The French Quarter is funny during Mardi Gras. My mother was with me for the first few parades and she was shocked. She didn’t know the crowd that these events attract - loud drunks. It was the first time she experienced guys hitting on me. It was pretty gross.
Most of the situations were easy to handle: a tourist that followed me around with “Hey girl, you want a shot?", a married man that paid for my chips in exchange for my “digits” in a CVS, a line cook that asked me out while I was eating in his restaurant… Oh and “show me your tits” everywhere.
The worst situation was the teenage guitar player that shouted from the bottom of a flight of stairs, “You’re so beautiful!” He had a cute Southern accent and a cuter dog, “I know coming from me that means nothing to you. Can I buy you a drink?” I said nothing.
The teenage boy then saw my mother beside me, “Is this your mom?” He turned to her angry face, “Your daughter is very beautiful. You’re beautiful too. Can I take your daughter to dinner?” I think my mother decided, at that moment, to never Mardi Gras again.
Somewhere in mountainous Southeast Asia, we ripped through the asphalt. I watched the bike disappear as the left side of my face burned. The damn 200-baht helmet saved me. I checked if I was broken, and if he was breathing. We staggered to the non-road, avoiding the cars that half-circled perfectly. A man stopped and helped him pull the bike out of the ditch while I felt nothing on the grass. I took this photo.
So many words I didn't hear, half not English. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You're not crying. I feel like crying. It wasn't his fault, he was just driving. Are you taking photos? Anesthesia. I biked across India. I biked around South America. This was the first time. The bike looked better than us when it was pulled up. My wrist and knee were already swollen. I welcomed pus like I wished for drugs.
He drove us 20 kilometers to the emergency room. I felt some pain, and I still trusted the bike that proved it could really kill me in a second. Time and wind were hurting my left side, but the sunset and the mountains were damn beautiful. I wanted photos, but my hands were gone. I wondered what it was like to be hurting and driving and worrying about your girlfriend behind you.
The boring motorcycle accident interrupted the hospital staff's dinner, which they were having in the emergency room. I watched a quiet dog walk around as the hungry people cleaned and dressed my wounds. No x-ray? No x-ray. They completely mislettered my name on the prescription. Well, my handwriting was as fucked up as my left hand. I'm sorry I'm not sorry my injured hand got in the way of filling out damn hospital forms. He doesn't trust hospitals, so he washed his own wounds. Other patients were staring at our blood, and our English. I know I look like you but I don't speak like you. Please gesture loudly. Helmet? Yes, I got wheeled into this hospital with a helmet on my head. Beer? Sambuca? No one's drunk, but my mouth is imagining it. One of the doctors, the youngest one, the only one who spoke in full English sentences, told us his friend wanted to be a waiter in New York. Beautiful. The doctor gave us our choice of meds and we paid 3.04 dollars. He's American and he couldn't believe it. It's hundreds of dollars to just walk in a hospital. Welcome to socialized healthcare. No insurance, only passports. He thought something was lost in translation and we went back and forth with the doctors. It was 3.04 dollars. Something was lost in translation, and it wasn't words.
When I was a kid, I broke my arm and I didn't cry. My mother was crying as she rushed me to the hospital. I remember everything, even me thinking that my arm looked strange. The doctors told my mother I have uncommonly high pain tolerance. I thought of that after the boring motorcycle accident. The meds were a relief, the bandages were killing me. Anything liquid was killing me. My leg was gross, and he thought I was limping for the hell of it. It's just cuts and bruises! Suck it up! This, from a dog-lover. My bruises had bruises and my knee couldn't stand or bend. He doesn't know I had my leg checked again, when my hand wounds had scabs. The doctors told me the same thing my mother was told when I broke my arm. They couldn't believe I was limping and not dying on the floor. Oh well, that explains the lack of pain during all the times I almost died.
