by me with his arm reaching up to grasp the rail above my head speaks with a British accent. There it is.

Well, this is embarrassing...

A month after I declare regular blog posts I haven't procured a single one aside from a four-line poem. I apologize for the inconsistency, as consistency is the theme of the year for me. Let me divulge just a bit on how I've been these days…these very warm days…


I was sufficiently warned about winters here in the city, but to be honest I'm having a harder time with the summer. The digits are like California, but with the humidity and walking it's more like the Philippines. It's hot as a motherland out here. The power button on my air conditioner has been a heckling test of self-control. What makes the season worth it, though, are all the free events going on. The parks really come alive this time of year, with free movie showings, Broadway concerts, Al Pacino in The Merchant of Venice, and just people coming to hang out. Last week, I saw Ozomatli with the girlfriend's brother and the girlfriend's brother's girlfriend at Prospect Park in Brooklyn, and just as exciting as the superb music were the people picnicking, throwing the beach ball around, hula hooping, and dancing salsa on blankets. If you get the chance to join in someday, make sure that you don't let the energy buzz dull your frugality, or you may end up spending $14 on bland fair food chicken and disintegrating cornbread.

I recently took on an internship at the 13th St. Repertory Theatre for playwriting. It's a great community of about 15 interns, all working together to produce some good in-house material including the short play I just finished, which will be performed in our upcoming festival. The whole experience has been a bit of a whirlwind, and really where all my writing energies have gone lately. It was on a Monday I heard about their internship program, the next day becoming an intern, and by that Sunday I had written the first draft of my first play. A fellow actor heard that and exclaimed "how on earth were you able to do that?" I told her "I really have no idea, but I guess you don't know what you're capable of until you're given a deadline."

Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines, a writer always needs deadlines. So from now on you'll hear from me every Friday, even if it's just a few words, a tweetsworth if you will. And yes, it'll be more than just talking about how I miss home!

NYNJ Vlog #11: To My Father

*2:13 - "and it's one that I apparently don't have"

This one goes out to Carlos Lucas Leong!

(Okay, so I haven't recorded a vlog in a while. In January I installed Snow Leopard, and with it the new iMovie, which thoroughly daunted me for the first few months, but I finally got the hang of it. But the new software is wearing on the old girl, sad to say, I can barely use iMovie these days without the program crashing).

I was debating posting this, and decided to do it. I love my dad! Should you choose to watch it, please excuse the video skips and fuzzy audio ending, unless you find them to be savvy artistic choices, in which case why yes I did mean to do that.

"To all fathers, from a fan."

"Please tell me how you do it!"
Says a man looking to be a man,
Hoping to one day pursue it,
To all fathers, from a fan.

Letters To Home #2: Melody

Hi Melron!

I safely arrived here in Queens Thursday evening. The flight was easy and lulling, and after picking up some dinner from the Vietnamese place next to my train stop (it's called Thai Son, which, like with many others I'm sure, threw me off at first) I spent the rest of the night working hard on my audition which I thought paid off well went I went in the following afternoon. As you know, I watch a lot of television--well, online replays--and after a fruitful visit to the Golden State I've been able to catch up on a lot of my favorite shows, finally catching all their season finales. For most, the end of the school year feels the same way, and for a select few, they're actually approaching the end of their series.

I'm sorry I'm not able to see you walk in person at your graduation today. I will, of course, catch the live stream, which has a lag time of 15 minutes--but I'm 3 hours ahead, so it's okay, I'll still be cheering you on from 2:45 in the future. But let me take this time to let you know how proud of you I am.

I'm so proud of what you've done in your time at UC Irvine. You were captain of a dance team, you spent a semester in Italy, you maintained a successful apartment family for 3 years, you worked as a guide for study abroad programs, you were instrumental in groups like Pilipino-Americans in Social Studies (PASS) & Student-Parent Orientation Program Program (SPOP-P), and even though I'm sure I'm leaving out a lot more you managed to tackle all that in just 4 years.

