New York New Julian

Hurricane Irene @ 2AM

2011-08-27T23:17:00.000-07:00

Just ran out into the street for a second. From my window you can see gusts of wind turning the raindrops into airborne waves. You see turbulence through the blurry pane almost as well as you can hear it. I moved Remy's cage into the middle of the room, away from the windows. He's still not free to pee on the couch though. I'm at a conflict of interests here. I'm prioritizing my safety, heeding warnings, following instructions i.e. filling pots and pans with water, eating the perishables, etc. I'm staying indoors. But I don't want to let the whole thing pass by without experiencing it. The wind is getting louder. Many of the native New Yorkers haven't lived through a hurricane before, much less a Southern Californian transplant of two years. I don't want this weekend to pass by and keep that status.

I can't believe that opera woman is still singing. And at this hour.

I walked down Broadway for a moment. The delis are still open. Makes sense. Whether at the store or home, you're stationary either way. Might as well make some money.

I can say I saw the hurricane. That is, I felt it. It's somewhat like an encounter with God. You only feel the enveloping presence. You couldn't possibly see the extent of it. Still, it takes but a single moment for you to feel minuscule, awestruck, terrified, and riveted all at once.

Yes, it was very exciting.

A Run To Remember

2011-08-22T09:05:00.000-07:00

It's dusk. I'm sitting in my car, trunk to the front of the church so nobody can see me. A flock of scribblings--key points, topic sentences, notable phrases--pervades a piece of scratch paper in my lap. "What do you want to tell her?" I ask myself. The cursor on my laptop blinks idle. "That's fine, shouldn't be all measured out, right?" Somehow I had hoped it would surface on its own, the buzzing energy fueling some kind of spontaneous brilliance. Then again this part is probably best unpolished. "Just be sincere, "don't overdo it." There's a stirring inside, a cool and an awe and a chaos not unlike the moment I first held the ring between my two fingers.

If you were to ask me at what moment I knew Melody was "the one," I wouldn't know what to tell you. For me there was no moment, no epiphany, no sudden shift into assurance. I knew for the most part what I was looking for, but I still held the same doubts people normally have. I don't consider myself especially intuitive or some kind of weird daredevil--I am, if anything in love, tremendously hesitant. So much so, in fact, that the first time I confessed my feelings to Melody (that wonderful night outside her second floor Irvine apartment) her reply was a simple "well, I'm glad I don't have to keep hearing it from others anymore."

You might ask then what became of these doubts. I'll tell you some do remain, but only those which keep this irrevocable decision a sober one. As for the bulk of them, I guess you can say it's a mixture of vigorous prayer, treating her honorably, accountability from trusted friends, and not waiting too long (a girl doesn't like to be kept waiting, and she shouldn't have to). I don't know if there's ever a moment you, as they say, "just know," or if maybe it only happens to some people (I'm afraid others may be looking for something that isn't there). However if there is any moment to be singled out for me, perhaps it would be the one, right before making a particularly important purchase, when I could no longer find a reasonable answer to, "Well what on Earth are you waiting for?"

Right now, there's a number of people inside the church bustling about--arranging, chatting, testing, setting up, and generally trying to look normal. It's not common in my experience for church talent shows to have dress rehearsals, but I convinced Melody that we ought to have one. That wasn't hard, given the talent show itself was my idea.

I finally decide to head inside, figuring if I bother any more trying to write this proposal I'll have no night left to give it.

"Melody!" I utter with unusual loudness. This is my first time seeing her tonight. She looks at me slightly befuddled. I do my best to shrug the look off my face. "Um…don't…don't do everything by yourself," I say, finishing with a grin. "Oh…okay, thanks" she replies pleasantly. As the coordinator of the talent show, it's Melody's job to see that everything runs smoothly. But as the coordinator of the real event tonight, it's my job to make sure she sees as little as possible. To her this is a dress rehearsal, but for most everyone else, we're already in performance.

The night's improvisations continue on, perhaps like they do with any good story of a boy trying to impress a girl. My parents call and tell me they're here. I walk outside to find my mom joyously tiptoeing toward the church, despite it making her no less obvious in the openly lit parking lot. I chuckle at her efforts, and tuck both her and my dad safely into a side room where they'll be able to see the whole thing without being seen themselves. Pastor Ed arrives shortly after, his presence, in that way it always does, providing an immediate comfort. Still to make it are my sister and my brother Lance (her family unfortunately won't be able to).

I grab a roll of packing tape and look for Cassie, Melody's chief assistant and my double agent. After retrieving the camcorder I touch base with her on what's to happen. The plan was always to propose in the sanctuary, but a few days ago the talent show was officially moved to an undone room at the other end of the church, appropriately named Unit 7, a rather drab place for a meticulously planned-out proposal. We need to gently convince Melody that the final run-through of the dress rehearsal should be back in the sanctuary. But not before the rest of my family arrives.

Back outside Melody stands at the trunk of her car, rummaging through clothes. A good deal of her week is spent in-between counties, so she often keeps extra clothes in her car. "Hey, what do you think of using this tape for the play?" I ask. I quickly notice my sister's car parked two spaces away, followed by my sister herself walking outside to take a phone call. "So you think this will work?" I pose, suddenly very insistent on resolving this tape issue. Crissy retreats. "Yeah, I guess that's fine" Melody says. Seconds later Pastor Ed walks out, and without seeing Melody behind her car, asks me "Is Lance here yet?"

"Who?" I reply. Stupid question. "Melody, Melody, do you know who he's talking about?" Another stupid question. "I don't…I don't know…" I finish, now with complete honesty. Pastor Ed takes the hint. He explains that Lance is this Auntie's son who is part of this person's family who goes to this church and so on, not really reaching a point. I play along, leading Melody back into the building as the pastor and I carry on the most inconspicuously unintelligible conversation either of us has ever had.

Back inside Geneyem alerts me that we're running behind and that we need to start before people have to head home. I check on Andrew Soledad, to whom I've delegated camera duty, and then rush back to Melody. She's with Marc, one of the performers, urging him to finish staging his act so they can start the final run-through. Not to her knowledge, this is also part of the plan:

MELODY

Why don't you practice in the Middle Unit so we can use the stage?

MARC

(resistant)

Well it's important for us to practice in the actual space, so the dancers can get used to where they'll be positioned.

CASSIE

(an epiphany)

That makes sense. None of the other acts need to mark their positions, so we can just run them in the sanctuary.

Melody is convinced (though she'll later claim that she wasn't), and I smugly leave them and head for the sanctuary, but not before happening upon my dad strolling toward the bathroom. I reprimand him, covering him until he's back into hiding, where I also find my brother. "Bring us some water" he requests just before I leave them. "Yes, we're thirsty" my mom adds.

