What were most definitely involved in the accident were Karaoke’s unique take, perception, and slant on all things that are life.  First of all, I had to convince him his neck was not broken, sprained perhaps, but broken, no.  If he was badly injured he would not have made it through dinner, watched some bad television with us, and be standing next to me, both adorned in underwear, telling me about his almost fatal brush with a bus.

Granted it was very, very early in the morning, or very late at night, and I was half asleep, but here it goes, according to him:

Mike was pulling out of a parking lot.

He looked left.  He looked right. He pulled out.

A bus hit the front of his car, the driver side, left side.

Like a concerned son in law, and a half ass sleuth I did some digging.  Once again, granted it was very, very early in the morning, and I was half asleep, but here it goes, according to him after a friendly interrogation, details:

There was minor damage done to his car.

There was no damage to the bus.

There were no passengers on the bus (no witnesses).

The police were not called.  There was no report filed.

The end?

According To Owen

It was a bit chilly out when Karaoke and I stood in the driveway looking over the victim, his car.  Well, there was a bit of damage…HIS FRONT BUMPER WAS MISSING.  As I tried to get more facts, thoughts, traces of memories about the assailing bus, Karaoke Mike and I circled his car in our underwear.  I wondered if any of our neighbors were watching us, wondering when we were moving out of the neighborhood and letting them be, elevating the value of their homes.  If they had any idea what we were talking about, talking about a bus accident, no police report, and the ‘minor’ damage Mike’s car suffered they would have called the authorities and had us put away in a place where meds. are handed out like pez candies, and all are issued comfortable pajamas, robes, and soft toed slippers.

I began to explain to Mike my take on the accident:

1.It was the bus driver’s fault

2.He knew it. Hence, the reason he was insistent on not calling the police

3.No passengers meant the NJ Transit employee was either rushing back to the terminal to call it a  
night, or he was late for a stop. An accident would have been tough to explain to his superiors after they received a call from Jersey City’s finest

4.The bus driver steamrolled short, placid, at times gullible Karaoke Mike, telling him there was nothing wrong with his car (his bus was fine) all the while his front bumper was laying on the city street, and his hanging left hand signal light flashed yellow, reflecting off the chrome

( I kept this to myself.  Why kick Karaoke when he’s down, and in his underwear, standing in his driveway with his half naked son in law?)

Breakfast

I dropped the subject, asked him some more health questions, to ensure he was all right, and made my way to bed.  What was I to do?  Do you know how many NJ Transit buses, and NJ Transit bus drivers there are on the streets of Jersey City at any given time?  Where do I start?  Do Karaoke Mike, Stella, and I want to take on the all powerful NJ Transit?  Who do you think the defense’s first witness to be called to the stand would be?

Yep, you guessed it.  ‘Tightie whitie’, vertically challenged, ‘how do you say?’  Karaoke Mike.  Case closed.  Prosecution go home.  I wanted to wake Stella, but our laughter would have awoken Dalton.  I waited to breakfast to tell her.  It was still dark out, and sleep would have complimented the quiet it fills in. 

Can you say,”Karaoke Mike, The Sitcom?”

Tomorrow: Owen Scott Verde Status Report

Resist. Multiply. Karaoke Mike?

Underwear
His underwear are brilliant white, an exemplar of ‘tightie whities’ if they’re ever was one. I rock boxers, of all sorts of splendid, ‘cutsie wootsie’ designs and patterns.  I’m the yin of men’s under garments, and Karaoke Mike is the yang.  Together we are splendid, a ‘working man’s’ underwear advertisement in a Sears catalog.

Darkness canvases the exterior of the house, silhouetting soon to be full, plush spring trees, and bushes.  Neighbors are sound asleep, I assume.  Certain corners, rooms, areas of our house are dark.  There is a lone kitchen light shining above the steel sink.  Often I wake and find myself right next to the well-lit sink, quietly grabbing a drink for a late night, or early morning drink.  Stealth like, Karaoke Mike is standing next to me, effortlessly out of the shadows of our late night house, onto the cold grey tiles of our kitchen floor.  I used to get startled.  No longer.  As a matter of fact, if Karaoke Mike is not by my side in his underwear I grow concerned.

“Good Morning.”

“It’s 3:15 in the morning.”

“Oh.  Getting me a glass, please.”

High Ground
I put all of the good glasses, beer pint glasses, up on the top shelf.  The local Filipinos, Mike and Stella, can’t get to the good stuff.  When given a choice in combat, whether it is violent, or civil, domestic war of attrition, always choose high ground, the top shelf.  It has become a position of power.

“(e)Scott can you put up the clean glasses?”

“Yes.”

Stella and Mike need a stool to do so, I, being six foot one, need but to reach upwards into the cabinet.

Underwear Digression
I grab Mike and I a glass, top shelf quality.  His starchy, immaculate ‘tightie whities’ bringing light where there was once dark.  I feel as if we could power the entire house, hell, all of the slumbering neighborhood by channeling the clean glow Mike’s old school, America was built on fruit of looms drawers generates, renewable, laundered energy.  Together we stand at the sink, in our underwear, drinking a quick drink at 3:15 in the morning.

