I decided to take a long lunch today and I ended up strolling the Westfield Century City. I strolled into William Rast without any intent of buying jeans, though I'm in the market for good, quality denim since I've been losing weight. I was greeted by a very attractive guy at the cash wrap and he quickly struck a conversation with me.

"I lost some weight so I need some new jeans."

"Bulimia?" He snarked.

"OMG, YES! It's been totally working, but my version is with alcohol so it helps me throw up more."

His associate blurted a chuckle from the other side of the store. "Hmmm, he's laughing because he's tried it before." The associate hand models his slim, tall body and replied with, "How can you tell?"

I casually mentioned that I was just trying on the different cuts they have since I was already familiar with the brand but I wanted something black and resin coated. He found a few pairs that he thought would fit well and set up a fitting room for me and laid them neatly on the bench. He closed the curtain and stayed on the other side of it as we continued to chat. Oddly, we both vaguely remembered each other. I was actually in his store 3 months ago while I was killing time before a job interview.

I tried on a blue pair of Jackson Slims and I left the fitting room to ask for his opinion and see if there was a black pair. He commented that he liked the fit but I told him that I wasn't really about to spend about $200 for jeans. In the middle of all our conversation, I neglected to get his name. I shook his hand and he remarked, "Damn, I guess you're trying to break my hand!" "My handshakes are firm... I guess I'm firm but fair." I replied. His name was Cesar. Cesar - the cute, charming guy who was helping me. He came back and said that he could honor a sale price for me but decided to just give me his employee discount instead if I were to buy something with cash. I was surprised that he'd even offer his employee discount as I didn't even ask for any sort of hook up. I told him that he didn't have to do that, but he insisted.

I tried on a pair of the resin black Luke Straight Legs and they were perfect. I asked if I had to have them hemmed. He then bent down to show me a quick way to fold it for an easy fix. I thought it was cute. Very cute.

I had to pay cash so I told him that I don't have any on me unless there was a Wells Fargo ATM.

"There's one close by." He proceeded to give directions and stops himself mid-sentence. "Actually, I can just show you."

After I got dressed again, he leaves the store and actually escorts me to the ATM. I placed the black denim on the cash wrap before we walked out. "We'll be back." Cesar says as he nonchalantly walks me out. Our conversation continues.

Highlights included:

- "So... how old are you?"
- "You from around here?"
- "When will you be working in Century City again?"

He was totally cute about the whole thing. He rang me up with a few high pitched catch phrases in between his calculated keystrokes. He, indeed, honored his promise to give me his employee discount. "You know, Cesar, if you weren't so cute, I wouldn't have bought these jeans." He smiled and handed me my receipt. "You should always pop your head in every time you're in the area." I asked for a pen and discreetly wrote my number on a piece of my receipt.

"Call me whenever you're in Pasadena. Actually, you don't even have to to be in Pasadena. Just call me."

Smiles and handshakes all around. "Nice meeting you, Mark."

I take my merchandise, put on my shades and proceed to make my exit.

"Oh. by the way Cesar," I smirk. "I'm not actually bulimic. I'll see you around."

________________

I wonder if he'll call me. I doubt it though. Of the 4 times I've given my number out... NONE have ever really called. Is there ANY guy that into me that would? Meh. We'll see. At least I got a great deal on some expensive denim, right?

I'll be thinking of Cesar every time I wear them though. heh. :]

Storybook Ending

Bless your soul, you've got your head in the clouds.
You made a fool out of me.
And, boy, you're bringing me down.
You made my heart melt, yet I'm cold to the core.
But rumor has it I'm the one you're leaving her for...

Lyrics - Rumour Has It by Adele

Top 10: Guys I'm Attracted To

*In no particular order

1. aren't attracted to me
2. don't know I exist
3. don't exist
4. are straight
5. aren't out / sure who they are
6. don't know it because I don't have the balls to say something
7. don't tell me so I can't explore it further
8. live in another time zone
9. have major conflicting principles
10. are taken

I'm really on the fence about starting to date. Sure, there are a few guys that strike me, but circumstances aren't in my favor. I always hear that I'm this amazing guy but how is it possible that I don't have an amazing other? Whatev.

I don't call it "being picky." I consider it "knowing what I want." I know what I want and I just can't have it... well maybe not at the moment. Now, I'm not doomed to spend eternity alone, but can we be honest for a sec? We're all so busy chasing someone else, but all we have to do is stop running, turn around & open our eyes and see that there's someone who's been chasing you.