We're now minutes away from what should be the start of the final run-through. Aside from granting my parents' request, I still need to herd everyone into the sanctuary, make sure the right people are ready to go, clear out any other obstacles, and if I can find a moment to, get over these darn nerves. Just then I notice Melody sitting in Pastor Ed's office, with none other than Pastor Ed, caught in the middle of what looks like an impromptu lecture. I catch his eye, we exchange knowing glances, I give a thumbs up, and carry on with my cups of water.

"Alright everyone, we're just about at showtime!"

"Alright Ian, we're just about at showtime. Remember, just be honest..." I make good use of this time and make my rounds, securing all the necessary details. Melody is eventually released and with a growing amount of confusion tells me "Dude, Pastor Ed out of nowhere just started lecturing me. What the heck?" I feign ignorance with a shrug, feeling closer than ever to spilling the beans. The run-through starts, but not before Melody runs off to go handle something else. More acts finish. She's doing something else. It's almost our turn. She's doing something else. We're up next. She's doing something else. "Come on, let's go!" I say. She replies, "But I have to wait for the delivery guy to pay him for the shirts." Geneyem rips the check from her fingers and yells "I'll do it, just go!" (the lady makes it very hard not to make a fuss about getting her onto that stage!)

Finally she joins me and we go up to do the short play I wrote for us (you may not know of Melody's acting pursuits in high school, but she's always spoken of that fact with certain pride, which is why I knew she'd enjoy this. Needless to say I find it thrilling in my own way). The story centers on Florrie (Melody) and Francis (myself), a newly married couple, and their endeavor to catch a particularly bothersome rat that's been plaguing their home since they moved in, a pursuit that ends up taking all night. But as Florrie (Melody) will find out, the man staking out beside her has more than one intention for being there.

I'm dropping lines. There are prop malfunctions. I'm doing things half-heartedly, if not forgetting them altogether--nevertheless it's really a decent scene, funny even. We get to the end, I start to lead her off stage left but suddenly stop. I haven't quite formed my next words yet. Melody wonders if I had forgotten a part of the play. I walk back on and say, "You know what, why don't we just stay up?" Melody doesn't know if that's the character or the actor talking. I gesture her over a couple times. She finally complies, slowly and with much suspicion. From here on out, there is no final draft.

"I have something to confess. I didn't come out here to help you catch a rat. I actually wanted to show you," I reach into my pocket and pull out the ring, "…this." Hoots and hollers from the crowd ensue, followed by silence. Melody gets up and walks away. I beckon her back. "Hey, come here, just sit here…come on just sit down." She reluctantly obliges. "Florrie….Florrie….because we're still doing the play…do you remember the night I gave this to you?" There is all kind of response going inside of her, none of which has anything to do with my question. "Oh you don't? Well let me refresh your memory. It was a night kind of like tonight..."

By this point I would proceed to speak as Francis, whose account of the night he proposed to Florrie would sound remarkably like what was currently happening between Melody and me. That was to be the genius of it: while Francis said things like "you thought to yourself 'Is he really doing this right now?' and I nodded saying 'Yes I'm really doing this right now'" Melody would actually be thinking that and I would actually be nodding. Thus Francis would be telling the story of tonight. Nobody cared about this part. There were far more interesting things to lend attention to than to the integrity of the writing. Besides, in retrospect I realize maintaining that detail was more cumbersome than charming (my ambition sometimes gets the best of me). A good try, though.

Since the moment she saw the ring she's been sitting there, knees pressed together, hands over her mouth, clutching at her sleeves like she does often whenever she starts to feel, as she describes "like a little girl." She's consumed with holding it in, I with getting it out, it's hard for either of us to pay attention to anything else right now. "And um, " I continue, "I was afraid that my words were going to get messed up so…I kind of wrote…a poem" (I often find poetry an easier medium for affection). "Tailor-made and custom fit…" I begin. Melody quickly turns away, realizing this is the poem I showed two weeks before. My inklings were correct, the only way she would hear this now is if she had heard it already:

Tailor-made and custom fit,
To help a man like me,
You have a way that will not quit,
'Til I'm all that I can be.

God knit this one inside the womb,
Placed in a child-like faith,
A woman's word, a leader's will,
And such a pretty face.

The skin to bear the sting of scorn,
To weather pain at home,
And a tongue that mediates to those--
Skins tougher than her own.

Nerves to stand in front the scene,
To speak up when others won't,
A memory fit to maintain routine,
And patience with those who don't.

Wise words God tucked inside her mind,
More than she sometimes knows,
To sharpen, rebuke, and comfort him,
In times he'd need it most.

A heart that hides His word in deep,
The Chronicles and book of John,
And musters even low on sleep,
The stuff to study on.

Yet foremost in that heart of hers,
Christ be her treasure store,
That when He fell in love with her,
He'd love God even more.

A nursing touch, a best friend's laugh,
A smile to chase out gloom,
And hands that hold out onto hope,
That she will see him soon.

The day she walked into that room,
He hadn't the slightest clue,
That by God's grace when five years pass,
She'd change him through and through.

Tailor-made and custom-fit,
To help a man like me,
You have a way that will not quit,
'Til I'm all that I can be.

"...and in that moment I knew, it was time to quit stalling and pop the question..."

And in that moment I knew, it was time to quit stalling and pop the question. I get on one knee, hold up the ring and ask, "Melody Farol Cruz...will you marry me?"

And that was that.

Diff'rent Strokes, Diff'rent Folks.

2010-11-19T21:00:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-10-22T21:07:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-24T21:32:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-09-18T00:02:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-08-28T00:15:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-08-23T21:52:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-07-30T23:53:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-23T20:40:00.000-07:00

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...

2010-07-17T12:48:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-21T00:02:00.000-07:00

*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."

2010-06-20T07:19:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-06-12T12:46:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-06-10T07:08:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-05-22T15:05:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-05-21T14:49:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-05-20T22:26:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-04-26T16:31:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-04-13T21:09:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-03-22T20:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-03-13T11:19:00.001-08:00

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.

2010-02-25T23:28:00.001-08:00

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.

2010-02-25T21:59:00.001-08:00

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.

2010-02-24T15:00:00.001-08:00

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.

2010-02-18T17:38:00.000-08:00

"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.

2010-02-11T19:57:00.001-08:00

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!

Happy 23rd Birthday, Melron.

2010-02-04T23:04:00.000-08:00

"A woman's heart should be so hidden in God that a man has to seek Him just to find her." — Max Lucado

What The New Year Brought.

