Happy Normalday.

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

Meet the Vices.

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

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

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

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

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

- N.T. Wright

It's official, I'm a writer.

Expect typos...

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

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

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

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

C. S. Lewis

Neil Simon

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

"Every actor needs to be writing."

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

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

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

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

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

Letters To Home.

April 25, 2010

Hello Leongs!

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

In Christ,
Ian

Looped.

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

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

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


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

Oh Shoot.

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

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

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

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

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

*"Tito" meaning uncle in Tagalog (Filipino)

Where I Work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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