I discovered on my recent trip to New York City that being a tourist in the Big Apple can prove a difficult role.  You don’t want to stick out like a Segway tour through Times Square; you want to blend in and act as if you’re here to get some serious shit done.  More apparently, you want to wear that attitude, since we all know we’re stealing looks off each other on the Q train.  I had every intention to step out of my cousin’s Brooklyn studio like an apex menswearist in my two-inch trouser cuffs and spread-collar polos.  But as suave as it could’ve looked, hoofing it through boroughs in my suede wholecuts would’ve proved hell on my feet.  The safe, blatantly tourist thing to do was to step out in my NB runners.  But the ensemble!  For shame.

But then I realized something for a moment, something that we men of sartorial pursuits can get caught into: who’s really going to give a shit?  We may research lapel widths and color combinations, but as much as we pore through detail, we gotta relax sometimes.  Go by feel, as some may say.

I wanted to feel comfortable, so the sneakers won.  I changed my shirt to a navy to match the shoes, but hey, baby steps.

Rosewood Avenue was a perfectly sloped hill to realize an infinitude of dumbass ideas, the kinds which you would only dare in the company of an equally dumbass companion.  On the doggiest of summer days, without an older brother to take us to the beach, Brandon proposed the idea of taking our useless bodyboards, mounting it on a skateboard, and atop Rosewood, armed with a wetsuit and fins, bomb down the hill in search for the perfect concrete break; thus, Ghetto Boarding was born.

Carving back and forth the empty stretch of asphalt, I always found the lip of the wave at Brandon’s curb, where he’d hurl a bucket of water at me to complete the run.  Prone or drop knee, we’d make it to the top of the hill, the road, hit the lip with a bucket, tumble somewhere between the sidewalk and the lawn, then repeat the process tirelessly until enough skin was scraped. All this because we were bored, young and fearlessly stupid.  And that’s what makes a summer with your best friend.

It’s not Ghetto Boarding these days, but Brandon still manages to come up with ideas that would hold influence over me.  Undoubtedly so is his sense of style.  Though we may have differing tastes — I like to adhere to the old guard of menswear, while Brandon is more adventurous with modern Japanese fashion — I attribute the start of my interest in what I wear to him.

So, to my fashion-forward friend with the bravery to take such risks attributed from our dumbass youth, I say thank you.  Enjoy twenty-nine, and keep inspiring.

I spent the weekend at Stanley in HK for the first time.  If you haven’t been there before, be sure to do so as soon as you get a chance.  On our first day I finally hit the beach and kicked about in the semi-open water for the first time since last August; my wife, friends and I followed with a few beers at a seaside mini-boardwalk for great atmosphere.  We ended the evening with a rooftop bbq of meats and an overabundance of vegetable kebabs.  Such a day was reliving my picaresque afternoons in Carlsbad; I was easily sold on this place, which made the morning that much more of a torture.

I don’t really sleep in anymore.  I’ll get up somewhere 6:30 every morning and it’s usually near impossible to get back to bed (unless it’s a work day, then all bets are off).  The sun was up, energy outside was promising, and everyone was fast asleep, nursing a food coma from the bbq.  So I did what any sane person in that situation would do: passive-aggressively make noise to “accidentally” wake others up.

It took three  FREAKING hours.

You know how many long yawns and fridge openings could fill three hours?  Not enough, apparently.

You can really enjoy an otherwise ordinary day with a new piece of clothing.  You know, something you got on a whim and begin a storied adventure of outfitting, hijinking and other nonsense.  Today was that day with a white Uniqlo linen long sleeve that the missus surprised me yesterday in order to combat the swampy days of late.  I emphasize was because on the way home from the dinner + movie date night, I felt a sudden itch inside my wrist, instinctively scratched it with my belly, and WHATTHEHELLAREYOUKIDDINGME.

This is why I can’t have nice things.

P.s.  If it wasn’t for it’s utility as the single organism that allowed Jurassic Park to be possible, mosquitoes would serve ZERO purpose on  this earth.