2010-02-02T20:29:00.001-08:00

Resolutions, resolutions, resolutions. A tradition that tends to lose its significance as we get older and think less of it -- but ah so is it for all traditions, isn't it. Like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter, I'm determined to approach this one with intention and endurance. So what did I resolve to do?
Consistency is my theme for 2010, written in brown and light green marker on scratch paper, masking taped to my wall (I'm also trying to spend less money so I worked with what I had). I've been told my behavior is erratic, and I don't doubt it. For years I used to take subtle pride in the fact that I was committed to so many things, that I had to be here, there, and yonder all at the same time. I realized a few years ago that this wasn't because I was overcommitted, it was because I was under-committed. There was something in me that avoided commitment and did so by "needing" to be somewhere else. I tried to be everywhere, but was too often nowhere to be found. Looking back I really regret the relationships I've hurt because of my poor character, which now fuels my desire for change. So where does that begin?

"pray without ceasing...for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you" (1 Thess 5:17)

Before any others, my relationship with God is the first to suffer from my inconsistency. What the author is saying here is that prayer is how we spend time with God, and that it needs to be regular and consistent. Praying without ceasing suggests a mental attitude of prayerfulness, continual personal fellowship with God, and consciousness of being in his presence throughout each day. But that's only half of the conversation.

"So faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of Christ" (Rom 10:17)

The natural companion. God speaks to us in a lot of ways; through nature, through events, through people, but He speaks to us chiefly through the Bible. This, along with church and accountability, are essential to building consistent relationship with God. If you used to read it, start again. If you never have, can I ask why? If you have issues with it, let's talk it out -- I have a feeling I can help. Message me if you want to know more.

These are two of a number of habits I've decided to build this year. I put up a list of some habits to maintain (daily, weekly, monthly) and goals to achieve (1 month, 3 months, 6 months) right up on my wall where I have to look at them every day. If it works for Michael Phelps, I'm sure it couldn't hurt. The plan is to start small and build my way up; I still have a list of potential habits and goals that I'm not putting up until I know I can handle the ones currently active. It's been effective so far; there's a significant decrease in anxiety when you're no longer putting things off.

Not pictured is the one habit I haven't managed to lasso: blog regularly. I could come up with a million excuses for why I've kept so many juicy stories away from this blog, but the real reason is simply a lack of discipline, that somber old tune. I want to change that starting now, and I hope you'll join me.

Why I Moved.

2010-01-31T22:11:00.000-08:00

I am a working actor working on the working part.

I may not have made this clear to many, but this is why I moved to New York. I've been acting since high school, I graduated college with acting, and a year later I found opportunity in New York. Why not LA? Because in my first year as a graduate, working with my dad in LA, I didn't go on a single audition. I didn't even try. I came up with every excuse why I couldn't do it at the moment, why it had to come later, why I needed to do something else for someone else. And I was just about give up the thought of pursuing this career altogether when I got a call from an old friend who started working as an actor during college in New York. We acted in high school together, and she had been telling her manager about me, and offered me an opportunity to audition for her manager. In God's peculiar providence He gave me a hint that maybe I shouldn't give it up after all, and that maybe I need to get away for a little while. The events after that include a lot of reflection, prayer, and seeking to know God's will for my life...and after all that here I am, living in New York, represented by Smith Talent Group, a working actor working on the working part. For now, at least.

I don't think New York is permanent for me, but then again God changes our minds and hearts as times passes so we'll see.

Let me correct an earlier sentence: I know I hadn't made it clear to many. To be honest I avoided mentioning it altogether, and only brought it up because I didn't want people to call me one day surprised to find out I moved to the East Coast. Yet I still refrained from mentioning it, mainly because I didn't like telling people I wanted to be an actor. It often leads to small talk that, although sincere, is just kind of hard to deal with; involving comments on the financial instability, the industry superficiality, the strong racial barriers, etc...all the while I have to seem as though I like being reminded of how hard it's gonna be. They might give me advice like start with commercials or do extra work, and then ask me to remember them when I'm famous. I don't know how to put it -- there is no surefire way to build a steady career, and it isn't necessarily about being famous -- so most of the time I just nod my head, smile, and try to change topics.

I don't know why now I find it so much easier to confess this stuff. I think I was just so insecure before. But nearly half a year later I think I'm finally starting to get in the rhythm of this business. I've had a handful of strong auditions, read some insightful books, am studying at a great studio, and am getting a real handle on my career. They tell you it takes a year to get settled into New York, but with hard work and some real motivation I think I settled in a lot more quickly. Again, I'm not planning on this move to be permanent or even really long-term. I want a career in LA but I have to prove two things first: #1) This is what God is calling me to do & #2) I can actually maintain the rigid and enduring discipline it takes to manage an acting career. I'm almost sure of #1, but I'll know better by how soon I achieve #2.

And how am I making that discipline happen? Ah, that is the next post!

Pray for Change.

2009-12-31T18:00:00.000-08:00

It's the end of 2009...where am I at?

I've realized these changes aren't going to come quickly. I went back to California for Christmas on the 12th. There was this undercurrent of anticipation. Selfishly enough, it wasn't for everyone back home. Don't get me wrong I was certainly excited to see them, but I was also eager to know how I've changed over the past few months. You ever stand in the frame of the doorway and with the tops of your hands you push real hard on the sides like you were Samson taking town the Philistines, then just when the veins start to surface on your forehead you let go, step away, and watch your arms just float up? Yeah, the homecoming wasn't like that.

It's impatience. Not the New York brand (just yet), it's still just the same old California, old Julian brand impatience. This isn't just going to take a lot more time, it's going to take a lot more effort and discipline.

So I've taken some time to re-strategize. Michael Phelps said he wouldn't be where he is today had he not put his goals in writing. I'll be doing the same for my career, with time limits. So after the hometown visit, the holiday weight gain, the snowy return, and the weekend festivities all find their end...it's time to get down to business. Oh yeah, did I mention that I'm out here to find work as an actor? More about that in the next post. Happy New Decade!

Lord, we give You glory for the work You've done this past year. We don't pray for ease and comfort in the days ahead, we pray for change, and the refining fire to purify us according to the riches of Your grace, and the wisdom of Your plan. We pray for change, for the good news of Jesus Christ to go to all people in all nations. To God be the glory, far beyond 2010.

Previously unpublished.

2009-12-10T19:38:00.000-08:00

...sometimes I just forget to.

Written: Dec 2, 2009
Title: I have a bed!

The realization still retains its savor despite having come to it many times throughout my afternoon. I picked it up today from the mattress store, and with asinine resolve attempted to carry it atop my head all the way to my apartment. How far away was it you ask? Well, I'm not sure...which is why about four increasingly aimless blocks east and and a just about defeated block south, I called for a cab. Just in time, too, because as I hung up I felt some drops on my left temple and cheek. I smiled and just laughed with God at my own silliness. I dressed it up with some brand new sheets from Target I had waiting atop my shelf, then sadly rushed to the train as I had an hour-long ride to acting class waiting for me.

