Is it Becoming TOO Dangerous to Live in Angeles City?

I just arrived home to find my wife shaking, her face slack with the vestiges of extreme fear, and white as a ghost.... For the second time since we've lived here she got mugged... The first time was 3 years ago and it was a simple case of a purse snatching, no big deal; it just made her angry. This time it was different. When the business end of a gun is jammed hard into the side of your chest and you are told by a desperate hard-eyed character to hand over your purse or you're dead, it can ruin more than your day. Folks come to this site all the time to find out what its like to live here, well, this is also part of living here. Some would say it's just as bad in many places in the US and that's true, but I've never lived in those places... I just sent out an email to everyone I know in the Angeles City area to let them know what happened and to be forewarned and forearmed. Here's what I sent:

My wife was just mugged at gun point right in front of Savers Mall in the parking lot directly in front of the building itself... As soon as she unlocked the door to get out a man pushed a gun into her chest while she was still behind the wheel. He demanded her purse, which she gave up and off he went... She made a report to the police and to Savers Security, for all the good it will do... She let her guard down thinking that the presence of all the security immediately in front of the store would make her safe. Truthfully, this city is getting more and more out of control... It may be approaching unlivable, unless the mayor and his boys can get a handle on it. What makes it worse, is no one learns of these incidents. We cannot forget that AC is a VERY dangerous place, and gets more so everyday... Tell your wives and better halfs to have nothing in their purses that they cannot afford to lose... Carrying cell phones, valuable ID, credit cards and lots of cash is just plain boneheaded.... I suggest all women carry a "show purse" with a little money, fake IDs, etc, that they can hand over to muggers to get the mugging safely over with... This place is dangerous and we have to adjust our lives with this in mind... phil

Damn Yanks!

Since becoming an expatriate, I’ve had countless “delightful” debates over the years—usually with Europeans, Englishmen mostly, but also with the occasional “Continental”—about our respective societies and national sports. I remember this one guy though, a chap from Northern England who really had it in for the States, and he let me have “what for” over a number of his pet peeves he had against my country of origin.

I met this guy while relaxing in the pool at the Swagman one late afternoon. For descriptive purposes, he was whiter even than me, which I didn’t think was possible; but with my Scottish and Irish heredity, of course I gave him a run for most pallid. (Actually, no; his girlfriend was pastier than both of us combined!) But what really highlighted his Northern European ancestry was his huge head, closely shaved, evidently to disguise an advanced case of male pattern baldness. After several days in the tropics, the sun had given his smooth pate a painful-looking pinkish glow. I’ll bet that sunburn made it even worse for him to keep it shaved.

It’s funny, but I think he was a little angry at himself for apparently finding me less than despicable in spite of the fact that I’m from a country that he truly despises. Even so, it thoroughly amused me how he hated virtually everything about America, and with such practiced vitriol. I could tell that he and his mates must have had an anti-Yank discussion or two while throwing back a few stouts in the pub.

I asked him if he’d ever even been to the United States. His answer was spat more than stated, “Never. You couldn’t pay me to go!”

His hatred amused me because of its irrationality. I asked him if he could logically explain why my country filled him with such loathing, and he went into an obviously oft-repeated diatribe that mostly castigated us for the world-wide ubiquity of detestable American franchises like McDonalds, not to mention our international arrogance and meddling (only a “few” of our countless sins!), but of all things, what really caused him disgust was our apparent blasé attitude toward sports, especially our almost universal disregard for THE ONLY sport as far he was concerned—Football, or soccer, as we “contemptible” Americans refer to it.

He used his own passion as a benchmark for how a “true” sports fan demonstrates love for team and sport. He explained that he lived and worked on the continent, in Belgium if I remember right. Just recently, he had made the trip across the channel back home to England see his team in a crucial competition, and although he had not been home to see his parents in months, he bragged that he went straightaway to the stadium. Furthermore, after the match and post-match celebrations, he directly returned so as not to miss a day of work. THIS, he claimed, was concrete proof of his genuine devotion. I shook my head in wonder and agreed with him, remarking that he certainly seemed to have unique priorities.

Nodding my agreement I grinned and said wryly, “You’re right buddy; because I would have found a way to get home to see my family. As far as I can tell, YOU’RE love for soccer far outstrips most any American’s love for THEIR sports teams!” I don’t think he caught on to my sarcasm; I gave sincerity my best effort.

“You definitely take the cake mate!” I laughed, shaking my head.

I attempted an explanation of the supposed tepid interest that WE, “Mr. Soccer’s” distant cousins from across “the pond,” have for our professional sports teams:

“First of all, our sports interests are seasonal, and now a days we have a lot of different types of sport to choose from and throughout the ENTIRE year. It used to be we had baseball in the summer, football in the fall, and basketball and hockey in the winter through spring. Now our time and interest is pulled in all sorts of directions, like pee-wee leagues, little leagues, college sports, bowling, track, softball, winter sports, NASCAR, golf, tennis, women’s fastpitch; Damn man, it’s almost limitless. Dude, we love our sports, but most of us just aren’t as into any particular one like you guys are. That could also explain why we don’t have baseball hooligans like you have in Europe!”