I’ve been a follower of Richard Linklater’s work since taking a chance on Before Sunrise.  Maybe it was still feeling (or not willing to release) the sting of a breakup at the time, but a film about two young people genuinely talking to one another and falling in love for two hours was an achievement in capturing the beautiful ups and downs of life.  And then Before Sunset came along, and the same couple of kids grew into weathered adults.  The voices and eyes between Jesse and Céline carried a staggering realness to their characters.  Film can harness the greatest of human emotions and experiences, and this is why I can’t wait for boyhood:

Ever since I first heard of this project a few years ago, I hadn’t a clue as to when to expect it, but here it is.  As much as I can’t wait to witness the unprecedented act of a protagonist actually maturing over the course in one film, I most look forward to Linklater’s take on the title subject.  I look on my own boyhood with equal parts awe, embarrassment, shame, triumph, confusion, horror, humor . . . you know, that whole bag.  Adolescence is a hell of a time for everyone, and we all could’ve used some sort of survival manual that started with “Relax, you’re going to be fine.”  I think this film will do something like that.

I  am no morning person, and I’ve long accepted that.  After swatting at the snooze button for twenty minutes, the first challenge used to be what the hell I was going to wear out there, and a quick grab of workhorse pants and plaid or solid shirt would do.  That used to fly in the past, but now that my daily wardrobe choices are more deliberate, there’s too many moving pieces to scan the closet with crusted, half open eyes; mistakes a-plenty.  Then the missus and I started our Downton Abbey binges, and there I watched as was Mr. Bates dressed his Lord Grantham for dinner; as it happens often, I took my mind out of the storyline and into damn good suiting habits.  The valet, which I assume is named after the function of men like Mr. Bates, has been the foil to my low executive functionality for over a year now.  As much as I’d like to think myself as an adult and determine that I rely on my beautifully lacquered valet as tomorrow’s suit organizer, I look at it in a more vigilant perspective:

Now, I don’t intend upon cleaning up the city with swift kicks and monicker-themed gadgetry, but the effect is the same.  You step into the armory, look upon your work, contemplate the situation for which you are preparing, and suit up, man. My advice when putting on each piece: find the right “suiting up” music; every mental montage needs a soundtrack.  I prefer The Dove Shack’s “Summertime in the LBC.”  That’s my morning viiiiiiiiiiiiiibe.

“Why do we do what we do when we do what we do hangin out late wit no curfew?”

Ever since twelfth grade have I considered myself a night owl, not because I preferred the solitude afforded by a 3am curfew, but often because somewhere between my hygienic ritual and five minutes into sleep, a fleeting spark of inspiration will light me out of bed and into what I’ve been told is called flow.  Whether it was by pen or by fretboard, I would immerse myself until I finally noticed the clock passing hours by me.  And this was relatively fine . . . until I got married.  My poor wife had to teach weekend class at today eight o’clock and I was still at the computer at one, jotting down notes for a new article idea.  This wasn’t the first time this happened, but something finally clicked.

In marriage, you’re living as team whose membership will only grow – and I can’t wait for that.  But, whatever worked for me solo isn’t always going to work on the team, so as a good husband (and father), I must be constantly aware of the people for whom I am now responsible, trusted, and living.

“Love is not Time’s fool,” and neither should I be.  Just go to bed, and we can pick up the flow tomorrow.

I’m still unaccustomed to the concept of living independently, by which I mean not living in my parent’s home.  It’s a mixture of reasons: growing up in a Filipino household, admiring the life of the homebody and proudly living with the label of the mama’s boy.  I couldn’t even last six months of an effort to “be my own man” because I missed my lola’s daily feasts waiting for me after a long day.  But living with your parents comes with their own limitations, as I’m sure you all understand.  So when I woke up this morning, completely buck-ass naked, tangled in bed with a light hangover,  every intention to limit my sweat rate in Shenzhen’s spring sauna, I thought, “Damn, sometimes it’s good to be out on your own.”