I used to think that I put the "hopeless" in "hopeless romantic." Now, I figured if guys made me work hard for them, I deserve someone who'll work just as hard as I do. In the meantime, I'll continue working on myself again since I feel like I slipped through the cracks. I don't feel like myself. Unless you're one of the few who can disarm me, I'm not going to meet a guy halfway right now, but I'll keep an open mind and heart. If you want my attention, give me yours in exchange. I won't bite... unless you politely ask me to.

I still think about you, but I've gotten really good at controlling my feelings.

You still keep me up at night and when I finally fall sleep, you reign over my dreams. I guess I'll take what I can get.

In the meantime, I'll wallow in my own confusion. However, this time it isn't so much about you. I'll still smirk to myself thinking about you, but I can't allow myself to die at my own hand anymore. Maybe later, eh?

The mere thought of playing as an ERHS volleyball alumnus stabbed me in the face with fear. Seasoned players, enthusiasts and current ERHS players surrounded me. “Why did I even come here?” was the recurring question that violently wrapped inside. I assured myself that the promise I had made to a handful of great friends who begged me to go was the only thing keeping me from running hysterically out of the gymnasium. Mind you, I’ve NEVER been to a game since I left 11 years ago, let alone show up to an alumni day.

I was first asked to play in the Alumni vs. Varsity game. Long story short, after sitting out for most of the game, the coach asked me to play back row. I honestly didn’t remember how to move around the court or any of the rotations. After 2 horribly shanked passes later, I convinced myself that I had no business being on the court. I mustered a fake grin when the other players ribbed me for a job badly done. I understood that it was all in good fun, but I quietly held in my humiliation.

I wanted to get it over with.

The next game, I was asked to play in an all-alumni game. Feigning enthusiasm, I joined so I didn’t look like a poor sport. I had no idea what position I would play. How would I know if I’ve never really played organized volleyball in years? I was asked to play opposite back row. I wouldn’t even serve throughout the game. “Fuck. I’m only back here since I’m the most useless person on the court. They just need a sixth.” I asked the other players to direct me on what ground to cover and they reminded me that I was a D set. There wasn’t a prayer in heaven or hell that would make me call for a D set.

Familiar faces were watching, so I had to play as best as I could.

I felt like it was high school all over again. I would sit on the bench with whatever injury I had and just watch. I was on the team, but I was that misfit all over again. Everyone else on the team was talking to each other and I was just “that guy who showed up so we should let him play.” I accepted my impending doom and played. I played my heart out.

Fast-forward to a battered me, leaving the event with a huge smile on my face. My wrists are icing up as I reflect on what I learned today. However, the high I feel trumps the physical pain.

I got over myself and looked at the experience with a fresh eye.

Though I stood under my cloud of uncertainty, the encouragement I received made me feel like I was part of something bigger, something important. I was able to make a few plays, which made me hungrier. The high fives and laughs made me actually feel like I gelled with the rest of the players. Just hearing, “Good hustle!” “Good up!” saved me from myself. I heard my friends cheering for me. I was elevated.

It was in that moment when I remembered why I loved playing volleyball. I remembered that even though I saw myself as the weakest link, I couldn’t allow myself to have the weakest spirit. Now that I think about it, the mere invitation to play among them should have been what boosted my morale in the first place. Looking back, I honestly can say that I tried my best with what I had. I had an amazing time.

Today’s event, replaced those ill feelings of inadequacy that I harbored all throughout high school. I now see that there’s some volleyball in there somewhere and no matter what skill level I’m at, that I’m still part of a team that’s generations strong. I was proud of myself for not dying on that court, but more importantly proud that I didn’t give up. After all, they didn’t give me up on me, right?

After a rocky start, I was redeemed from my former, teenage self who wanted more than sitting on the bench as the injured JV setter. My injuries didn’t allow me to play a single league game for 2 years. However, I think that today, I played the best game of my life and it was long overdue.

Faster, higher, stronger; that's what I need to be next time. I’ll pay my dues to reach the top that I only stared at from below.

A part of me was awakened and you know what? It feels pretty fucking awesome to wake up.

Eagle Rock Volleyball Alumni Day 2011: check.

I've gone through this before and I know that after experiencing this several times, that I'm wrong. I'm torn. I want to keep going, but I want to nip it in the bud. The problem here is, I'm not quite sure if there's anything to cut.

...and that, ladies & gentlemen, is entirely my fault.

I can't win or lose a fight when it's with myself. Way to go, Mark.

WAY. TO. GO.

Part of me wonders if you're going to be my undoing; possibly the death of me.

The other part hopes so...

Gag Reflex

I've finally learned to get over myself. I swallowed my pride and may have gagged on it a bit. There's nothing wrong with having to get a part time job to make ends meet and to fund my art addiction. I don't believe that money is the root of all evil, but isn't an idle mind the devil's playground? Gotta keep busy. Gotta fuel my fire. I'll be getting lenses soon enough. I'll be creating a gallery show in time. I'll have my "secret life" as an artist. It's funny how the only person that could open the door was myself and I was the only one who kept it shut.