Which brings me here, five hours later, with a release of two and a half months anticipation, as sprawled out as a person of my lankage can be on a twin size mattress, thinking to myself...wow, praise the Lord, I have a bed.

Written: Dec 5, 2009
Title: First snow.

Nothing really elaborate about it. Same dream as every Southern California kid (who hadn't lived in L.A. or Malibu in recent years), with the longing curiosity for what flurries would look like on their bedroom window...only to confirm that indeed, there's nothing really elaborate about it.

Still gosh darn cool, though. Milestone successfully, and succinctly, chronicled.

Lunch with Kuya Nelson.

2009-12-02T22:20:00.000-08:00

"Oh Ian, it's so good to hear your voice."

In most cases, I try not to anticipate how much somebody might miss me; I'm very good at indulging in that stuff. Other times I just get taken by surprise. Kuya* Nelson is someone that for a long time has been in my life, but I still didn't expect him to say that. Suddenly, in the cold resonating stone walls of the New York Public Library, I'm compelled to reply with a warm chuckle of spontaneous relief "it's so great to hear your voice too."

He's decided to treat me to anywhere I want go. Mrs. Rodriguez probably knows better than most how dangerous it is to hand me a blank check -- once in elementary school she gave me a $20 bill to take over to the snack shop during one of Alex Rodriguez's baseball games, and I greedily splurged on $17 worth of junk food. I had the worst feeling in my stomach later that day; it's one of my most prized childhood regrets.

I take us to Eisenberg's -- fairly priced and delightfully local. While we're walking he asks me what I enjoying doing most here, and with a gesture to everything around us I answer "this." I probably spend most of my day "going to" and "coming from," and after I've done that I tell him my second favorite thing to do is "sit and watch," mostly in the park. I can imagine most articulate residents here would say the same; after all, they're doing it with me.

"You know everybody back home still talks about you. Even though they hate for you to be so far away, they still feel connected with all your blog posts and stuff"

he tells frankly over some pastrami sandwiches and dish of pickle spears, and for the first time in a profound way...I miss home. I guess I just got into the idea of community here really easily. Large-scale, expansively conscious, metropolitan community, is something that's always sounded so exciting to me, and continues to be. That's why I don't get tired of walking, why I don't get bored sitting, why I never run out of things to see -- you ever notice how pretty much anything can become something you "just gotta see" when a lot of other people are seeing it? Well let me tell you, there are a lot of people in Manhattan. But my time with Kuya Nelson reminded me of something I hadn't realized I missed so much: that small-scale cooped-up kind of community. That suburban, microcosmic, I-noticed-you-were-missing kind of community. I also realized just how much time nowadays I spend doing my own thing.

I'm really starting to notice that God picked Kuya Nelson for a specific reason. I don't think we've ever spent time like this before so I was initially nervous about it, yet he so easily divulges his war stories with me, and when I bear my own soul to him, he knows just how to point me back to Christ. These are the kinds of exchanges mature, godly men need to be having with men of the next generation. Afterwards, he drives me back to Times Square where I have my acting class, and as we trade rushed goodbyes at a red light, he hugs me, musses my hair up a bit and tells me he loves me. That and he hands me some cash that he gives me permission to use on anything I want. "Wow," I think to myself, quickly restraining my lavish imagination and resolving to put it towards that parking ticket I got last month. PTL.

*kuya means "older brother" in Tagalog, term of respect

Subway Observations #3

2009-11-30T05:08:00.000-08:00

2:25pm
Less than middle-aged man. Walks through turnstile and it alarms, doesn't pay attention, twiddling fingers with no regard for those around. Fascinatingly intimidating self-assurance.

2:35pm
Two more than middle-aged men. One on the left looks perpetually convicted, regretful. Other man looks enduringly aloof, unfazed. I'm guessing at that age you can only be one of the two.

I'm going to get my new bed soon. It's been a week so far sleeping on the hardwood floor, a humbling and hilarious week. After having spent months on couches, I'm easily grateful for a space of my own, however small, however uncomfortable. Which is not to say it's uncomfortable; I have shelves and a dresser, a closet, a pillow and warm blanket, a kitchen and living room, a laundry basket and winter coat, and of course my steadfast companion, the laptop. Above all this, a God who cares for the sparrows.

Post-turkey Check-in.

2009-11-27T14:36:00.000-08:00

"Aim at heaven and you will get earth thrown in. Aim at earth and you get neither."

- C.S. Lewis

Hoping everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving. As we all wake up from the food comas, some of us not too long ago, probably only to sit down to devour our way to yet another food coma, we often beg the question "okay...what to do next?" Some maybe got up earlier or never even slept to hit the Black Friday market, which quite often ends up working off a lot of that holiday warmth we just built up (not to mention a couple of those holiday pounds too). As I sit here in my drafty apartment room, on my hardwood floor with a plate of pan-fried mashed potatoes and turkey rippings, I have to ask myself "am I still as thankful today as I was yesterday?" I read my Thanksgiving post from two years ago and I have to say I disagree with some of it; that is, I don't hate the fact that we take out one day a year to remember what we're thankful for. Even though year-long gratitude is imperative, it's no surprise that during that time, we forget here and there. So Thanksgiving is a great idea, not simply as a day for catch-up on our gratitudings, but moreso as a checkpoint to see what kind of progress we're making.

So what am I thankful for? I'm thankful for the same thing I'm thankful for on Christmas, Easter, and hopefully every single day increasingly: God's gift of salvation by grace in Jesus Christ.

That's where it starts, yet hardly where it ends. You see, if you believe that Jesus was sent by God to die on the cross for your sins, then immediately you give everything in your life a greater worth. For "He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things?" That's the highest compliment you can give your loved ones and the things in your life. That they weren't just given arbitrarily to you by a thoughtless or distant God, but that they were given custom-fit with your name embroidered on their hearts by a person who cares about you so much that He's given you His most prized treasure to you, the one possession in this universe that He loves more than anything else...His very own son. That, my friends, is something you never stop giving thanks for.