And doesn't even include this one. I'm so happy you spent this last year there, because it's been momentous for you. I've gotten to know your experience as an R.A. through your expressions of triumph and struggle at the blessings and trials of advising more than 80 residents, a position many are not suited for. But the real revelation for me was when I finally got to meet your residents in person. And you're right, all of them really are like those boisterous four girls I met during my first visit, all displaying the same involuntary grin and nodding with the same affirmation when I asked them if they liked having you as their R.A.

But it's the detail that separates a good work of art from a masterpiece. It isn't just in the testimony of words, it's in the way they gather in groups to visit your room, it's in the way they say your name with such endearment that it's almost as if they wish it were more than three syllables, that they might have more time to propose their affection. It's in the way you do things like leave boxes of cereal and plastic cups with a little note saying "brain food, please take some," and it's in the way they faithfully oblige your request. It's in the way they wait around for your return, and in the way they linger around the lobby exchanging greetings with passing hallmates. It's in the way they were all so excited to meet me, without any hesitation--which, unless there's something so consistently bewitching about me, I attribute to their delight in knowing more about you.

Your relationships will go on, the friendships you've made this year will endure, but this experience for you and your residents has come to an end. Rest assured then, lady, that you did a great job, giving those now former first-years a dorm experience that is widely longed for but seldom had. Not only that, but throughout your victory lap at UCI you have shined tremendously for Christ, displaying the changing work of his love and law. I'm proud to say that I know you, and that I've been able to share in this joy with you, as we share in the greatest joy we have in Christ. I love you, and Lord-willing I will see you soon. Congratulations!

I'm so proud you found your finale.

Love,
Julian

Why is this goodbye so hard?

This Patrick and I started to dissect in the car outside my house. Some friends from Irvine, including Melody, joined us in Walnut for a last hurrah before my flight back to Queens. As we stood in an uneven circle that left larger gaps between myself and those adjacent to me, I noticed them all looking to me to say something conclusive, some sort of goodbye speech. "Man, I thought we were just getting dinner" I said to myself. That lack of closure stayed with me for the rest of the night.

I felt like I thought through this trip well enough. I was going to come back, pop out a cake, dance a jig, have a marathon of one-on-one's and leave having spent my time both wisely and vigorously. And I got it--most of it, I knocked out most of the goals I had for this two-week crunch, even had a couple I didn't expect. I fly out today. Granted I made a last-minute flight change to fly out 2 days earlier than I originally planned, but even if I made it all the way to Saturday, and had the pleasure of watching the girl with the hoop earring walk down the congratulatory aisle of graduation, for some reason I think it would still feel premature.

The sense of urgency of an ephemeral visit is a double-edged sword. On one hand I dig deeper into my conversations with little to no introduction, justifying myself with the fact that we won't get another opportunity like this for months. This has been more fruitful than I imagined, the kind of openness and reflection present at these dialogues was astounding, though I should also give credit to the heightened emotions of the school year's end. But I didn't take into account the consequences, the fact that strengthening bonds makes them harder to leave behind. What a silly underestimation, one that I hope will not undo any the progress made.

I have to leave for the airport now, there's no more time to write. Funny...I still don't know how to end this.

Happy Normalday.

Today is a day like any other, except that I was born. I've been conditioning myself to believe that for the past few years now. Any significance someone gives to this year's transition to that score-and-four thus feels unexpected, perhaps even undeserved. What better birthday can you have when you realize everything you get is a gift? Consider this,then, my thank you card.

Thank you Facebook friends, for taking ten seconds out of your day to wish me a happy birthday. The act itself is fairly trivial and banal, which makes it all the more puzzling why you would choose to do it, and makes me all the more grateful that you still did.

Thank you "Friends," for the card. I came home to be stunned by changes to the house and thrilled by the long awaited home-cooked meal; only to be floored by this colorful welcome wagon in addition.



Melron put together what she titled "Words From Friends," a collection of notes each featuring one word they thought described me and why. It's all too clever, a kind of appreciation mosaic of how people have been individually affected by your life. I enjoy receiving clothes, shoes, gift cards, electric toothbrushes, whitening strips--even books these days--but expressions of encouragement and affection like this trump them all (of course if you wanted to get me anything C.S. Lewis in addition, I certainly wouldn't mind).