“I almost killed today.”

Our conversations taking place while in underwear are always very heavy, and usually take place with a grave, attention getting comment mouthed by Karaoke Mike in between sips of our late night beverages.

I defy anyone to place your glass in the sink.  I dare anyone to say,”Good night.”, and return to bed before digging into this rich, fertile soil that is Karaoke Mike’s field of life.  What would you say?  You would say…

“Wha…whawha…what?”

“Bus hit my car, and I snapped my back, and my necks is broken.  I’m tired.  Good night.  I’m sleepings.”

Seven Hours Earlier
A bottle of wine was opened, glasses were chimed, a toast to health and happiness was made as Stella, Mike and I enjoyed a fine meal we all prepared together.  I worked on the goat cheese salad, Stella and Mike tag teamed the seasoned chicken breasts.  Not once was a bus, a collision, snapped vertebrae ever brought up during the entire hour or so spent at the dinner table.  As a matter of fact, I really think Karaoke Mike said he had a good day.

Bus Meet Karaoke Mike.  Karaoke Mike Meet Bus.
Karaoke Mike was making the rounds in Jersey City.  Singing Karaoke at a bar, after a hard workday.  No, Let me put any ideas you may have about Mike, drinking, and bus accidents to rest.  Mike doesn’t drink.  Stella and I enjoyed the bottle of dinner wine I just mentioned.  Mike is good for one glass, not even a full one, so, no alcohol wasn’t involved in Mike’s accident.  What was most definitely involved in the accident was…to be continued tomorrow

Tomorrow: Karaoke Mike Dances With Death (Conclusion)

Resist. Multiply. Wear Your Seatbelt.

I really don’t make this stuff up.  Stella and I returned home from the hospital earlier this evening.  Exhausted.  Stella, being the bipedal lactating grocery store that she is immediately had to feed Dalton when we arrived home.  Literally, we were on familiar ground, resting in our much missed castle for 12 minutes before Stella had to expose her breasts and nourish incessantly hungry Dalton.  What does Karaoke do?

Six of our neighbors excitedly entered into the living room with Stella in a compromised position.  To my heavy eyes, and foggy head it seemed like a plethora of city commuters making their way to Penn Station. Who do you think invited them in?  Yep, the proud new grandfather, Papa Peligroso.  It’s hard enough patiently tending to a five day old, let alone a 62 year old infant who does not have the social grace, or common sense to let his fatigued, drained daughter, who happens to have her ti$$ies out, rest and feed his brand spankin’ new grandson on her missed, comfy couch.

It took 12 minutes, just 720 seconds for Karaoke to turn dangerous.  I know this because we are religiously documenting all of Dalton’s feeding times, keeping track of his novice intake.  12 minutes.

What kind of damage is Dalton capable of bringing about in 720 seconds? My money is still on Karaoke/Peligroso for bringing about more trouble.  El abulo, the grandfather will win out. Always.

However, the kind, kind, misguided man he is had dinner ready for us when we triumphantly came home with his first grandchild.  Always, he means well, but…UGH!  The dinner, when we finally sat down to eat it, was very good.  It was cold, but very tasty.  The freshly cooked dishes cooled while familiar strangers stared at my son while he suckled my wife’s exposed breasts.  Don Peligroso/Karaoke Mike asked people if they wanted something to drink.  12 minutes.  12.

The Birth, The Essay is still on it’s way.

Sorry

Lo siento.  I would like to extend my apologies to the good people of Tribe of Dad for being remiss when it comes to my daily posting duties.  You see, at the tail end of last week I became sick, wicked, super sucker sick. Fever, aches, and pains, headache, and a rash to boot, invaded my system in a hostile, pervasive fashion.  Can you say “bad timing?”  Stella can pop anytime now.  Thank goodness little Verde decided not to make an appearance last weekend while Papa Verde, me, Owen, was down and out for the count.  Ginger Ale and crackers were all that I subsisted on for three and half days.

Also, some of you may know through your reading that I was playing email tag with a prospective employer in Costa Rica.  It certainly has been a turbulent couple of days.   Presently, I walk among the living, unemployed in Costa Rica.  My appetite has returned.  The rash has disappeared.  It was a strong strain of some stomach virus; it’s a place I really don’t want to revisit, unlike the CR.

Stella Pregnancy News

She is due the 19th.  Besides that, well, that’s all there is.  The wait ensues ☹

As Promised – Karaoke Mike Does Costa Rica – Segundo

Rewind – Karaoke Mike a.k.a. Don Peligroso and I are in Costa Rica, drinking Imperial, and cleaning the house.  Pause/Remind(er) – He was in his boxer shorts, and a fully dressed gentleman was making his way up our front lawn.

Play - A beautiful friendship started with, yep, you guessed it, you’re good, “Hola. Como Esta? How do you say?”.