Hi Pastor Ed,

2009-11-26T23:37:00.000-08:00

When Melody proposed that I write to you, I took on the job quite instantly. While I already mentioned a lot in your birthday e-mail, I'm compelled to say more. I was 10 years old when my parents moved to La Habra, allowing me to stay at CFBC. From that time on I felt somewhat like a community child. Not to discredit the care of my parents, but I found myself clinging to whatever adults were nearby or whichever ones knew who I was. What I would later come to know as one of your most charming peculiarities, was how easily you remembered my name. Perhaps it was the countless Sunday afternoons I spent at your house, or the occasional night's stay, but you quickly became more than my pastor. You probably don't remember -- as I'm sure the walls of your mind are jam-packed with Scripture, languages, family lineages and names of visitors -- but I want you to know that I still remember the little moments. I remember how you used to call me "Ian boy." I remember the first time you picked me up for a sleepover with Jan Jan. I remember how you used to smile at me when I raised my hand to share blessings at prayer meeting -- sometimes I'd raise my hand for that very purpose.

You see, I'm happy to be the one writing in place of your now grown/overseas children, because growing up you have been the most prominent figure of a godly Christian man in my life. My father struggles to identify himself with Christ, even today, so early on my hopes turned to you as that role model I needed. It's befitting enough to say that every boy longs for the approval of his father, and as much as I have always chased yours, you readily handed it over in faith. I attribute so much of my growth to that patient, resilient, gentle faith that you had in God's plan for me.

Your hand-print is unmistakably apparent on my development as a believer and leader, and so it's with great ease that I praise God for you, Pastor Ed. It's with great ease that I sorrow over you too. At the time of your heart failure, I don't think I've ever prayed so hard for anyone in my life. That was a frightening and sobering time for me, one now that I am blessed to have had; God has given our church a healthy warning to cherish the time He's given you to stay with us, or should I say given us to stay with you. And believe me, Pastor Ed, I do. I really do. I love you.

Happy Thanksgiving,
Ian

Haven't the Foggiest.

2009-11-24T23:33:00.000-08:00

My thoughts are disjointed and fleeting. I come to the blank white space and I couldn't possibly tie down even half of the novel moments walking in this blessed city. I sincerely dread the question of how I'm doing. I'm beginning to think I don't really know. I'm starting to realize my scatterbrain habits are not to be escaped by simply moving across the country. With hours of free time, and a drastically downsized list of appointments, how is it that I can't focus on writing a simple "how I'm doing" post? So much I've wanted to say, so much I've been meaning to tell you, so many stories now expired from procrastination and one tenacious writer's block.

So I just want to say that I'm doing fine here. My day usually consists of waking up late morning, taking a 30 min train ride to work at the cash register for Crisp, asking the same questions and ending each mini-dialogue with "my pleasure have a great day," then making myself a falafel plate and eating amongst the pre-Winter hustle and bustle in Bryant Park. The ice staking rink has been here for nearing a month now, and every time I see it it's packed with all kinds of people, young and old. Onlookers are just as frequent and colorful, clasping onto paper cups of cocoa and cider. It's not all that cold yet, but we're all just looking for an excuse to drink the stuff -- I know I've been. They've set up about over sixty different little shops here from local retailers and food vendors. I try to stay a healthy amount of yards away from the Max Brenner booth and its Italian Hot Chocolate. There's jazz music playing all around and it probably warms my heart more than the Italian Hot Chocolate (yeah I caved twice already) to know the next generation is still soaking in some Ella Fitz. The evening is where it starts to vary, where I'm either studying acting, discovering new food with a friend, shopping for layers, or just trying new things. I'm discovering that our God is a creative and versatile Maker who has left His hand-print on this unique culture. It's just not possible to look at skyscrapers extending into the clouds of fog and not be provoked to think about the heavens.

Well what do you know? I'm writing again...

Subway Observations #2

2009-11-13T21:22:00.000-08:00

Sept 20
8:48am
Man with a dog. They've got the same sunken expression on their faces.

12:52pm
Bald man, scrawny, thick glasses. Very angry, cursing about the 1 train having to cut stops for unknown reason. Surprisingly intimidating. Remember to plan ahead for these things. Including balding.

3:53pm
European. They have to be. I can tell by rounded sunglasses. Plus the girls are speaking French.

4:04pm
Mother grabs her son, 7 years old, likely oldest of the two, lying across the seat with a smile. Pinches his ear and asks "why you gotta do that?" with a thick Brooklyn accent. Has her two sons, bout same age, hold hands with her at the end as they exit. Teaches oldest responsibility and manhood.

It's been a while I last updated. It's not that I haven't had material, or even (attempted) entries, but I've come to accept that I just can't force the process of writing. I guess I'm just better at taking it in than pushing it out. Yeah, and I'm inconsistent. I should just go ahead and admit it. I'm easily distracted (no, it's not ADD) and I forget about my tasks. Or I just put it off because I'm waiting for the chance to just sit in a clear quiet environment and write. That hasn't been so prevalent lately, which I'm sure is largely due to the fact that I don't have a room yet. 60 days officially, and still on a couch with 3 bags. That story I definitely want to take time and crank out -- it's two entries at least. In the meantime, though I've lagged on it, I will proceed to post these observations I've been collecting. I think they're elaborate enough in themselves. Enjoy.

Got a new phone.

2009-11-05T01:39:00.000-08:00

It's a Nokia, fully equipped with color screen and state of the art security system. In order to unlock, you have to select Unlock, then press a special key. I won't tell you which one.

It's actually a pay-as-you-go phone I bought from Best Buy to house my SIM card until the upgrade from my AT&T plan kicks in. It's humbling in a couple ways. Losing a huge chunks of data from my previous one shows me how weak I am as a human, so tempted to despair over the loss of information, so affected by a simple malfunction. How easy it is to get frustrated and ask those disgruntled questions about life we all ask when things don't go our way, though I have resolved to maintain sobriety. On the other hand, it's inspiring (and intimidating) to know that this cheap bottom-of-the-line buddy was once on top. I remember when color graphics was a really big deal. In fact, my sister's isn't even color (she's steadfast like that). I'm amazed to know that I basically witnessed the birth and development of the cellular phone. It's kinda like watching the your cousin or neighbor's kid grow up.

Lastly, it makes me giddy, because I just found out Andrew Ho has the same one in black. His mom washed his other phone, so he bought this sleek number yesterday, which to my surprise was the same day I got mine. And honestly, I wouldn't have expected such a moment to be with anybody else. If it were Melody she would get grossed out and think we were becoming too similar -- you know, one of those couples. Eek.

No Sleep til.