Thank you Dad, for picking me up and waiting with me for a good half hour before realizing that the poor abandoned suitcase wandering the baggage carousel was actually mine. Thank you for the Chinese food lunch, the drive home, and probably one of best conversations we've ever had. Thank you Mom, for, in your own customized benevolence, bringing home generous amounts of Aveeno lotion. If in fifteen years my skin is retaining a remarkable amount of elasticity I'll know it's because of you.

Thank you Melody Cruz, you are always a good reason to come home. I consider myself someone generally able to articulate well and express myself creatively, but oh the many moments when I stand before you and find it difficult to speak. Your kindness, your patience, your gentility, all springing from your firm planting in the joy we have in Christ--they render my words inert in describing my admiration. Thank you for putting together such a thoughtful and touching gift. I love you.

Thank You God, for the way you strive to please a sinner who has too often rebelled against You. Thank you for the chasing me down, staring straight into my soul and with the wonder that is Jesus' sacrifice revealing Your heart to me. Thank you, for although I was once dead in my sin I am now alive in Christ.

Here's to twenty-four, here's to many more,
Here's to seeking out what God has in store.
Whatever I lose, whatever I win,
All praises and glory and honor to Him!

Thank You Father, for the miracle of today...there's nothing normal about it.

Meet the Vices.

My vices dropped by last week, unexpected of course. They were vigorously intent on making up for lost time. It's been months since I've spent any real quality time with them--but you know how it is with vices, they always think it's been too long, you always think it hasn't been long enough.

Late-Night was the first to visit, which makes sense because he's particularly fond of overstaying his welcome. Shortly after came Late-Morning, who was invited by Late-Night because he swears it's always more fun when they're together. Forgetfulness was the next to arrive, I'm not sure when exactly, but by late last week he had already provoked me to lock myself out of my apartment twice--one of those times being in the rain, without an umbrella, on my way to an audition. Bingey would not stop bugging me about getting frozen custard, which we made two consecutive trips downtown to get, and I'm pretty sure he's the reason why my Golden Oreos keep disappearing. Impatience even stopped by...it wasn't that bad, though, he didn't stay for long.

I thought by then I had seen them all--when lo and behold, lurking in the corner stood an old vice…Anxiety. I was probably most surprised to see him. I mean, I still hear about him through friends, but it's been years since we've hung out one-on-one, so it was definitely an awkward hello we exchanged…well mine was agitated more than awkward. Just when I thought I was finally getting real closure on the sucker too.

It wasn't long before I had enough. I wasn't going to subject myself to this again. I confronted the vices and told them frankly that they came uninvited, and while a day or two is okay, I don't have a place for them to stay, not anymore. It's taken me months to dilute their influence, and I wasn't about to lose that progress and let them wreck the place.

"The difference between a virtue and a vice is that a virtue you have to think about."

- N.T. Wright

It's official, I'm a writer.

Expect typos...

I had long rebuffed the profession. I was always afraid of the pressure it came with, the expectation to be brilliant and technically sound, two things I've always had trouble maintaining. In high school I wrote two successful pieces of writing that would later come to haunt me. The first was a scene that I wrote for my friends and me to compete with at a theater competition. There was a technicality that disqualified it, but took it to the school talent show later that year and won, and after I graduated they entered it into another competition which they also won. The second was a personal essay I wrote as an assignment for my English class to prepare for our college applications. The teacher liked it so much he read it in class and posted it on the wall. Friends started to ask me for advice on their essays after that.

But then…that was it. I couldn't muster up another good piece of theater, or even flesh that scene into anything longer. My personal essay didn't trump my poor GPA, and when I took the writing exam my freshman year at UC Irvine I placed in the lowest level. Even then, my teachers complimented my creativity but because I wasn't as stellar in formatting or research I lingered in mediocrity. Even the blog took a dry spell, and for most of my college career I found myself with nothing to write about.

Then a few years later, I wrote a post that got me an overwhelming amount of response, spurring on a whole series. But in that I came to realize how rusty I had become. I felt like a boy who got on his soapbox only to find he'd come down with laryngitis. I had not exercised my voice in so long I felt it nearly gone. While I feel regret over not being a better writer then, that was the spark the jump-started my heart for this craft, if only in blog entries. Soon after I dedicated nearly every week to writing a post, and looking back at that year I could see my writing steadily growing again. But still the wonder remained, could I really make this anything more than a weekly op-ed piece among my peers? The question was left unanswered as after moving to New York, my writing dropped the consistency and suddenly became haphazard again. Those old fears quickly followed.