Before I knew it Eduardo, our soon to be friend, confidant and resident gardening expert was in our empty, freshly cleaned house.  Our masculine voices echoed throughout the house, bouncing off of one wall and onto another, easily rising and falling, the waves of sound being so strong because there was not one article of furniture or decoration to act as a buffer, or absorb some of the audible energy.

From the get go we really liked Eduardo, and he really liked us.  The man love relationship continues to this day.  From the get go he tolerated, embraced, and patiently corrected the butchering of his mother tongue Don Peligroso and I did to his beloved idioma de Espanoel.  Every morning, Eduardo was at our house enjoying coffee and conversation.  Eventually, always, the conversation turned into a teaching session.  Eduardo was the professor and Peligroso and I were the pupils.  Class was held outside as he educated us about all of the beautiful horticulture that surrounded our new home.  Watering times, seasonal plantings, weeding, and observations of humming birds were some of the invaluable lessons Eduardo instilled in us.

I believe one characteristic of a fine teacher is to have a strong sense of cultural sensitivity.  The world is changing, some times it is for the good, and cultural barriers, ethnic lines are beginning to blend, spilling over into one another, painting the walls of our turbulent global village with a shade of Roy G. Biv. This is an encouraging grain of sand on the present beaches of hardship. Eduardo did just that, he never judged, he never asked Peligroso why he wore his underwear out in public at all different, not so discriminate times of the day.

This can’t be confirmed, but I’m pretty sure he went home to his family and friends telling them about his new friends, this Americano named Owen, and this Filipino man named Mike who wore his underwear proudly like that of a young boy on Christmas day just after ripping open a fresh batch of Batman underoos, insisting that he wear them all day around the house, and at the feast like dinner table later that night.   At times I thought he was going to show up in his underwear to show respect and cultural solidarity, supporting the Filipinos of the world in their apparent quest to spread the care free, protest of fashion by rocking underwear in foreign countries campaign.  Perhaps he told his good people that this is how the Filipinos conduct business and socialize.  Eduardo never did knock on our door in his tight whities though.  Perhaps he thought I was being disrespectful to my father in law by wearing shorts and a bathing suit.  It has gone unsaid to this very day.  I vow to the Tribe that I will bring this up with Eduardo.  My Spanish has improved.  We are very friendly with one another, so such a topic will not be all that uncomfortable to converse about.

Eduardo is a pensinado, a retiree who draws a well-deserved pension.  Also, Eduardo is an “overseer”.   Our home in Costa Rica is secluded, but among a lot of recent building.  With progress, if you want to call it that, there is responsibility.  Eduardo is responsible for the development we have a house in.  He is the right hand man of Don Guillermo.  Eduardo oversees the construction sites, making sure all is well in Don Guillermo’s kingdom.  Don Guillermo is five different posts/stories unto himself, but I’ll tell you this, he is a very powerful, much revered man in that quaint, beautiful area of the world.  He doesn’t know everyone, but everyone knows him.  Don Guillermo is now a friend as well.  As a matter of fact, he too, being so gracious, and considerate never asked Mike about his underwear, or lack of shorts and bathing suits.

Actually, Don Guillermo has the honor of bringing about Mike’s Spanish title, Don Peligroso.  Graciously, the Don invited us over for dinner one evening.  To show respect, thanks, gratitude towards Eduardo and Don Guillermo, Mike made a fruit salad, and traditional Filipino food to bring to the paryt.   By this time Stella and friends joined us.  Stella, too, is some what of a celebrity in our neighborhood.  There are not many tourists, residents of Costa Rica that are of the Asian persuasion. Stand out number one. There are not many tourists, residents of Costa Rica that are of the Asian persuasion who speak Spanish fluently.  Stand out number two. There are not many tourists, residents of Costa Rica that are of the Asian persuasion who speak Spanish fluently and are incredibly nice and accommodating.  Stand out number three, a star is born.

Stella, Mike, myself and friend JFL (Johniee Fair Lawn) started to make our way over to Don Guillermo’s 50 acre farm.   As stated before Costa Rica is a beautiful country, but the roads are terrible, the infrastructure is non-existent, well barely.  For me this is part of the charm, an important factor of it’s divine simplicity.  The roads, most of them dirt trails, are plagued with enormous holes, jagged, bumpy grooves that go on for hundreds of yards.  Periodically, you drive on smooth, effortless roads, but that’s rare, very.

It was going to be a long bumpy ride to Don Guillermo’s farm, and it was going to be under the cover of darkness, and no there are no street signs, no street lamps, nada.  We set out with much excitement.  This was an honor to be invited to Don Guillermo’s house.  As we slowly motored along like a bomber plane being violently jostled from incoming anti aircraft fire, Mike began to become very quiet and to himself while all of us recapped our wonderful time in Costa Rica.

JFL – “Mike, what’s up?”
Mike – “Nothing.”