I laughed delivering my last comment, but he didn’t see the humor.

We continued our back-and-forth—he denigrated, and I explained and defended. I developed a strategy of asking pointed questions, specifically to find out the true source of his dislike of all things Americana. I soon detected that most of what he thought of as “bad” about us was based more on generalization than on fact. I told him:

“Before you permanently make your mind up about us based on all these skewed impressions you’ve apparently picked up from the BBC, you really need to go look at the country with your own eyes. The U.S. is huge…you can’t imagine how big until you’ve driven it. … Americans do not have a SINGLE mindset, because we ARE such a varied people. You really can’t say that Americans are this and Americans are that—there are too many of us to nail down the whole lot of us, or even most of us, to a single mindset. We have millions of viewpoints and hundreds of subcultures! About the only single thing ALL of us share is a love for freedom and opportunity, aside from that WE are YOU! Hell, most of my genetic makeup is from the British Isles. If you hate us, you hate yourself man…”

I don’t know if I changed any of his negative vibes about us, but it was fun trying. I know I did change his mind about one thing though, his notion that ALL of us know nothing about anything outside of the USA. When we discussed issues involving history and geography I argued rings around him.

But what really won him over, at least partially, was when they started up the karaoke and I got up and did my rendition of “House of the Rising Sun”. He shook my hand after I finished singing saying, “Anyone who can nail that song can’t be ALL bad!”

The fact that I bought most of the rounds didn’t hurt either…

The Detroit Tigers and Me….

There was a time when I was quite angry with the baseball Tigers of Detroit, but not anymore. Most folks don’t even remember the decision they made as a team in 1990 that caused me to turn my back on them. But before 1990, the year I forever lost interest in them, I lived and breathed Tiger baseball. From the time I was a kid in the 60’s, baseball to me meant the Tigers. I was born in Japan and lived in many places until my dad retired from the military in 1971; but my parents are Michiganders, therefore, by default, I was one too. I was a Tigers fan jus sanguinis.

In 1968, before the era of big TV revenue and night games, baseball was mostly played in the day. I was in the 6^th grade in San Antonio, Texas and I remember following the World Series mostly surreptitiously via transistor radio. The only games I was able to watch on TV were those played on the weekend, but the deciding final games were all played during the week while I was trapped in school. I could hardly concentrate in class—all that mattered to me was the Tigers!

By the way in 1968, Mickey Lolich and the Tigers beat Bob Gibson and the Cardinals to take the series in 7. My brother was just telling me that his first memory of baseball was coming home in the afternoon from school and I was already there with the black & white on; we celebrated as Bill Freehan caught a popup for the last out to win the series. Strange, I don't remember that. I'm jealous; I mean he's 4 years younger than me! Why does he have that memory and I don't!? Damn it....

In the winter of 1974 I was rewarded by the Saginaw News for my performance as a newspaper boy. All of the most successful paperboys were honored at a banquet at the famous Bavarian Inn Restaurant in the town of Frankenmuth, Michigan. “The Voice of the Tigers,” Ernie Harwell, only 55 at the time, was the guest speaker and enamored us with his experiences as an announcer, including many stories about our beloved Tigers. He showed us a baseball signed by most of the members of the 1973 team and declared that one of us would become its new owner that night. I didn’t even hope to think that it might be me, and promptly forgot about it. At the end of his speech he took the banquet program and announced that he would drop his pen, point first, onto the list of our names, and whoever it landed upon would get the ball. He dropped his pen, picked up the program, closely examined it, looked up and called MY name! My dad was with me and when I returned to my seat with precious ball in hand, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him more excited or with a bigger smile on his face. It’s possible that he was more excited than I was. Ernie Harwell, now 88, is the MAN!

In 1984, my Tigers came roaring out of the box; they won and kept on winning. Kirk Gibson and crew were unstoppable, and everyone knew from the All Star Break on that it was their year. Sure enough, they easily swept through the season and took the Series without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t even close. The hapless San Diego Padres never had a chance.

In August of 1990 I deployed to the Saudi peninsula as part of the allied Gulf War effort against Saddam Hussein. By mid-September my unit was fortunate enough to be hooked up with satellite-fed TV and we watched baseball with great interest. The Tigers were in 3^rd place and close to contention, but that year the real September show in Detroit was Cecil Fielder. The big man smacked homer after homer and we thought he might go for Maris’ record.

Anytime we had a break between our 12 hour shifts we would head over to the big TV “hooch” to check out the baseball games. We were thrilled to see that all the teams of Major League Baseball (MLB) wore black armbands to show their support and respect for those of us serving away from home in the war. But there was one exception—The Detroit Tigers! I couldn’t believe it. I was disappointed, angry and felt betrayed. How could MY team be the ONLY one to turn their collective backs on me?