The start of the new year brought a lot of change for me, my most cherished accomplishment is a joy for reading, which is a very new experience and has given me a sharper mind, not to mention some literary heroes:

C. S. Lewis

Neil Simon

It also brought a new inspiration via one Gary Dontzig (head writer for Murphy Brown, Suddenly Susan, & Becker) who started his spiel as a guest speaker in my acting class with a very simple send-off:

"Every actor needs to be writing."

About as general as it can be uttered yet still I felt it speak directly to my situation. I started looking more into the profession, and after talking to a few playwrights and screenwriters I realized something very important--they get scared too. Writers are just like actors in that they don't escape the fear…they work through it. Reminds of something my acting teacher once told me:

"Being a professional isn't about how much experience you have, it's about how much commitment you have."

So that's it. I'm a writer. It's time to trust in the Lord and the gifts He's entrusted to me. There are days when the creativity flows out, and other days--weeks even--where I just can't get a hold of it. Nonetheless I'm going to commit to writing, exploring, experimenting, discovering. I'm not going to worry if brilliance will come, I'm simply going to work for the Lord and let Him show me if I'm going to get there or not. I mean it's His gift in the first place anyway. All the while I'm going to keep working out the muscle in daily committed writing--and get this, regular. blog. posts. After all, consistency is the theme of the year, right? Seems silly to not apply it to the vehicle by which I announced it. I even finished writing my first monologue.

It's going to take some time before I find my stride, but after all these months of auditioning and searching for that custom-fit role...I figure making one of my own is a good use of the wait.

Oh, and Melron, you're a fantastic editor.

Letters To Home.

April 25, 2010

Hello Leongs!

I'm sorry I haven't updated you in so long. These past two weeks I kind of fell off the wagon for a lot of the good habits I've been building, but I'm getting back on this week and that includes updating you guys regularly. So what's been going on lately?

Well, let me start with Lea Salonga! Laura told me she was performing here, so we made sure we didn't miss it. The venue was the Hotel Carlyle, home to cabaret acts for many legendary performers including Eartha Kitt, and I was excited to see Lea join that legacy with her cabaret debut. It was a small lounge venue with piano, mic, and dinner seating for about 50 people. Laura & I got a seat at the bar for a much cheaper price, though still expensive enough to prompt me to have a blueberry muffin from the deli around the corner as my dinner. As a Filipino-American actor with theater background, there really wasn't more that I could ask for in a Lea performance. She sang most of the favorites: "On My Own," "Reflection," "A Whole New World," and an unreleased song from the original score for Miss Saigon. She didn't sing "Nandito Ako," but that was acceptable considering most of the audience wouldn't have understood it. On top of all that, she made both her entrance and exit through the curtain next to me! I even managed to snag a photo-op!


As for acting, it's gaining momentum. There was a play that I had been auditioning for these past few weeks, a role which I kind of grew attached to. I found out Monday I didn't get it, lost it to one other actor. It was hard to take, I will admit, but I talked it out with Melody. I look back and I can't believe it was just last week, I've grown so much since then. It's the nature of my profession to handle rejection, so I see it as more credit to my job title. My will is a bit wiser and my skin a bit thicker, picking up auditions again (I have a callback audition tomorrow). With each experience I learn better how to lift it up to God and cast my cares into His able, loving, hands.

I picked up my roommate's cookbook and started learning. It's great because it's teaching me the basic understanding of just about everything from all kinds of grains to all kinds of meats and then some. So far I've worked mainly with pasta sauce, chicken breast, and pork chops--so easy stuff--but I'm getting pretty good at using those and improvising to my own palate. Dad, I think you'd be more proud of me than Mom because my cooking is a lot more flavorful than health-conscious (don't worry, Mom, I'm learning to be more careful). Be prepared to take a break and eat well the next time I visit.