More time passes, laughs warm the car, bringing much needed light to the dark road.  Mike remains quiet; As I drive there is a solemn vacuum forming in the backseat right behind me.

Stella – “Dad, are you O.K.?”
Mike – “Yes, O.K. I’m doing.”

Even more time passes, laughs continue to carry the car closer to the party.  Collectively, no one, well JFL, Stella and myself express how we have no desire to return back to los Estados Unidos.  Mike remains quiet; The vacuum is beginning to suck up all of the positive energy generated by the three soon to be ex-pats.  I must intervene.  I have to know what is going on.  I have been on far too many adventures with Mike to know that once I pry I can get at the truth.  I’m the narrating miner and Mike is the ore of comedic gold waiting to be found, farmed, and formed into comical tales.

Owen – “Karaoke, are you O.K.?”
Mike – “Yes.”
Owen – “No you’re not.”
Mike – “You’re being right.  I’m not doing good.”

There is a long pause. I almost laughed because I know something is coming. JFL senses it too, and places a kind hand on Karaoke’s worrisome shoulder.  All three of us are grinning; here it comes…)

Mike – “We’re having to turn around.  I’m forgetting all of the food and salads for Guillermo’s party.  So, turn around.”

The roads are terrible.  All of us have a bit of air sickness like nausea from the bumps, dumps, and road grinds.  There are no street signs. It’ dark, I mean dark, not even the car’s headlights are shedding reasonable light on the tropical dimness.  Guillermo is a man of honor, tardiness, well I don’t think there is a word for that in Spanish.

Owen – “Mike, there is no f@%@in’ way we’re heading home.”

Mike – “I drive then.”

That’s when all three of laughed, out loud, very loud.  Mike hasn’t driven in the states since 1989.

JFL/Stella/Owen, like a chorus of symbiotic mockingbirds– “No. You’re not driving.”

Silencio.

Mike –“I. Am. A. Dangerous. Man.”

JFL/Stella/Owen, like a chorus of symbiotic mockingbirds– “Yes. You. Are.”

By the time we arrived at Don Guillermo’s farm all of us including Karaoke now Peligroso were exhausted from laughing.  Our faces were streaked with warm emotion and tears of laughter.  Being the gracious host and gentlemen he is, Don Guillermo asked us what happened on the journey over.  In Spanish, Stella recapped the whole story.  Don Guillermo laughed, it came from his gut, his pocket for the evasive soul.  It was sincere, and contagious.  He leaned into Mike, extended his hand, and said in impeccable English,”You, my friend, are dangerous.  You are Don Peligroso.”  Eduardo was in the background, smiling.  He said nothing, but he agreed.

The legend continues.  Many men live, but very few are alive.  Alive and dangerous.

Tomorrow: Great News For Us and Our Opposable Thumbed Genetic Brothers

Resist. Multiply.

The myth, the legend continues to grow across the American frontier.  There will come a time when the name Karaoke Mike will become common place, mentioned at bustling bars amongst friends sharing a well deserved Friday cocktail, discussed at Sunday morning breakfast tables while orange juice cartons and cereal boxes are passed around.  Of course there will be laughs, disbelieving shrugs, and amazed facial expressions during the communal tales of Karaoke Mike.  There will be an universal, and American collective buzzing in the fifty jigsaw shaped states that make up the puzzle of modern America.

In time Karaoke Mike, Chronic, Don Peligroso, however you want to refer to him as, will cut a track with the Wu Tang Clan.  It will be released internationally, entitled “How Do You Say?”.  Instantly, over night, Karaoke will become hip-hop royalty without the “bling”, and legal rap sheet of priors and misdemeanors giving credence to street credentials and what the thugs/gangstas’ call respect.  BET, MTV will scramble to assemble biopic pieces about this enigmatic MC (mic controller) who rolls deep with the celebrated Wu Tang Clan.  While flicking through countless generic, mind numbing television channels Americans will come to a halt when they see Karaoke on popular late night talk shows.  The hosts will be gracious, and amused while Karaoke spins the yarn of his amazing, darkly comedic life.

It’s only a matter of time.  Trust me.  One brief episode of Karaoke’s life will add to the wildfire of his unavoidable fame.  It takes place south of the border, way south, as a matter of fact it’s more like south, south, central of the Mexico, Estados Unidos border.  From here on in throughout this piece Karaoke Mike will be referred to as his Central American alias Don Peligroso.  Refresher, it has been mentioned in the past, Peligroso translates to danger/dangerous.

