The Emperor’s Red Corvette

He proudly wore the striped-brown shirt I gave him last Christmas. He matched it with the brown pants that he claims he’s never worn due to the fact that he doesn’t own a brown shirt to go with it.

He was walking up the drive way towards the mailbox to pick up the mail that the mailman just delivered. I was parking my car across the street. I walked out of the car and waved at him. He squinted his eyes and placed his right hand above them trying to figure out the character waving at him from a distance.  Recognizing who I was, he waved back, and gave me a big smile. I ran across the narrow street towards him and shook his hand.

“So how was your day today?” He asked.

“So far,  so good,” I replied.

We walked back to his house walking side by side. He was clutching on what appears to be mail from the health insurance company on his left hand. The other hand was free to make gestures, which he loves to do when he talks. He is the type of man who loves to tell stories. He lived through three wars and has a collection of stories neatly tucked-in in the archives of his memory. Once in a while he would pull them out and tell them to those willing to listen. I am one of  the few to be captivated with these stories. There’s something about his stories that makes me want to sit down and pay attention. The man has the gift of gab.

I playfully call him Emperor Matsumoto, because every time I take him out for a ride he likes to ride in the back seat with his wife, which would make me look like his personal chauffeur. I actually don’t mind at all. It is actually quite cute to see him and his wife sit in the back seat like two love birds on date.

On our way to Alamoana this morning we saw a red Corvette pull up right next to us as we were waiting for the red light to turn green. The GF pointed out how on how beautiful this  shiny candy-apple red Corvette is.

“I lost my youngest daughter to a red Corvette, you know. ” He blurted out.

“What do you mean grandpa?” The GF asked.

“I introduce your aunt to one of my juniors at the bank where I used to work. One day he came to our house to take her on a date. He pulled up with this shiny red Corvette and swept your aunt off her feet. The next thing we know they were planning on getting married already. So that’s how I lost your aunt to a red Corvette.”

I wish to see him on my wedding someday. I wish he’d live long enough to see me marry her only grand daughter. And hopefully live long enough to tell his great grand kids a story on how he lost his grand daughter, not to a red Corvette, but to a man who loved her so much.

He promised to sing this old Japanese song about letting go of her beloved daughter on our wedding day. A song he also sang to her youngest daughter on her wedding day, the same daughter whom he lost to a red Corvette.

He turned 87 today. I hope to see him live past 100. I hope to hear him sing that song on our wedding day one day.

Happy birthday Emperor!

Peacemaker

I had to bring peace-offering-pies to work today. Two to be exact — blueberry custard & apple pie. I woke up at 5:30 am to catch the first batch of fresh pies because I have to atone for my recklessness.

The Bossman came back last Monday from his one week of cranking slot machines & hoovering buffet tables. Instead of greeting me with his usual keebler elfish top-o’-the-morning tone, I was greeted with a finger wag and a devilish smirk.

“You know, I only told one person that I was going to Las Vegas, and he squealed. I was surprised to be greeted this morning with, ‘So how was Vegas?’”

“Well, maybe they just assumed that you went to Vegas?”

“You could have told them I didn’t go anywhere. That I stayed home.”

“For one week?!”

“Yeah…?”

“Well, I’m sorry. I’m such a bad liar. Everyone assumed you went to Vegas before I told anyone, because where else would you go? So they bugged me about it. What am I suppose to say? What’s the big deal about me telling them anyway?”

“Well, that means I need to bring omiyage (souvenir/gifts) for everyone.”

“Why don’t you just go to Costco and buy a big box  of something that looks like it came from Vegas?”

“Actually, I have a better idea. Why don’t you bring some pies from Sunny Side?”

So, this morning the Bossman wrote on the announcement board:

Staff,
Omiyage pies are at the lounge. Help yourself to blueberry-custard and apple pies.

– (The Bossman)

Not everything in life is free

I spent 8 hours of lecture on how to properly package hazardous materials for transport in planes, trains, trucks, and boats. You know what the best part of that 8 hour lecture is? Free lunch.

Dou shiyo ka na?

Precipitation has been a constant visitor in our beautiful island for the past three weekends. Not having a dryer means that laundry would have to be postponed for next week. I’m running low in underwear. But the rain creates beautiful rainbows that arch across the gulches and valleys. I know I don’t make sense, but do I have to?

When I’m all grown up

Sometimes I feel like the only thing we share in common is her mitochondrial DNA.

She’d often say, don’t waste away your youth with frivolity. Work hard while you’re young. Build wealth and conquer the world later. I on the other hand believe in the complete opposite of that. Don’t waste away your youth by being a slave at a job that you probably don’t love. Enjoy it now and conquer the world while your body is still capable.

She was born at a different time. A time when people don’t have much. When they have to work hard to own anything. I on the other hand was born in the age of colored TV, Star Wars, Ready-To-Wears, fast-food, instant cocoa, instant noodles, and instant gratification.

She was 2nd of 8 children. She was the shortest. The sickliest, too. Living in a small farm as child with all sorts of allergies and unknown maladies, would cause her mother to worry about her. Would she survive the cruel world? Would she be able to do anything around the farm without her having hives or nave her wheezing? Would she be able to find a suitable husband when she grows up? These are just a few of the questions that kept her mother up at night.

Although she was frail in body she was strong in mind. She finished grade school at the top of her class. Her little world in that small town was too small for her ambition. She moved to the city to attend high school. She was only 17 when she met my dad — A rugged man with good nature. They got married when they were 18. Though happy and content with her marriage she continued on with school and became the only one in her family to get a college degree. I was only 2 years old when she walked up that stage to pick up her diploma.

Life in the tiny city in a small island was going great for her but a bigger world was beckoning for her to conquer. She left for the states when I was 7. She was sent to compete in an international hairstylist competition in Las Vegas, Nevada. She was the lone representative from the archipelago nation of the Philippines. She’s always had the “Midas” touch, anything she touches always ends up being gold. Although she didn’t win the competition she finished in the top 12, which was good enough for her to land a job at a prestigious beauty salon in Los Angeles. Not content on working for somebody else she eventually opened up her own shop after building up a reasonable number of clientele. And as always her Midas touch hasn’t failed her and the business flourished.

Every time I’m reminded of this success story it makes feel all warm and fuzzy inside, because this success story is my mother’s — from a poor farmer’s daughter to an extraordinary entrepreneur. This is the story that keeps my motor running. Every time I’m introduced to one of her clients I often feel proud, too proud in fact, to hear the words: “this is my son“. I’m her offspring. The one that swam around the amniotic fluid of her womb for 9 months. The one that fed off from her placenta for 9 months. The one that still carries her mitochondrial DNA — a biological signature that will forever be part of me and will always bear her name.

As she dropped me off at LAX on that cold December afternoon of 2007, I opened up the trunk of her car, pulled out my guitar and two of my suitcases, and loaded them into the trolley. I stood in front of her and said, this is it, I’m finally moving to Hawaii. She held back the tears. She reached out for me, gave me a big hug, and whispered in my ear, Make a name for yourself son.

I hope to make you proud of me one day, Mama.

Hey there Delilah!

After 3 months of prodding from my ever-loving ku’uipo (sweetheart), I finally gave in, and made that short trip to the Mililani barbershop last Friday for some much needed follicular management of my sexy mane.

Now the GF can’t help but stare at the newly shorn handsome loverboy that is my head. All weekend, she keeps saying non-stop: “Honey, you should get a haircut more regularly. Because you look so much better when you cut your hair like that.”

I think she’s falling in love with me all over again.