All of your love, you put in planes and buses. You wrapped planes in sweet words and covered them in new cities. You boxed dates in long bus rides and signed them with next times. You ate them all, and puked them all out. You puked out tickets and landings, you puked out loud times on empty platforms, you puked out compasses nobody ever uses, you puked until you ran out of hours. And you never let me clean up. You loved my hands, happy and helpless. You ran, more to than from me. You were the call I would take a plane for, and I was the girl you needed to spoil. You were my boarding gate, twelve inches between leaving and seeing you again. And you were losing lighters everywhere because we would never be. Perhaps, in a different time, on a different map, with different lives, perhaps, until all the next times run out.
(This French boy is currently traveling with another girl, still sending me letters.)
We also drove to Long Beach to see Donnie's house and neighborhood. It was all kinds of amazing. I'm sure we looked like idiots, smiling and jumping around the street, spotting where Donnie did this and said that. Then, in the right spot, Christopher did something that made my entire teenage life: "You wanna go with me?"
The first time I saw Donnie Darko, I was in London. It was 2002, a little over a year after Donnie was released. I was young and impressionable, like most high schoolers. At that time, I was busy with design, music, and books. Films were not a priority, not really. I grew up with the books and music of my parents. They never cared much for films. My knowledge of that was limited to the Walt Disney/Chris Columbus/John Hughes kind.
My friend put me under house arrest until I agreed to watch Donnie. He was one of those film "cultists". I expected Donnie to be lame and/or pretentious, like most films with cult followings. I was very wrong, to say the least. I don't remember what I felt while I was watching Donnie for the first time. Maybe I was confused or in awe or scared. But I remember, when the Mad World scene came on, I decided that Donnie was my favorite film. It was so fucking unbelievable, I watched the entire thing again immediately after my first viewing. After my second viewing, the cultist and I drank until noon. We did nothing but thoroughly discuss Donnie.
I became obsessed, the kind of "obsessed" worthy of an institution: research, murals, loud noises... I watched it over and over and over. I looked up each reference and each line. I read about the cast and crew. (Did you know that they shot the film in 28 days?) I counted the number of times Donnie swore. I studied the way he pulled up his hood. I biked around in my pajamas. I bought a switchknife. I played the soundtrack on my violin. I even learned how to write like Frank.
I didn't know a film could be that powerful. Part of my love for Donnie came from watching it in London. That place has a huge Donnie following. I was surrounded by people who loved him as much as I did. When I got back to Manila, no one I knew saw it or was interested in seeing it. No one appreciated Donnie's existence. One time, my debate teacher asked the class if anyone has seen Donnie. I was the only one who raised my hand. He looked at me like a proud father.
I put all my Donnie energy into designing, and chatting about dark films with my British friends. Talking to them felt like something illegal. I started to think of Donnie as mine, a secret no one else should touch. That newfound elitism pushed me to discover more powerful films - more angry, violent, heartbreaking films. Thanks for that, Holden... I mean, Donnie. Over the next few years, my institution-worthy Donnie obsession became valium-laced.
Then Donnie L.A. happened. It was the summer before my final year of high school. I always go to California; but that time, I went because Christopher was bored. Christopher hated Donnie because he saw himself in the character. I saw Donnie in Christopher, which was the most important reason I spent time with him. One day, Christopher asked me to go with him to his high school. Okay. When we got there, all the words I ever learned fell out of my mouth at once. It wasn't his high school, it was Donnie's. I was so fucking happy, I couldn't breathe quietly. We left the school with a security guard's reprimand, and a rock. That was just the beginning. We also drove to Long Beach to see Donnie's house and neighborhood. It was all kinds of amazing. I'm sure we looked like idiots, smiling and jumping around the street, spotting where Donnie did this and said that. Then, in the right spot, Christopher did something that made my entire teenage life: "You wanna go with me?" He meant it.