2009-10-31T21:31:00.001-07:00

I quoted that earlier to Laura, which was a dumb move since she can't even cite any Britney Spears songs. Here I am staying in Brooklyn, in the abode of Marvin & Erin (and Tom). I'm in this limbo still -- living here but not quite living here. I work five days a week then go back to a couch and suitcase. I buy groceries then buzz to be let in the building. There a certain level of immigrative qualities to my lifestyle, and that includes the actual immigrants that comprise a great deal of the staff at work, and a big enough pool of the regular ole cityfolk too. Anyway I'm enjoying it here. Lost has become an addiction and is now doing for me even more than what F'book & Youtube used to do to me. Not that they're all that gone, but I had more control and was working on a discipline until this show waltzed into my life. It didn't actually waltz at all -- and I should know, I just took 2 hours of waltz earlier today. I learned basic rhumba steps too, and met some great people. So yeah, I struggle to gain focus. I actually managed to stop halfway through an episode to make sure I get to sleep on time. Yes, worship is a priority, and I need to treat it like one. Sunday morning I will not be rushing and half-attentive like I have been these past two weeks. I will regain focus. I will regain focus. Which reminds me, I have work to do.

Singing 'n' the Rain.

2009-10-20T16:22:00.000-07:00

"Excuse me, is it 6:00 pm yet?"

For her, it's been over a dreadful half-hour cooped up in the open air, remaining stuck under the entrance canopy of the theater lest she drench in the pouring rain of New York City. For me, it's been not more than 4 minutes so still refreshing. For her and her sister, it's been somewhat of an intimidating experience, being so far from their home city and country back in Vancouver, Canada. For me, it's just fun standing where the lights and people are as opposed to peering at them from the apartment window -- I guess mostly because it's optional. Heck I don't really even care that much about going to the show. I'm not all that thrilled about a show featuring old music about the 1960's, but it's an acclaimed Tony award-winning Broadway show's Tony award-winning Broadway revival, and I came here to be educated doggone it. So I'll give the lottery program a shot, no harm in standing outside the theater two-hours before the show and entering a drawing for the chance to buy one of the remaining tickets at a dramatically (hah) discounted price. And certainly no harm in doing all of that work even if only to not get picked; at least not for someone who's living just a couple feet down the block. These two older ladies certainly have more to lose, whose story begs a certain amount of sympathy, visiting the city under such gloomy conditions and all.

"You know what -- Diane, right? -- you know what Diane, in the rare chance my name gets drawn and both of yours doesn't, you can have the tickets. Honestly, it's means very little to me."

She gladly consents to my offer just as the distributor is about draw the names -- oh wow it's only been three minutes. But honestly, it really only takes a couple moments to build a warm connection here in the city, which is all the more wonderful amongst the chilly downpour. I really hope I do get this opportunity to serve these ladies. Not just for the satisfaction it brings, but because even the part of me that actually does want to see the show...well, kind of doesn't feel like it tonight. I've already seen two shows this week, one of them being another Broadway hit (awesome), the other being a refreshingly Filipino musical about Imelda Marcos produced by The Pan-Asian Repertory. I guess I don't know if I'm up for a third one so soon. haha...third one.

God helps me to another spoonful of that irony He likes serving me so much. Turns out my name doesn't get picked, but Diane's does, already after her sister's won tickets for the two of them. In reciprocation and disposal, she offers me the very last ticket to get drawn, which I graciously accept...immediately after my return from a brisk cautious run to the drug store ATM two blocks down.

Dizon, Kristine.

2009-10-19T21:15:00.000-07:00

"For me, I definitely turned away. I refused to acknowledge his presence in my life. I searched for love, contentment, and happiness in places that all came up void."

Read the frank confession of a maturing high school junior with no more a gift for writing than an open heart and a story to tell.

View from the Pew.

2009-10-11T22:24:00.000-07:00

"THE PLACE WHERE PEOPLE MEET TO SEEK THE HIGHEST IS HOLY GROUND"

Hard to understand, isn't it? I was befuddled by this phrase at first glance, sitting in the third row and seeing it written across the back wall behind the stage. What does this mean?

This is my third time now at Redeemer. I think the reason they say third time's the charm is because it usually takes two times to test the waters. The first time you're too cautious, the second time too comfortable. By the third time you've learned to find the middle ground. Two weeks ago I was 15 minutes early, last week I was 15 minutes late. By now I've not only figured out which trains to take on the subway, but also what the dress code is like, the necessary supplies to take, and I've even determined the acoustically primo spot for immaculate reception -- okay, maybe not, but sitting closer means a better view of Tim Keller's adorable hand gestures.

Redeemer seems to be good at filtering a person's idea of church. I found myself initially puzzled by the strong commitment to tradition. I mean...man...the hymns they sang even sounded dusty. Perhaps it's just apropos to keep in theme with the creaking rafters. Or maybe it's because sometimes there's a lot of sense in the old-fashioned stuff. The only thing more annoying than old people who follow tradition for the sake of following tradition, are young people who break tradition for the sake of breaking tradition. Either way you never understand what the practice is about.

Thankfully Redeemer takes time to put the mind back in the motion. With the sit down, get up, say this, and do that, they provoke, encourage, and challenge you to reflect your purpose for being here. That's something I think every congregation can afford to do more of. My eyes draw to that wall once again. See, it's not holy unless the people are there to seek the highest. That is, the Highest.

The service has been meaty so far, and Tim Keller does nothing short of follow through with his message. He's a gifted preacher; he speaks from the Bible in a way that's comprehensible and relevant, and flows with clear direction. He's articulate, sharp, clever, current, inviting, easy to listen to, and has such a kind face -- but it's about so much more than that. You see, I searched for this church immediately upon arriving in New York. Back home I had already been familiar with Keller's books and podcasts, and couldn't wait to see him speak in person. He's entertaining alright, but the man does one thing more remarkably than anything else, and that's make the message about the Bible, and about Christ. And if you think that's a no-brainer, try saying that about Joel Osteen.

The place where people meet to seek the highest is holy ground.

I think I finally figured out what this means. It's the definition of the church. You see, too often people walk into wedding ceremonies and funeral services and find the stained glass windows to be either intimidating or inspiring, but both because they think that's where the holiness lies. They see cobblestone and candles and figure somewhere in it lies religious spirituality. So when people walk into Redeemer, of all possible decorations to place at the point of their focus, they decide to put an explanation: a church isn't a building; a church is a people. It isn't gold mountings, it isn't elaborate paintings of little cherubs holding stars and flying ribbon -- that's not where to find holiness. You find holiness where you find people meeting to worship God.

"For where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I among them.”

- Matthew 18:20

NYNJ Vlog #4: Special Edition

2009-10-05T09:30:00.000-07:00

Happy Berts RJ!

Two weeks notice.

2009-09-29T22:55:00.000-07:00

It's time to answer the big question. After an enriching two weeks in New York, how am I doing?