Like here in the states, the name Don Peligroso is beginning to roll off the Spanish speaking tongues of the fine folks residing in the Guanacaste province of Costa Rica.  The Ticos, the indigenous people of Costa Rica, are very familiar with el Don.  They are familiar with his underwear, specifically boxers.  Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Costa Rica is a place that Stella and I have an affinity for.  Numerous cosmic coincidences have drawn us there time and time again.  We were married on a breathtaking beach known as Playa Langosta.  An Easter egg sunset canvassed the backdrop of our wedding photos.  Current long lasting friendships were formed in the towns of Tamarindo, Villa Real, Langosta, Conchal and Mal Pais.  All are small habitats of sand, shells, blazing sun, and dense, moist jungle reaching onto the beach, caressing the surf break like finger paintings of children embracing, uniting together on white paper.  It’s as if the agriculture branch or battalion of Mother Nature flows back into the salty oceanic battalion of herself.  Folding onto oneself in tropical, alpha, omega fashion.  The Ouroboros of nature.  As you can see Costa Rica adds a Latin beat to my North American heart.  Sorry, back to Mike/Peligroso and his internationally famous underwear.

Peligroso is near retirement, and he is excitedly looking to the tranquil future of all play and no business.  While in Costa Rica for our wedding, Don Peligroso purchased a house in a small town named Villa Real.  Now, that’s one hell of a wedding gift, retirement get away.  He’s certifiable, but I love him, a lot.  Thanks to him I’m a partial owner of a nice, nice home in an even nicer Costa Rica.  The house is ten minutes from Tamarindo, and 15 minutes from Avellanas, both beautiful beaches known for their surf.

Last August, Stella, myself, Don Peligroso, and different, rotating shifts of friends spent three weeks at the house of Peligroso.  Old friends visited, new ones were made, and Peligroso modeled various boxer shorts while building our Costa Rican social web.  Peligroso was always the amusing, pseudo bi-lingual host of numerous get togethers, and big business pow-wows in the dusty streets of our quiet, quaint neighborhood.  Always, Peligroso was sporting his briefs.  Todos las dias.

Peligroso and myself were the vanguards of the August journey.  We paved the way for Stella and visting friends from the states and South America. When we finally arrived to the house, a one-hour, bumpy, volatile ride from Liberia International airport, cleaning, major cleaning was in order.  The house had no been resided in for five months, since Peligroso and Stella lived there for a  very busy week in May to close on the house, and take care of some international legalities.  Immediately, while drinking Imperials, the fine, national brew of Costa Rica, we started the dusting, mopping, scrubbing, and setting up of our little private piece of paradise, and tropical refuge.

I’m of German and Irish descent.  Peligroso is Filipino.  Beer is well, s@^t, an important component of my blood, and genetic make up.  For thousands of years it has been flowing in my ancestor’s veins and pumping through their ancient hearts.  It works for me, plain and simple.  I’m a beer smith, well versed in the swallowing of it.  Also, I’m 6’1 and depending on my current eating habits, weighing in at 190 – 200 pounds.  Peligroso never drinks, well until now, and through the remainder of this story.  He stands at a powerful 5’2 and weighs in at maybe 130 pounds.  I never voiced a challenge, or an idea for an Imperial drinking competition, but Peligroso must have heard one.  Peligroso matched every beer I thoroughly enjoyed.

Several cleaning hours later, well, he was wasted, barracho.  And, yes, you mumbled it to yourself, in his boxers, sweeping the front patio area for all of our new neighbors to see.  As I was chuckling at the window watching him giggle and sweep in his stylish, plaid boxer shorts and sandals, a large, dust ridden pick up truck pulled up in front of the house.  A well dressed older gentlemen, donning khakis, a long sleeve dress shirt, and straw hat made his way up our front lawn.  I was amazed that he was not sweating, not one sole bead of perspiration.  Costa Rica es muy calor.  Also, what was stunning was Peligroso did not feel out dressed or out classed in the presence of this stranger.
A beautiful friendship started with, yep, you guessed it, you’re good, “Hola. Como Esta? How do you say?”.

Before I knew it …

Tomorrow: Karaoke Mike Does Costa Rica – Segundo

Resist. Multiply.

Karaoke Mike a.k.a Don Peligroso is an international traveler and world-renowned playboy.  His legend is growing at an alarming rate on a transcontinental level.  A multiplicity of global Karaoke bars are buzzing about this enigmatic, short Filipino man known to some as Karaoke Mike, others as Chronic and Senor Don Peligroso in Latin American countries close to the blazing equator.  Presently, Karaoke is in south east Asia, his hood, his barrio, his stomping grounds, the Philippines.

When it comes to my main man I never, ever exaggerate the tales I weave for the good readers of TribeofDad.  Communication is one of the key foundations of human existence, allowing sentient beings to fully experience life.  As stated in previous posts, Karaoke Mike has a unique, original way of communicating.  John Coltrane brought an unheard of passionate voice to the jazz world when he waxed poetic with his novel saxophone playing.  Eddie Van Halen did the same for modern guitar playing.  I feel confident in saying Karaoke Mike is the vanguard for soon to be, god willing, voters willing, post Bush America, when it comes to email writing.

Coltrane offered “A Love Supreme” to the world. Eddie Van Halen thrashed through the now famous “Eruption”, and Karaoke Mike crafted this: (enjoy, not many people, very few to be correct, witnessed Jimi Hendrix unleash to the world his distorted, cutting edge rendition of “Star Spangle Banner”.  I did not change a word of this soon to be momentous email; you’re about to witness history.)