Melody and I are doing well. We talk often, and I'm growing more in love with her each day. Dad, you remember how much I've always liked that Spiral Staircase oldie but goodie? Yeah, it makes a lot more sense to me now. And Mom, every time I talk to her I see her growing more into a sponge for God's Word and a prayer warrior, kind of like you. More like you as time goes on.

My body has grown in discipline. Since moving I've come to fold clothes better, wash dishes better, and even organize my room better (but don't tell Melody or she'll make me do it more). I wake up earlier, I read more, and I hardly forget to do anything--yes, hard to believe, but it's true. I keep lists and schedule my days the night before.

I think I'm seeing more of God today than I ever was before. Living in an urban community, with a church as established in it as Redeemer, under the vision of a pastor whose heart is deeply rooted in spreading the gospel--well, it changes you. I spend time reading the Bible and in prayer every morning, just training my heart to know Christ more and to, with hope and expectancy, daily lift up to God my praise and burdens alike. Theology is so fulfilling! My appetite for learning theology has increased. I take a theology class every Sunday after church. I'm just getting more involved with Redeemer overall. I've even started volunteering as a greeter during services, and on the weekends I plan on helping with a youth sports program. So much about my New York experience has been about new experiences, and church is no exception. What I mean by this pertains to different things in different areas, but overall the contrast is really helping me deepen my understanding of church community and how to function in it.

I suppose that's all for now. I miss you guys a lot, and Lord-willing I'll see you this summer, if not before. I love you!

In Christ,
Ian

Looped.

It was one of those pitiable moments of faded glory revisited. She lifts up her hands to shield the light, slowly lowering them as she takes in her surroundings. Her fingers gracefully move to right below her neck, clasping her chest out of equal parts gratitude and fear, and imbues those famous Tennessee Williams lines with such lamentable honesty, so much reality that the audience begins to hoot. It's apparent now they didn't come to see the tragic character, but the tragic actress. Oddly this doesn't offend her, but instead the lady of elegance degrades to a campy showman supplying the crowd with that loused decadence they egg her on to give. Her covered inebriation then rears its sad face in full as she stumbles off into a pink-purple back lighting and Southern balcony silhouette. The curtain comes down, the lights come up, my head turns to the left and I notice my friend sitting next to me. "Oh right…I'm watching a play."

That's probably the first time my disbelief has ever been unconsciously suspended. I must say it's not like I imagined it. The luring in was so gradual I felt like a frog in a hot bath with the burner on low. Before I knew it, I was cooked, so engrossed in that moment where Valerie Harper, as real-life screen legend and bon vivant Tallulah Bankhead, in drunken nostalgia replays her bleary performance as Blanche DuBois. And get this, the show is a comedy. All the more reason this singular moment of unadulterated pathos was particularly ensnaring. The greatest plays are neither straight comedy nor straight drama, because that's just not the way life is. Melody's right, it really is so cool that I get to just go watch a Broadway show every now and then.

Walking down the stairs of the balcony following a standing ovation well deserved, Ana turns to me and says "see, this is why I want to be an actress. It's that applause, you know? Not like in a self-centered way, but it's that moment where you remember why all that work is worth it."
"Yeah, I know what you're saying. It's not just some self-indulgence, though it certainly can be--it's the finish of the exchange. It's the other end of the dialogue, the completion of that communion between performers and patrons that makes the stage a unique and irreplaceable medium of fellowship."


All performers understand this on some level. The tradition of applause was not invented for self-indulgence, I think. Dancers, singers, actors, musicians, artists, those of us who brave the vulnerability of that penetrating light, that glass that allows onlookers to bury into some fragile part of us beneath the bramble, shouldn't we be reciprocated with some sort of response, some requital that affirms what we've given has been received to its purpose? Which also gets me thinking--what then do we, as creations ourselves, owe to our Creator?

Oh Shoot.

So I'm sitting at a desk typing in "pacenurse01" for my login, excited to get some work done. The producer's conveniently made the computer lab our green room while they shoot next door in the mock doctor's office. All I need for my short bit is the pressed lab coat hanging on the wall, so I got plenty of time, which I put to good use catching up on some e-mail correspondence & formspring questions I wasn't able to get to during the week.

