Finally, some proof!

It only took a month for the realization to sink in that I'm living in the Philippines.

Now that my own brain has realized it, so can yours!

Photos of my first month in the Philippines!

The link will take you to a public album on Facebook.com, and there is no need to register.

I should be out exploring the Philippines.

Instead of spending way too much time playing with the Photo Booth on my Mac.

We're Sistas!


Are you talking shit?


Fuck you. No, fuck YOU!


Watch your back, bitch. You gonna get jumped.


Oh my god, why you are so scary?


I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you.


I'm so ashamed. I didn't mean to hurt you.


I forgive you, friend.


Let's NEVER fight again!


I love you. You're like my other half.


I'm such a geek.

More geeky photo booth moments.

Dear Readers,

Please appreciate the vulnerability that I am allowing myself in sharing the following post.
But I got a kick out of it.


I'm WOLVERINE!!

Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother

AIM IM with BBanzon.
9:15 AM

Me: dad its krystal i have internet now
Dad: horay for you how you doing girl?
Me: gooooood im going to work this afternoon, and my cousins kim and maaan are here. they stayed with me this weekend
Dad: great keep you in company be sure to take care your self carefully be vigilant hope all things going swell
Me: i will be vigilant and careful - going to eat now, i love you!!!
Dad: we miss you so much and j.r. oke I love
Me: bye bye talk to u later!!
Dad: goodnight bona petit

Two reasons why I love my Dad:

1) “Be vigilant.”
I love it. Talking to my dad is like talking to a mid-century English man… Who has a deep Filipino accent.

2) His attempt at colloquialisms like, “swell” and “bon appetit.”
In one sentence the man sounds like Sherlock Holmes and in the next he sounds like Julia Child.

I can’t even imagine the amalgamated morass of pop culture and American multiculturalism that he has absorbed over his 30+ years in the American “melting pot.”

This morning on the phone, my Dad said to me, “As long as you are enjoying life and having fun we’re happy.” Then I hear my Mom exclaim, “Fun!?” before snatching the phone back and saying, “Your Dad is still asleep. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

We share a laugh about my artistic sloth. Nothing like moving out, living my own life, and doing what I want to strengthen the relationship I have my parents. I’m a lucky gal.

kanto fried chicken: a love poem in five movements

kanto fried chicken: a love poem in five movements

I.

sittin’ quietly
in a KFC
in a developing country
developing thoughts on the
Mickey D’s
among the trees
across
the street.

crowded jeepneys
drivin’ by looking fly
chrome virgens on the dash
painted jesus ridin’ past
blond hair n’ blue eyes
starin’ at
the unmoving traffic
He’s
stuck
in
prayin’ to his Dad
to forgive his sin
of wishin’ he was in
a private SUV
with the aircon on
blastin’ english songs
‘stead of this public mass
transport
breathing in soot
watchin’ rainbow jeeps
with his mama on the hood.


II.

the smog settles.
revealing schoolgirls on cell phones
texting secrets
to illicit suitors
on scooters
ferrying tourists to
and fro
the megamalls and barrios
where the deal’s a steal
when you play
be it ang mga batang kalye
sneaking away with
your wallet and cell
or a haggled discount price
over your proud prize
an authentic tropical
conch shell
or
your indigenously
meticulously
woven banig to hang on your
loft’s wall
while someone must be missing
a mat to fall
asleep on
It’s wrong

Isn’t it – I think?
while gnawing on
a chicken wing.


III.

lounging comfy
with Colonel Sanders
watching pusacals meander
domesticated predators
eyein’ the tasty thighs,
freedom fries
and ice cold Sierra Mist
this
domesticated preda/tourist
missed
during weeks of cultural immersion
a version
of trying to understand and belong
i think
can that be so wrong?
as i Purell my greasy hands.


IV.

the strays scatter away.
i eye the last fry and
someone takes my tray to
bus it for me
it’s weird to see
the service industry so
clearly.

i pause before i go.


V.

sitting anxiously
at a global chicken chain
urging my brain to
retrain
past the shame and blame
and heat and rain—

lookin’ past the glass exit
and the doorman with a gun
there are cocks
under cardboard boxes
hiding from the sun
their cry for the day to begin
lost earlier in
the wind
i caught ringing in my ears
along with my fears
this morning.

i count my fare slow.

handling each peso and centavo
while watching lolas
futilely sweeping the
uneven concrete
past carts selling buko and calling cards
the memory of the morning
bittersweet
i rubbed my eyes awake to
new skies and then
only to find myself in
the familiar again
and again
and again
unable to exit this air-conditioned
fluorescent haven/hell
conditioned to crave the
smell
of country comfort
cheap fast bright clean cool

the traffic light turns red.
jesus stops and above his
airbrushed head reads:
Quiapo

i get up and go.

Nothing like satire to brighten up your day.

Fantastic MadTV sketch from Feministing.com