Dear Stella,Owen & Strummer,

I called you this morning at 7:30am Sunday at night over there. Carina, myself
and all your cousins join us and we are 3 vans and 1 pick up truck 40 persons
all together. This trip is not a plan however, Maricel decided up to the last
minute to follow Amer in Naga. Counselor’s all over the Philippines
have convention in Naga and he is one of the delegates and they have an
itenerary to see places for free admission so Maricel take advantage of this
benefits. We stayed in a big house like Villa type and this is owned by Amer’s
cousin who lives in Canada. We arrived yesterday from Bicol at around 6:00 pm
and we’re all exhausted from this long trip. This coming Friday our next plan is
Manila Ocean Park with all kids. Odie extended his invitation to stay
overnight in their house. The following day 7/26 is Carina’s departure for
London. All your cousin’s misses you and they all want to embrace you with love
especially when they hear news that you are going deliver a baby this
coming mid August and they excited. They say that next time you visit
the Philippines with the baby so they get to know that they have a cousin in US.
Call before I leave Lucena to go to the Airport in Manila. I love
all and I see August 8.

Have a great weekend!

The Chronicles of Karaoke Mike – The Navy and My Friend Boots

The Ultimate Wave Off - The Return of The Pooh Stories Without Winnie

The Chronicles
Mike is a patriot, true and true. Granted, if he was to recite the pledge of allegiance it would sound like it was being spoken in pig latin, and if he was to list the 50 blessed states that make up the jigsaw puzzle of the United States… well he couldn’t list the 50 states…all I’m saying is from the exterior you would think he is anarchist, but internally, on the inside his heart beats red, white and blue. At the age of 30 he enlisted in the Navy to repay this great nation of ours and the possibilities it afforded him and his family of Filipino immigrants. Admirable is the word that best describes this action.

Thirty is a good age, a young man, but in the armed forces thirty is considered geriatric. However, Mike went against the grain and made his way through boot camp. As a matter of fact he excelled. As a matter of fact squared, he was appointed to be his company’s head yeoman. Most of the other sailors were ten years his junior. That’s both admirable and impressive. However, please keep in mind we are talking about Karaoke Mike and there is always, always danger involved.

The last feat a potential sailor has to participate in is a grand dive off a high platform, and then a 200 yard swim to the other side of the Olympic size pool. Hundreds and hundreds of navy folk filed into one line, like an endless stream of ants dressed in heavy Navy uniforms, and think combat boots. Patiently, they waited their turn to climb up the high platform, make the jump, and then the victorious swim.

Here comes the “karaoke factor”. Karaoke Mike can’t swim. He is from the Philippines, a nation surrounded by water. He was not drafted; he enlisted in the Navy, the branch of the armed services that, well, involves water, a lot of it. Back up a couple of weeks, he could have enlisted in the air force, he is not afraid to fly. He could have joined the army, for the most part there are no major bodies of water involved when being a grunt. The Marine Corps, well, he knew better not to do that, tough is one thing he is not.

He joined the Navy, and he couldn’t swim. What?

The line was long, hundreds deep, slowly it moved forward, man by man by man. Mike made his way closer to the diving platform. What was he to do? He was the company’s head yeoman, the younger enlistees looked up to him, borrowed money from him, asked him for advice, for haircuts. He was the company’s literal and figurative big brother. He could not let his fellow sailors down, so he moved forward, getting more nervous with each diving scream, and violent splash into the water. He. Said. Nothing. To. No. One.

Hours later he climbed the numerous stairs to the top of the platform, knowing he could not swim. He walked to the end of the platform knowing he could not swim. He looked down, thirty to forty feet, at the gleaming pool, knowing he could not swim. He jumped with no hesitation. After all he was the company’s head yeoman; he was the company’s big brother.

Inhale. Exhale.

When Karaoke Mike regained consciousness, several divers and Navy officers were gathered around him, looking down at him while he began to gather his breath and senses. Three Navy divers had to save him from drowning. The Navy officers saved Mike’s reputation, therefore saving the company’s morale, they did this by saying yeoman Mike was very ill, and still he braved through the final test.

For five days, all day, the officers taught Mike how to swim. He graduated with honors, top dog, a 30-year-old dog. On graduation day he carried the company flag, the same flag he designed, and even sewed.

One night Boots, Mike’s Navy buddy, told me this marvelous tale. I’ve known Boots for years; he is a nice man. I have called him Boots for the years I’ve known him until one day Stella pulled me aside and said that Boots is really Butch. Karaoke Mike just can’t sound out the ‘ch’, so Butch evolved into Boots. Hell, I like Boots better; I’ve continued to call him just that.

Peligroso is dangerous in Spanish; Karaoke is just that, in any language.

The Ultimate Wave Off

Part 1
This grandiose story includes a fender bender, an excruciating stomachache, perspiration, slow motion traffic lights and a beloved family member of mine, my brother, the future uncle of my unborn child. For the record, and any possible, pending legalities he will be called Trent.