And just like that...it hits me. Right in the pit of my stomach. I attribute the ache to many things which seem viable enough: sleep deprivation; the Dunkin' Donuts coffee I had this morning accompanied by hash browns and strands of hair; those perennial pre-performance nerves on overdrive from being on a legitimate set for the first time; heck, maybe it's residual buzz from the Lea Salonga cabaret performance I watched last night, which threw me back to so many years of adolescent fanaticism. Nope, none of these seem to pinpoint the tiny, cold, mild paralysis that started in the gut and now throbs through my entire circulatory system. And then I get it. This isn't a physical ailment -- at least it wasn't at first -- this is emotional. For the first time, after six months of living on the other side of the country...I'm homesick.

Okay, you were probably expecting to hear all about the thrills of being on set of a music video. I confess the experience was valuable, but it doesn't necessitate detail, really. I know the title is somewhat deceiving -- but come on, you gotta admit the play on words is pretty good, plus I didn't want to ruin the dramatic effect. I just couldn't resist.

I'm not sure why today of all days it shows up, but Tito Alex* was right, it gets you when you least expect it. I mean, even entertaining a beloved Californian by the name of Amy Phu this weekend didn't do the trick initially. It's funny, that I've done all these before - written home, video chatted, entertained visitors, etc - and it never hit me. I suppose when you top it off with the iPod shuffle I organized for Melody, currently slow jamming some nostalgia in my ear via the criminally underrated Tamia (I know you feel me on that Melron), it's really just all too much. I take out the earphones because thoughts of how I miss that pretty girl from San Diego aren't going to help transform me into Orderly #1.

So yes...I don't say this often, but I miss you. That goes for you too, California. I'll see you soon, Lord-willing.

*"Tito" meaning uncle in Tagalog (Filipino)

Where I Work.

I work fast food. That's a loaded confession, chock full of different emotions ranging from sheepishness, knowing others my age are already far in their careers, to dignity, feeling like I'm earning what will later be an interesting backstory. More specifically, I'm a cashier at Crisp, an American falafel restaurant in the heart of Midtown right next to Bryant Park. Ah, Bryant Park, an accessory, if not centerpiece, to so many of my early New York stories. There are a couple reasons why I've grown to cherish this job. Among these reasons is neither the minimum wage nor the minimal hours, yet still I love working here.

First, don't let the fast food stigma fool you, this is a fairly classy establishment. Falafel, if you didn't know, is originally an Egyptian convention made mostly from chickpeas, mashed then fried into a crispy ball. Hence, the name Crisp. We serve it Israeli-style in pita with hummus and cubed salad, but our executive chef also co-created a menu of original variations including "the Africa," served with sweet potatoes and a spicy peanut sauce, to "the Parisian," with goat cheese and roasted red peppers. I eat this stuff every day.

Second, I eat this stuff every day. Meaning I don't spend money on lunch (which, in the city, gets very pricey), I get a good balance of the food groups ('cept no meat, all vegetarian), and I eat things I hadn't ever eaten before. After five months, I nowhere near sick of it.

Third, is how it's grown me in humility. Anyone in customer service knows that customers can be among the hardest people to deal with. The ways to exploit the upper hand of being a customer are innumerable. Cashiers are at the brunt of it all, and what's considered fast food in other areas to New Yorkers isn't all that fast, that much they make clear. Our impressive menu draws quite the crowd during the only shift they allot me: the dreaded "lunch rush" (did I mention we're in the city?). If only I'd written down all the odd transactions I've had, I'd have written my first play by now. So yeah, it's great for work as an actor too.

The other day we changed up our menu. We completely removed one section of our menu, the Hummus Salad Bowls, replacing them with a "Create Your Own Hummus Bowl" option. With new freedoms also came certain restrictions and price changes. There had been few customers who were, as one put it, "not convinced" this was better and spared no shame or propriety in lamenting the loss of their beloved salad bowls. But what can one do but lift the eyebrows and say sorry? My co-worker Ian (yes, it gets confusing) said he just didn't understand why people were so bummed out by the change, mentioning he thought they'd enjoy the newfound customizability. With a sympathetic sigh I decided to share with him what had been my observations during these demanding months in Manhattan regarding the people here.