Let's see if I'm employed by the end of the month. Money can be earned by those who are willing to earn it, right? I suppose my artistic powers weren't meant to be honed in by "the man." Rather, I should unleash it upon the world...MY WAY. As a designer, I should be my own boss and someone else is funding the goods.

Hey, I'm learning here.

I'm Confused...

...and you're not helping.

I do, however, admit that the uncertainty excites me. It's strange how people change your point of view after you're so damn sure you figured it out. Part of me thinks that I'm in for a world of hurt, but I don't want to be the one who's bringing the pain. I'm not entirely sure what I got myself into, nor am I fully convinced that I'm in something to begin with.

Who knows? I'm probably just hallucinating... and a tad scared.

Goodbye, shaggy.

I finally got me a haircut and I'll have the post-stylist results another time.

This may be odd but, I now understand the sentimental attachment when one grows their hair out. I've never had my hair that long in my life. Frankly, I'm not a fan. The last time I cut my hair was New Year's Eve while I was in the Philippines. The tail that I accumulated was liked by a certain few, and now I removed it. Part of me wanted to disconnect from everything that tail represented for me; a disconnect to reconnect.

I'm a new me once again and so a new style was in order. I really felt pretty wack having to Bieberize my hair just to keep it somewhat tamed. It didn't reflect how I really feel inside: confident, sexy & creative... among other positive aspects, of course. It seems that I waited pretty long just to get it cut, but I guess I was in my theoretical cocoon.

Spring has sprung.

I really should get into writing again. Tweeting isn't necessarily an appropriate outlet for expanding my words, eh?

Bug me and I'll tell you a story.

Why did I say all that anyway? It was 3 years ago for God's sake. I have an idea and I'm going to go with it. I want to turn the tide and make that certain art piece shine for me.

Fuck the bittersweet bullshit. I'm going to make something out of nothing.

Watch.

The Land of Milk & Honey: A Not-So-Fun Fact

This isn't really a happy story. It's not a story I've spoken of to many. Though I was successful in this endeavor, the night only ended in horrific, soul shattering disappointment; my highest high led to the biggest buzzkill of my life to date.



Three years ago, I created this and I titled it, "The Land of Milk & Honey." The stark blankness represents the endless possibilities that I believed were going to be out there for me upon receiving my degree. I was a sturdy, elated milk bottle ready to saturate the world with my art and vision. A sweet and talented honeypot was my artistic sidekick who stood by my side as we conquered our college careers with nothing but our Macintosh computers and sheer tenacity. This was an image of strength, hope & success. Graduation was within reach.

I wanted to share it with the world.

I was one of the few students brave (or maybe, stupid) enough to submit ONE piece to the CSUN Annual Juried Student Art Exhibition for consideration. Most submitted at least 4 to up the odds in their favor. This yearly exhibit was open to all students, both grads and undergrads alike. There were at least 20 mediums that were to be represented. So naturally, the space could only hold so much and only the best of the best would be chosen to fill the coveted gallery space. I vaguely remember the congratulatory call notifying me that I had been selected among thousands of entries to grace the university walls. Needless to say, I was at a pant-soiling level of amazement. There was going to be an opening reception to kick off the 4 week show. My fellow design colleagues had expressed how talented and fortunate I was to be shown as one of the best among my artistic peers. I even impressed myself, especially because my one shot, out of thousands, was selected.

I wanted to share it with the world.

I called friends and family in hopes that someone would be there to see my work displayed on a gallery wall for the first time. I still couldn't believe the level of validation I received as an artist. April 25, 2008 was the night I was waiting for. I wanted loved ones to squeal with me as we'd look at the art. I had already mentally prepared the description and analysis for those who would inquire about the context of my work. I was excited. I was ready. There was even a possibility of winning an award. I couldn't believe it.

I wanted to share it with the world.


Opening night crept up and I had gone to the exhibit early to see where the final placement would be. Even though I risked posing as a pompous art connoisseur, I had imagined certain people that I was going to talk to about the piece. I imagined just standing there admiring the art around us. Chatter. Chatter. Chatter. It was all in my head but a DJ testing his sound levels, snapped me out of my daydream. Back to reality, Mark. I wandered throughout the art buildings looking at the various pieces and exhibits. The tables and displays were being set and the art students were all electric. Anticipation surged and the hair at the nape of my neck stood on end. I couldn't wait to show my work.