At our Aunt’s house, Trent and I were barbecuing with family and friends, celebrating a cousin’s birthday. The weather was splendid. There was a refreshing zephyr causing the deck’s canvas umbrella to dance to and fro. The food was so tasty; everything was prepared with care, and grilled to perfection. It was a picture perfect June barbecue; a panoramic hallmark photo of American living and recreation.

Well, that was the exterior image, a facade. Chaos was what was taking place in Trent’s innards (innards is such a strange, cool word, it should be used more often, let’s work on that). Internally, there was nothing refreshing in Trent’s lower abdomen. There was nothing splendid brewing in his waste management system. If one was to choose a picture to symbolize Trent’s inner turmoil it would certainly not be a hallmark image, but a black and white WWII photo of a horrific battle. The night before, after a long workday, Trent visited many a watering hole, and implemented some stress management exercises via drinking many Black and Tans. Numerous well-poured, masterly crafted pints were consumed to alleviate work duress. Reader, if you are not familiar with the liquid poetry that is a Black and Tan then please allow me to explain. A Black and Tan is a phenomenal, tasty beverage comprised of both Guinness and fill in the blank. There are numerous beers that are used to make up the tan part of this concoction, Guinness obviously being the black part. When it comes to the tan part I prefer Harp or Bass.

Black and Tans are tasty, but if several of them are consumed well then the following day there will be some ‘issues’. Black and Tan issues are unique, and they present untimely, involuntary gas, prompting ‘return customer’ treks to the bathroom.

Back to the BBQ, After a while Trent and I had our fill of both family, and food. There’s only so much a man can take. We caught each other’s eyes, and signaled it was time to head on home. Throughout the celebration Trent left the barbeque and made a lot of different trips inside. I saw him coming and going. I was unaware of his ‘issues’. We got in the car. Trent was driving, and I was riding shotgun. This is important, so please keep it in mind. Immediately, with key in ignition, Trent began to tell me about his Black and Tan intake the night before, and the mutiny it caused his redeye to be part of. That one eyed pirate was attempting to take over the vessel that was Trent.

Eloquently, Trent stated his mission.

“This guy has to be put in check. This redeye rebel has to be brought to the authorities. Immodium AD in the house, son. I need to get home. Home court advantage is needed
for this.”

O.K. so that explained the frequency of Trent sliding open the squeaky screen door and disappearing into my aunt’s house. I laughed. Every time the door squeaked people turned around to see who was generating that noise. Trent. I should have put two and two together. Trent’s stomach combined with his imbibing, well, there are ‘issues’ often, very often.

As soon as the car was put into drive Trent started sweating. By the time we made our way out of my aunt’s quiet neighborhood Trent had one hand on the wheel and the other was holding his stomach tightly. I laughed. I suggested we turn around, but Trent was adamant about home court advantage and wanted to get home by any means necessary.

We made our way to the downtown area, populated by ma and pa shops, delis, and blocks of traffic lights. Trent was no longer sweating. It was pouring down his face, coloring the collar of his shirt. He was soaked. I laughed.

“Dude, do you want me to drive?”
See what a nice older brother I can be.

“No, I need to concentrate on something besides my stomach.”

“O.K.”

I was beginning to get excited about the potential, disastrous ending that would provide countless hours of mocking and retelling tales with friends, ironically, while probably drinking Black and Tans.

Every traffic light we came upon, and I do mean every one, the light was quickly turning yellow to red. Please file that detail as well.

Always, we had to come to a cautious stop. They were the longest red lights I have ever sat at. Almost as long as the red lights I sat at while in my father’s car, when he came to bail me out of jail, but that is another story, and I do not want to steal Trent’s thunder (no pun intended). Seriously, the lights were loooooong, reminding me of the father/jail reference that I will speak of in another post.

While idling at the umpteenth beaming red light Trent perspired profusely, cursed, held his stomach and mumbled, ”These must be slow motion traffic lights.” I laughed. By the way, all of my laughter has been out loud, in his face and totally at his expense.

The light turned green. Freedom. We made our way further through the down town area. Another light was in the near distance. A black Cadillac was in front of us.

Trent was about to explode, and there was no sight of laboratory shelter.

“Dude, all hands on deck…mutiny. This is going to happen now. I’m going to leave mustard in my johnnies.”, Trent frantically said to me while looking directly at me. We were quickly approaching a yellow light, right behind the black Cadillac.

I laughed at him. Again. I looked forward, and, well I wasn’t laughing anymore, I was…

‘See you tomorrow

I’ve traveled extensively with Karaoke Mike and I have lived with him for more than three years, so I feel it is safe to say that I’m an expert when it comes to the anomaly that he is.  Also, oddly enough, and in no homoerotic fashion, or creepy, deep fascination have I become familiar with his underwear.  Make no mistake, I’m no sweetheart to live with, and I most definitely have my moments, but Mike does not know my underwear the way I know his.  I keep my underwear to myself.  Father in laws, and mother in laws are tough, tense topics for some.  Fortunately, I have a very good relationship with them both.  If anything they have impacted my life incredibly, and I will never be able to repay them for all they have done for Stella and I.