New York City, simply put, is individualism on overdrive. That is, the American way is to get "what I want, when I want," and there are few, if any, places in the country where that is more readily applied than New York City (in another post I'll go into more detail my thoughts about this). It's that mantra that built the fast food industry itself, so all things considered the fact that one of our customers would be so disgruntled by even the pettiest of personal inconveniences is not surprising.

A lady last week walked in with an already irritated look, grabbed some babaganouch (eggplant-based dip, very tasty) off the take-out shelf and said she wanted this in her pita. I told her we didn't offer that as an option (and we offer a lot of options) but if she bought the take-out size we'd gladly scoop some into her pita. Well, I didn't really tell her all of that, because she cut me off before I could finish, something she continued to do throughout the conversation asking more absurd questions. How anyone can be so discontent when they're offered so many options (I mean, seriously, we offer a lot of options) can only be reasoned as "it's not what I want." Makes you reflect on the nature of the heart, doesn't it?
I've been learning a lot about patience, and the nature of it in relation to humility. Again, something I want to touch on more later, but was it not for these values I might be more shy to admit my day job. So yes, I'm a cashier. Actually, the head cashier. A responsibility I'm happy to take on for the opportunity it allows me to mature.

The Blizzard at Night.

It's 2:30 am, but I just had to write about this:

I'm amazed at how much a snowstorm at night looks like a sandstorm at day. The lights reflect off the white uniform landscape and all the illumination makes the streets look like a blanched desert. The moonlight travels down and bounces back up into the sky, giving the clouded firmament a glowing red tint like some dusty high noon darkened by the particles blowing in the air. And while I'm sad I can't get my camera to get a clear picture of it, I'm pleased to know that there are still some things that only the eye can capture.

Formspring.

Do you have any major phobias?

I had to give this one some extra thought. I must say I have a lot of mild fears, because of my tendencies to make things awkward and/or embarrass myself and/or miss something that is obvious to everyone else. But a major phobia? I think for everyone it's the same: that is, I imagine your biggest fear would be to lose your biggest joy.

For example: if my biggest joy is my looks, then my biggest fear would be to grow old. If my biggest joy is being liked by others, then my biggest fear would be to be alone. If my biggest joy is wasting time, then my biggest fear would be to run out of it. And if my biggest joy is living life, then my biggest fear would be to die.

So what's my biggest joy? My biggest joy is the assurance of salvation by grace through faith in Jesus Christ. And that, my friend, I cannot lose. So...no. :)

"The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life;of whom shall I be afraid?" - Psalm 27:1

Ask me anything

Formspring.

whats the weirdest thing you've done to your skin?

so i had pretty bad eczema (dry skin) throughout my entire childhood & adolescence. being filipino and thus the son of a nurse, i got the hook up for every kind of known medication, moisturizer, oil, cream, and educated suggestion. i tried everything from homegrown aloe vera to sensual oils to lanolin, used for nursing mothers to heal chapped nipples.

but this ones the kicker: the cashier at the discount bread store we frequented as a family told us of some blue horse cream that worked for her son. we went to the local/only known rodeo shop and picked it up, right next to the feeding buckets. it's color was not found in nature and it had the consistency of almond jello. it didn't work, and made me break out so bad the next morning i could hardly move.

much thanks to lauren marks and the makers of elocon for my now steady solution. let me know if you're looking for infomercial testimonials.

Ask me anything

Audition #9.

"It's not raining, boy."

The moment I started walking down the sidewalk amidst clear weather with an umbrella over my head, I knew I would be writing about it later. The neighborhood is relatively quiet, but I wasn't surprised to have someone call me out on my ridiculousness. I did it because I saw the branches violently rustling outside my window, and I didn't want to mess up my hair.

Sigh…let me explain...

It starts with me waking up for about the third time, noticing on my phone that it's two hours past my goal time for rising and shining. An easy shuffle to the shower and back. Once more I look at my phone to find a missed call & voicemail from my manager -- she says can't chat with me this morning as I previously requested, but "that's okay just do well on your audition today."

…my what?