Five minutes to seven o' clock - a flood of people came into the art department and waited in front of the gallery doors. I scanned the crowd in hopes of a familiar face. At this point, the only company I had were my design buddies and their respective guests. I assured myself that people were coming late because of work and I chalked it up to the a relatively long drive to Northridge.

As the time passed me by, I still roamed alone. At times I went with different art friends with their guests pretending that I saw this or that for the first time. The monotony shook my bones. I was sick of the gallery. I've viewed everything multiple times and the DJ's music grew stale in my ears. I thought that I should at least be present for the distribution of awards and if no one showed up, I'd just go home. I feigned my pride since I had to swallow it. My colleagues wanted to meet my guests and made me stand next to my piece so they could photograph me. There wasn't a name for me to introduce. It took a lot to muster up a fake grin to crack my stoic face. I hated every single photo. Not a single soul came to see me.

I wasn't awarded anything that night - not that it mattered to me anymore. I didn't utter a single "goodbye" as I quietly left the gallery space and walked to a different one... my parking space. My heavy breathing and dragging feet pierced my angry silence. I turned the key and posted myself in the driver's seat of my 1997 Honda Civic. I sat forlorn as I allowed my eyes to well up. I stared out into the stars. The tears made the stars twinkle fiercely before they soaked into my jeans. I sat there defeated with a cluttered mind and empty heart. My keys, clenched in my hand for at least another half hour. I finally decided that I had to leave. The event's energy was only damaging me further. I learned that it's really hard to drive at night when you're fighting back enraged tears. I cried the entire way home in complete silence. I still remember how much my hands hurt because I gripped the steering wheel so hard.

That very piece still sits in my room with the gallery card that reads:

Mark Kaiklian
The Land of Milk and Honey
graphic design

I wanted to share it with the world.

...but my world never showed up.

Yeah, I know... It's been a while. I thought I'd dumb down the layout. It's dark, but I like it. It's been years and the images on the former layout was über played.

Here's to change and growth.

Grow with me.

If you can't reciprocate, we can't synergize. And If we can't synergize, there's no real sense of us. So, why are YOU in MY life? Talk may be cheap, but it has more value than indifference. If it means anything to you, say something. Do something. You're in my life for a reason and if you don't know it... figure it out. God knows I'm tryin' here.

Keep me close because I keep you closer.

7300



I have landed in my birthplace - Manila, Philippines.

To some, I'd still be just as far away from them if I were huddled up in my room in Eagle Rock. Sadly the distance would do their burning indifference no justice. Others, I would hope to think that they miss me because I've crossed the international date line. Honestly, it makes no difference to me right now. As dickheaded as that seems, I need this trip to be about me and my self-exploration. (For the record, YES I miss quite a few people back in Cali. (You know who you are, but if you don't, assume I miss you since you cared enough to read this post.)


I've slipped in and out of sleep, ass posted in seat F of the 69th row. I'd peek out the window across from me wondering where I was, while Perry quietly nested on my lap. Two movies, two graphic books, two meals, and one red wine later, I've managed to land in Manila; the city I was born in and never really got to experience. Twenty-seven years later, I arrive without a single clue as to what to expect.

The baggage claim welcomed us with twinkling parols at every carousel and Christmas music floated about the terminal. The sudden warmth of the humidity seeped into my skin. The wick of excitement has been lit, but I haven't really exploded in elation upon stepping onto Philippine soil. It wasn't until three full cars came to greet us at bay 13. For some, tears of joy flowed during this overdue reunion. Not me, though. I was still trying to remember faces and names that I've only seen through pictures and stories from lola. It was overwhelming. It was overwhelming because I've never had someone who's never met me get so excited about me standing in front of them. I immediately felt at home... 7300 miles away.

My elders would always gush about how crazy New Years was on the islands. Now, upon experiencing it for myself, they were severely underplaying it. This was the first time I've bursted with happiness at the stroke of midnight. When in the Philippines, do as the locals do, right? We lit up our fireworks, sounded our turotots and ate & drank like royals.


I have NEVER sensed this kind of energy anywhere at any time in life.
I have NEVER dropped my jaw in complete, speechless amazement of what I saw, heard & felt until I was out on the streets of Quezon City.
I have NEVER felt more alive.
I have NEVER been this confident about a new year starting.

No countdown. No ball drop. No champagne. No need.

Happy 2011, Mark. You got what you wanted; a renewed sense of self.

Shit. It's only been the second day. You have a lot more living to do out here on the islands. Who knows how far your point of view will change.

It's 2011. Time to reap what I have sown and enjoy the bounty of opportunity. My blood's still young. It's so young, it runs and won't stop until it's over. I won't stop to surrender.

I'm starting to develop my sense of self here, and I'll get to THAT later.


[To be continued]