However, some lines should not be crossed in the father in law, son in law dynamic.  One breach of our social contract is underwear.  Mike rocks tighty whities often.   I know this simple, uncomfortable fact because of these incidents I’m about to relay to the tribe.

Underwear As A Seasoning
Mike, Stella, and I live with one another in a small home.  We share a lot of things, one of them being a basement laundry area.  One fateful weekend morning I made my way down into the basement, I was sluggish, a bit punch drunk from the previous night’s deep sleep.  I was carrying a bag of dirty laundry, ironically I think it was a collection of dirty johnnies(tribe talk for underwear) when I spotted it.  Instantly, I was wide awake, and very concerned.  The bag of laundry dropped from my shoulder, thumping against the concrete basement floor.  I used the good lord’s name in vain.

Between the washing machine and dryer I saw a stew of white fruit of the looms in a large cooking bowl.   Apparently, Karaoke Mike took all of his tighty whities, put them in the large cooking bowl that has been used often, added water, bleach, and then let them sit over night, like a stew basking in flavor that only comes from time.  It was alarming.  Many meals were prepared using that same bowl.  I’m not a violent man, but I do have my limits, so I inhaled, I exhaled, and then I consciously decided not to confront Mike because that could end in a 911 phone call and the arrival of our town’s finest, responding to a domestic dispute.  I would have been the offender, but I think after some investigation, and after the officers saw the underwear being bleached in a cooking bowl they would have turned their backs and let me finish my beat down.  I decided to talk to my wife Stella, Mike’s daughter.  I asked her to ask her father why he decided to bleach his underwear in a bowl we have used to prepare many meals.

Also, here’s the real rub, I wanted to know why he chose to do that when the washing machine and dryer were just a foot apart from one another.  Was it a political statement, an environmentally conscious decision?  It was like putting an abacus between two laptops and choosing the abacus to crunch complicated numbers.  After speaking with Stella I washed my hands of it, no pun intended, and let her be Karaoke Mike’s wrangler when it comes to the laundry room.   I don’t know what was said.  I don’t care.  All I know is that very afternoon the bowl was in the recycle bin, and since then I have never seen a stew of fruit of the looms resting between our washing machine and dryer.

4 In The Morning
I’m a very light sleeper.  Many a night I make the journey down stairs, and grab a drink, or a late, late night snack.   One eventful night, early morning, I carefully walked the walk, holding onto the banister, wondering what god awful time it was.  When I made my way into the kitchen Karaoke Mike was sitting on a stool, writhing in pain, rocking back and forth.  He was wearing nothing but white, glow in the dark, let me bleach them one more time, tighty whities.  The kitchen was dark, but there was gleam from his crotch. This is what was said between a five foot two, sixty-year-old Filipino man and a six foot one, 35-year-old white American.  For a strong visual, please keep in mind both men, father in law, son in law are in their underwear.

Owen: What? (pause) What are you doing?
Karaoke: My tummy (pause) (more writhing) discomforting.  How do you say? Moving da’ bowls, saying, extremely difficult.
Owen: What? (pause) What are you doing?
Karaoke: My tummy is in trouble.

*Side note – Karaoke Mike is the only person I know over the age of three who refers to his stomach as his tummy.

Owen: What kind of trouble?
Karaoke: Da’ bowels are moving no, how do you say? Constellation.
Owen: What? (pause) What are you doing?
Karaoke: I’m constellation.

*Side note – I said to myself - What the f%@k is this guy saying?

Karaoke:  I can no longer move da’ bowls.

*Side note – last one, I was close to losing my temper.  I thought Mike was referring to the bowel we had to throw out from his underwear bleaching days, but after a moment of clarity I realized…

Owen:  You can’t take a s@#t can you?
Karaoke: No, I’m saying this.  I’m constellation.

I made some suggestions. I told Mike I would put a call into Dr. Hob for some alternative solutions. Of course I waited to the sun came up.  I didn’t get a drink, or a snack.  I returned upstairs and cried myself to sleep.  My laughter shook the bed, and woke up Strummer.  Stella was out cold.  “Constellation.”  Faulkner couldn’t write dialogue like that.

His way, his life, his doings are potentially dangerous.  Who knows what kind of illness Stella and I contracted from the fruit of the loom fruit bowel if I did not intervene?  While in bed laughing I could have shook both Strummer and Stella out of the bed, injuring them.  There are countless other happenings that make me simultaneously love and fear Karaoke Mike.  Give it time, but I believe Karaoke Mike will be a house hold name, and his tales will be come American folklore.

-Owen Scott Verde

Tomorrow: The Chronicles of Karaoke Mike – The Navy and My Friend Boots