I go to my inbox to find the day-old e-mail and immediately prepare for the audition I have to be at in less than 3 hours (including the 30 min train ride to Manhattan). Oh yes, and I have to call work and let them know of this spontaneous conflict. This is what an actor hoping to work has to be prepared for. I was told yesterday that you've got to want the job like any of these Winter Olympians want the gold, no excuses. Without hesitation I pick the outfit, print out the sides (audition script), and grab my folder fully stocked with headshot & resume trimmed to 8x10 standards. I rummage through clips of the show I'm auditioning for, practice a "slight Chinese accent," and get some intel on the casting directors to stock the small talk with relevant ammo. The longer you can keep them engaged with you, the better (note: does not apply to fiancees).

Of all the things I'm prepared to bring, I'm prepared to bring myself. The more I've been learning about the business the more I've learned that ultimately you have to bring yourself because that's what you're marketing, and intuitively the last thing an actor thinks to bring to his performance is himself. Thankfully, I am not the auditioning actor I was in September. Whew, God is good.

Oh yeah, and the umbrella. Hey, you do what you think will help you look your best for the audition, right? I don't mind looking like my mom evading the sun's rays if it will help me look my best. As it turns out, it doesn't. I can't figure out where the air is blowing from and it just…doesn't help.

Winter breeze shan't cool my fire!
I shall press on thitherto
as though I were the bravest of souls
immortalized on Halls advertisements!

How does it go? Well, I don't hesitate in saying it's by far my best audition yet. One quick, confident, take and some enlivened conversation afterward and I'm out the door. All the training, centering, disciplining, is really paying off. And leave it to none other than God to make the audition location three blocks from work. I finish my audition at 12:15 and by 12:20 I'm in uniform behind the register like a real New Yorker. Well, like a real working actor.

The Great Big Catch-Up: A Visual Guide.

Uh, sorry buddy, wrong blog post...

In atoning for my chronicling negligence, or chronicleligence, here's what you missed since since my trip to California over Christmas:


One of my best and oldest friends got married to a wonderful woman. I love them and wish the new Mr. & Mrs. Jan Ormeo a happy God-centered marriage of love and improvement. I spent the following Christmas week with more friends & family:
with paljean/jeanniepal/jewels
some buddies from high school


more old 'nuts...we failed to take a group one (ahem Chrysanthy)

Leong Five.the beloved CFBC, including one very special girl...sorry, Melron, I'll get to you in a second.

Christmas Day topped them all. The same lovable foursome, plus some of the greater Leong dynasty.
This would be the first time we had gotten all together in over a decade. Last time I saw my niece Sam she was having her 2nd birthday, and that night I spoke to a high school upper classman who looked a whole lot like her. I was pleased to see the sociable young woman she has now become. We all got back into the Leong family groove pretty quickly...


niece Dana
uncle Juanito
cousin Tony and Mom picking their next 100-pointer
I spoke the nature of hope and what it has to do with Christmas. I actually gave this message a number of times throughout the second and last week of my stay. This was the gift I wanted to give to my friends and family this year, and although material presents aren't scrapped for the future, I'm learning much more what God has built me to offer. I believe that lesson about myself was God's gift to me this year. And He sure knows how to give them -- I mean, I'm still beaming over the one He gave over 2,000 years ago.

The next day was a very close runner up to highlight of my week. I spent the day with Melron, and that night we attended her family's Christmas party featuring a wig theme. [Insert clever pun here] It was wiggity wiggity wacky.

the sibs and the sig figs.

1/10000th of Melron's Farol family, masters of disguise.

Afterwards I left for "home," being seen off by some gracious friends and some thought/heart-provoking conversation...

...not to mention stowing away some precious cargo.

got to vlog with the guff....this one's a must-see
even making a trip/sub-trip to DC to visit one Irene "Ica" Diongzon

Melron and I got there in time to enjoy residual Christmastime in the city, and ring in the new year right. We skipped the countdown crowd, but that didn't stop us from counting down...


fast forward through a couple weeks of re-gearing, per my resolutions, and here I am:
without pockets and more Chinese than ever (I enjoy the white backdrop...makes me look less pale). More on the current events in the next post!