The city and me are still honeymooning, I guess you can say. I'm still breathing in the shared air, still delighting in bustling parks, still eavesdropping on foreign languages, still enthusing over the appreciation for Theater. Still inspired to act, recent credit to Jude Law's chilling take on Hamlet (Broadway). I'm still learning the subways and how to reference cross-streets (it's street name, then avenue name). Still donating loose change like a tourist and accepting pamphlets like a tourist. Still trying to locate that New York accent we all fawn over, only to find that most of the people I encounter are transplants like me, so the accent of the city can sound like anything from Japanese to Haitian.

And I've honestly never seen so many practicing Jews. Yesterday was Yom Kippur, noted to me by observing stores that were closed for the day. It was really a blessing, because I was inspired to take time and learn what Yom Kippur celebrates. Now I know why that day there were Jews filling the steps of synagogues I'd pass; those beautiful buildings, easily overlooked amidst the many, many beautiful buildings.

That's one of the key aesthetic differences here: the buildings here are so old, some by centuries. There's so much history and antiquity that even the residential brownstones are a sight to see (the kind of housing complexes I'm used to are the ones I've known since they were nothing but a land plot). Yet inside these weathered walls lies such a modern people, both stretched and refined by a dozen other cultures vitalizing the place.

It's that very juxtaposition of history and modernity that made my two mornings attending Redeemer Presbyterian Church an intriguingly new experience, one that deserves nothing short of its own blog entry, which I'll follow up with soon. But let me just say, as the contagiously bromantic Ho Chuan-i would say, that Tim Keller is legit.

And get this, I haven't gotten lost. Not unintentionally, anyway. This can be attributed partly to the predictable street number system, partly to the subway map on my iPod, partly to the abundance of free time, and partly to the geniality of strangers...oh and out here, they get pretty strange.

Even greater a part to my success here would be the geniality of non-strangers. I'm told finding a place is one of the hardest things to do here. That, and finding a job. Thankfully I've felt the cushion(s) of friends. Laura & Xin generously offered a couch for my first 10 days, albeit shared with their cats Leon & Remy. Two friends have offered work contacts, as well as a third, who offered his help the day we met; and a fourth I just met last Sunday who's helping me get an internship at a local theater. Now I'm staying with Jana, who you may remember from accounts of my days in Italy. Jana, honestly is too much. Upon my first visit she cooked me food and gave me juice. When I first moved in she had already prepared a bath towel, a bed, and a laundry basket. She insists on washing the dishes and when I come back to the apartment after a few hours she's folded my clothes.

So many people to thank, so many parts, all to a whole that is God's sufficient grace. It's funny, because I came out here, leaving much of my security on the far corner of the country, in hopes of falling on my butt. Yet still I've received so much support. It's just like my mom often reluctantly says while shaking her head, "You know, Ian, God must really like you." I wanted to escape my mom's care and got Jana's instead. Sure I wanted to cut some advantages out of my life, but who am I to deny God's blessing? Never had a problem accepting a gift.

Dialogue with the life back home is a river still flowing (Boyz II Men much?), courtesy of living in the digital age, not to mention my brother's visited me twice since I've been here (via a Jet Blue month-long unlimited pass). I've been receiving phone calls, e-mails, wall posts and blog comments, and although at times I fail to respond, please know that I cherish each one. I'll do better to reply. And yeah, I still read the cards and watch the DVDs.

As for the lovely lady and me? We're doing just fine.

Much thanks and 143's to everybody, and keep 'em coming please. A hearty two weeks it's been, but still hardly any time at all. Still in need of work, still in need of guidance -- I'm still a man in need of prayer. Above all, only the Father knows what the future holds, because He's the one who's holding it.

“No wise men, enchanters, magicians, or astrologers can show...but there is a God in heaven who reveals mysteries."

- Daniel 2:27
Praise the Lord.

Deleted scenes

2009-09-25T11:30:00.001-07:00

NYNJ Vlog #1.5 - Special interview with (Maria) Corazon Gatchalian De los Santos Leong. She's not nervous.

Audition #1.

2009-09-24T00:28:00.000-07:00

"I was so stellar, they didn't even need to have me read."

You gotta learn to just let it roll off you. Today was my first audition in New York, a thrilling debut to the professional world slash return from the hiatus started at the end of college a whole year ago.

One thing cool I notice about growing up here is that you get to ride the subway with your friends. I guess it’s like riding the bus with your friends, except it’s still cool when you’re doing it in high school. Anyway I’m standing there staring at the reflection of these two guys who I guess are having some argument. The ratty jacket-wearing reflection on the left is accusing the other of “startin’ [stuff]” while the young other in glasses stays silent and keeps his glance away. But this doesn’t stop our boisterous passenger from cussing him out for another six stops (15 minutes). Halfway-through I manage to sit down across them and notice the belligerent man is wearing a lanyard with an I.D. attached to it identifying him as a biomedical engineer or something. Man, all those brains and he still reps Long Island like a thug. Intimidation comes in all shapes and intellects here I guess.

A look at the time causes me to dart down the street hoping 10 minutes in isn’t too late to join the morning Tai Chi class. Turns out it is, because Wednesday is too late to join. And too early to join as well. The class is on Tuesdays & Thursdays, and I’m in Bryant Park at 7:40am with nothing to do.     

With the audition later I decide to make the most of my morning, and pick up some overpriced breakfast at a local café to eat amidst the beautiful park-in-city view.

One overlooked task awaits me before my time slot that afternoon, which is after I’ve changed and prepped for the performance (gotta treat it like one): the headshot & resume. My manager was telling me all about how often she sends them digitally now I hadn’t asked if I would need them for this one. After being reminded by my fellow auditionee I bolt out the audition studio to the local FedExKinko’s with an hour to spare. When I say bolt, I mean figure the stairs is faster and, unaware I’m on the top floor penthouse, slowly shuffle down 12 flights. The sweater I paid too much for so I could impress the auditioners is apparently now joining forces with the sudden humidity, making me sweat. That makes me nervous, which also makes me sweat. Print out a makeshift headshot and an old draft of my resume (the only one I had with me), and then on my way back past taxis and tourists to the audition studio where I’m right on time.

3 minutes later and I’m exiting, savvy to the unflattering verdict. So goes the grind, and I’m content with it. But as one of my acting teachers taught me, no matter what happens after the audition, treat yourself to something nice. And I do. A couple times (including the breakfast splurge). After stopping by the printing office to approve of my actual headshot prints, I visit the adjacent bakery and buy awfully overpriced desserts on sale -- so only slightly overpriced -- at $3 for two very small, very delicious min-tarts, then wait at the park for an hour to catch Baskin Robbins’ $1 scoop Wednesdays, of which I get two, finishing it off by stopping at the market to buy chips and soda to eat with my pizza leftovers. It seems the decadence has only turned my contentment into nausea, which I self-medicate with a 3 hour nap. It’s midnight and I don’t feel that much better. Melody shows me Psalm 62:8, which sobers me up.