During my college years, I divided people into two categories: people with good taste (i.e. likes Donnie) and people with bad taste. I watched "The Smurfs" with those with good taste. I spent my Halloweens molding Frank's face and painting hoodie-d skeletons. I sold 3D glasses as IMGs. I filled in the non-existent chapters of the non-existent "The Philosophy of Time Travel". I paid my friend to tell his doctor about a giant bunny rabbit. I met Mr Kelly at Comic Con. (We shot the movie in 28 days, 6 hours and 42 minutes. I'm not sure about the seconds, 12 more or less.) I also won many "name a movie/show with a Donnie location" and "director's cut differences" games with die-hards. I may have been a nerd, but I was a nerd with fine taste.
Recently, one of my friends sent me a Donnie poster with Jake's signature and "every living creature on earth dies alone", all the way from New York. Four years ago, I would've died of a panic attack. Now, it just made me smile. Maybe my love for Donnie has grown from superficial infatuation to old-married-couple devotion. I now understand my Donnie obsession. The film, for me, is about things greater than atheism, loss, possibilities, love, dreams, sacrifice, destiny, and a troubled mind. Donnie concretized the mess swirling namelessly inside me.
I wish I could really write about Donnie... explain all the themes, put out my theories, arrange the symbolism, and discuss time travel like I'm Stephen Hawking. But I don't think I can really write about the film itself. It will sound like a C+ philosophy paper. So I guess this brief history ends the same way Donnie Darko does.
I know I was drunk/hungover most of the time, but whatever. I'm glad I went and made it back. Our flight was closed when we reached the gate. Oh, lateness.
We spent the first night eating in this impossibly expensive seafood restaurant that played Westlife and songs like "Puff, the Magic Dragon". We got drunk in Khao San Road. I remember eating bugs, lying about my nationality, and refusing whatever was offered to me by fellow drunk foreigners. I remember seeing a girl refuse a guy and laughing loudly about it. I remember a white guy with dreads and criticizing his choices.
Everyone was nice. Every tuk tuk/taxi guy/girl was great. "Are you Japanese?" "You from Singapore?" I was every nationality but Filipino. "I'm Filipino." "AHH! We Thai and Philippines same same!" Sure. Same same, but different. I was Japanese to you a moment ago.
We stayed at Niras Bankoc, which is the best hostel I've ever slept in. The people running it were great. The people I met there were great (mostly flashpackers)... but I don't understand people who hit on people they will never see again. The best Pad Thai place is right across Niras Bankoc. While we were eating there, my friend saw this famous chef with this famous show. I saw camera people, but I didn't see this famous chef. The Pad Thai was damn good.
"The Smoking Pussy" (in Bangkok's red light district) was fucking awesome. We thought we wouldn't find it, but we did. The show made me uncomfortable at first because I was drunk and the first thing I saw was the last act - a couple fucking onstage. I was amazed at the various things the girls did with their vaginas. I ended up watching their faces, though. Even in porn, faces interest me the most. I like imagining/seeing what they're thinking. It was a little sad, and I was a little drunk. The place was filled with wide-eyed, open-mouthed twenty-something white guys. Their faces were interesting too. The show ended with a couple fucking, using maybe twenty positions. The couple behind us were talking. "We should try that." "Yeah, but we need two stripper poles."
I remember dancing and lights and clubs. I remember guys falling all over themselves. I remember a dealer trying to buy us drinks. I remember insisting on tap water and being told by a foreigner that it's "no good here." Hello, person. I'm from a third-world country. I remember thinking "all the nice foreigners are in internet shops." I remember daring my friend to talk to lonely, cute boys. But what's the point? People are stupid. I'm sure we looked pretty stupid as well.
We spent the mornings with coconuts. We rode elephants, trains and buses. We overpaid. We went to the ancient city. We went to the floating markets. I regret not buying that painting. I regret not going more North or more South. But that's OK. I've been there already. And this was supposed to be a drunk trip. I will always be able to visit Thailand.
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