"Trust in him at all times, O people;
pour out your heart before Him;
God is a refuge for us. Selah"

I asked God earlier today the same thing I ask Him before every audition. I ask him to attune my heart to His will, and reveal His plan to me. Win or lose, hire or reject, my priority is to know what God wants me to do about that. And let me tell you, the answer isn’t $20 on snacks and sweets. As much I had told myself to be content, I'm only human and we simply don't like rejection. Rising above that just isn't as easy as we want it to be. In those times, our own devices, trinkets and troubleshooting alike, are no substitute for giving our feelings to God. Having faith in God's plan is more than positive thinking, it's more than optimism, it's an utter surrender of yourself. I had only been handing my sorrow to Him, when the verse demands I "pour out [my] heart" to Him. What a drastic difference in response. God is a refuge for me, and today I felt Him calling me home.

Audition for "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee," for a Florida production group (...so not Broadway).

Subway Observations #1

2009-09-19T23:35:00.000-07:00

As written in my iPod:

Sept 18, 11:50PM
Hard-looking guy, wouldn't make eye contact with him on the street. Looks like the guys talking outside the barber shop. With his 3-yr old son, giggling and playing, his son straddled on his lap, almost as if there was nobody else on the subway car.

Sept 19, 3:15PM
Couple stroll in their toddler. No seats available. Husband grabs hold of pole and puts his other arm around wife. Wife grabs stroller and holds it close as the three huddle together as one mass. Passenger leaves at next stop so I get up and offer the two vacancies to them.

Someone once asked me that if I could live in the city or the country, which would it be? I replied "both, and for the same reason." There is just so much to do. The only times I've ever felt this crowded were at theme parks and the fair, but I'm refreshingly not frustrated by it. People traffic is slightly less agitating than the kind in cars, but here in New York I don't feel the slightest bit annoyed. Then again this is just my first week, and it's not like I have a job or anything to press me for time. The past three days have consisted of waking up on the other side of the double digit numbers, relaxing for a bit, showering, more relaxing, then out to wander the streets for most of the hours, trusty backpack at my (back)side.

Getting the hang of the subways (thank you NYC map application), which allows me to enjoy one of my favorite pastimes and observe the life around me. My friend asked me why I wasn't more excited to be here. She thought I was apathetic, but how can I possibly be so, when I just voluntarily moved across the country? Not in the city, not with plethora of places to ponder, and a surplus of sights to spark thought. At this point, I'm quietly taking it all in.

Flying Out.

2009-09-14T21:30:00.000-07:00

Oh man...I'm moving.

As if almost written in Lite Brite below, this next thought jab in a series of minipiphanies came as one of the unmentioned amenities of the flight. The comprehensive realization of what it is I'm doing hasn't been instantaneous, so to say it hit me would be inaccurate -- I don't remember the last time something hit me like that. I liken the experience, then, more to birth contractions (clearly the more relevant), gradual and growing; leading to, well, re-birth I guess...hm. Perhaps in this case metaphor is making the account more dramatic than necessary. It's a move, a change in lifestyle just like quitting soda is a change in lifestyle, and akin to my frequent attempts at cutting Coke...I always come back home. The only permanence I'm anticipating is of the life-lesson variety.

Melody, Patrick, Carlos, and Cora. PTL for people who take time out of their day to carry your bags to security check.

From Family.

2009-09-12T12:31:00.000-07:00

I turn to my dad and ask him what his thoughts are on what the clock looks like for someone at his age.

My dad proceeds to explain how he longs so much to retire, yet fears the idleness that comes with it. How he would love so much to go to the Philippines and live lavishly for little money, but knows how he would hate to do it without his family. How he wants to be done with the business, but empathizes with the employees he'd be leaving without a source of income. How he wishes that I would've stayed with the business, but knows that it's not my path.

It seems this is truly at the bottom of his heart. I grieve for how much he is lost without Christ. He's so caught between desires, and struggles to know what to do with what remains of his life. "For me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain" (Philippians 1:21). That's so unusual, because people hardly consider death gain. To know that Christ is life is to know that everything on this Earth takes its most influential, inspiring, and important form when it is laid upon the foundation of God's blessing. To know that Christ is life is to trust in what Christ did on the cross, that he died for your sins and rose from the dead. "Because I live, you will live also" (John 14:19). When you know that, death can't be anything else but gain, because you know it isn't really death at all.

My sister begins to pray. As she does, her voice gets scratchy. This isn't that different from the way a voice sounds when a person's just woken up, and it's fairly early in the day. But right about the middle she takes a pause, then the moment she says "he'll always have a home here" her defenses drop and the tears come. At that moment there's a brand new connection made. Years of sibling rivalry and reluctant sharing had toughened up our exteriors too much be sappy with one another. Sure the love got bolder and more apparent as we matured, but something this vulnerable and frank had not been seen before. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel my own tears roll down.

My mom quickly jumps in afterward, asking to pray. There are few people on Earth who can recount your life like your parents. She starts with last Saturday, and gradually moves back in time. I listen as she starts with talking about the people at the party, to how I was in college and high school, to how I was growing up, to quoting the time Pastor Ed joked that I was the most faithful person in the congregation because I was going to two churches. I soak in the testimony of a mother about her son, how much she had observed and seen me throughout the years. I hear her cite my forgetfulness, my lack of car, my youth, and how she said it didn't stop me from what I needed to do. She recalls the late hours, the lack of sleep, and the conversations she sees me having online, over the phone, and in person. She confesses how proud she is and how unworried she is about me because she has marveled so often at how much God has taken care of her son despite the eccentric situations he often finds himself in. The approval and understanding of a mother in your most confusing and faith-testing endeavors is better than gold. The faith of a prayer warrior is unmatched. I hear her sobs and feel the tears run down her words and resonate in the pain she is feeling as she anticipates the distance that is going to lay between her and her youngest. I feel the tears drop on my pants and my breathing get violent; that kind of hysterical crying usually reserved for a kid after his scrapes his knee for the first time, that kind of ugly crying where you watch the snot rapidly string down in front of you and strip you of your dignity. For good reason I try not to listen when people say they're going to miss me. I'm usually really good at letting such compliments feed my ego. But this -- this broke me.

I look back now and think about that hour and a half in disbelief. Glory to God for the work He's doing in my family.

Disclaimer

2009-09-12T01:01:00.000-07:00

This is chiefly a thoughtblog. That mean less gushing over sights and snacks, attractions and appetizers, edifices and eats, and more writing reflections, penning pensives, and alliterating.