The story from the Tigers is that a single player decided that he would not wear the armband. This lone player was the second baseman, Lou Whittaker. I don’t know what his bag was, whether he was against war in general, or if he was just trying to emulate Muhammad Ali; regardless, he turned his back on me and others like me, and took the rest of the team with him. Out of deference to their teammate, the entire team opted to not wear the armband. In turn, I “opted” to no longer be a Tiger’s baseball fan. For many years, as long as a single 1990 Tiger still played, I actively and savagely rooted against them. I was even happy to see them lose to the Yankees!

Interestingly, I googled the hell out of this subject and found absolutely nothing on this sad matter. It’s as if it never happened. I know I didn’t imagine it, but it seems no one else remembers it at all. Such a petty thing to get upset over some would say, but it meant a lot to me and if it happened again today, I’d be just as upset.

More than 15 years have passed since “I lost my baseball religion,” and although I am no longer angry with the Tigers, I never came back to following or caring about them. Even presently, after having relentlessly mowed down the Yankees, a team I truly detest, and now in the midst of their destruction of the Athletics, I am still not a fan. I guess once you lose “the love” you cannot recapture it.

All the players from 15 years ago are gone now, and I hold nothing against the current team, but regrettably, for me, the damage is done. If they go all the way and take the World Championship I’ll be watching ONLY as a baseball fan, NOT as a Detroit Tigers fan. Although, I must admit that my most prized possession is STILL that baseball signed by the ’73 Tig’s given to me with a handshake and a hearty congratulations by Ernie Harwell. After all, I’ll never stop loving the OLD Tigers, those early Detroit teams that existed before THEY stopped loving me.

Christmas Time, Already?

I came home yesterday evening and was shocked to find the house covered in garland, outdoor lights and a host of other Christmas decorations. I was shocked, but not for the reason most of you might think.

Coming through the door, my littlest one rushed me like Dino on the Flintstones and grabbed me around the knees.

“Daddy! Daddy! Come see the Christmas tree!”

Sarah’s only a few months past three, so she probably doesn’t remember much of last Christmas, and nothing of her first two. She took my hand and enthusiastically pulled and led me into the living room where, sure enough, there it was, just as it looks in the picture. What shocked me was that it took so long for all the Christmas stuff to get put up this year.

‘It’s about time,’ I thought.

I couldn’t believe it when I heard my first Christmas carol on a local radio station back in 2002, the year I first got here, and it was just the first week of September.

‘Surely, it’s a joke!’ came to mind.

But no, once the “…ber” months arrive—you know, September, October, and so on—THAT is when the Christmas season effectively arrives in the Philippines. And truthfully, it doesn’t thrill me in the least. I’ve always been a bit of a scrooge anyway, and over here I am even more cynical and less enthused over the so-called Holiday Season.

Obviously, it lasts much too long for my tastes. It’s long enough in the US where for most people it starts the day after Thanksgiving, the last Thursday in November. But in the Phils, it seems interminable. It’s a good thing ALL Christmas trees here are artificial, otherwise they’d have to replace them at least twice before the big day.

Another problem I have is the unhesitatingly unembarrassed way some will ask for “their Christmas.” It’s undignified, but folks do it and start “dropping hints,” if you can call them that, from the time the season begins. I find myself avoiding going out from a week or two before the 25^th until the day after, mostly because I start feeling so guilty about not having everyone’s “Christmas.”

What I do now is budget about $200 every December to hand over to the various peripheral people in my life such as the guards in my subdivision, the folks who manage my gym, the guys at the gas station; you know, people like that. I buy a box of Christmas cards and put 500 pesos, about $10, in with each one. But once the last card is gone, I start hiding.

I’ve thought about why the season starts so early here. Comparing it to our traditions in the States, I think I have an answer. Although the Philippines has more official holidays, including the “snap holidays” the president constantly announces whenever she feels like giving herself a three-day weekend, it seems that most people just see them as days off with no real underlying meaning. Sure, they have their Independence Day, Memorial Day and All Souls Day, but I’ve noticed they don’t really have any impact on people’s consciousness.

Back home, our holidays clearly define the beginning and end of the divisions of our year. Memorial Day marks the beginning of summer; July 4^th, Independence Day, marks the middle; while Labor Day marks its end, and the beginning of school. Halloween, while not a holiday, nevertheless is remarkable enough that everyone looks forward to it and the fun and entertainment that it brings to our lives. Thanksgiving is a big one; without a doubt it signals the start of Christmas Season, and it traditionally brings families together and causes us to thank God for our blessings. And so it goes on… all the way through Christmas and New Years.

No, here Christmas overwhelms ALL holidays to the point that it seems like it is the ONLY holiday. Easter is fully appreciated in the Philippines and is given its full religious significance, and for me, it is my favorite holiday over here, mostly because it doesn't involve fireworks! New Years is like an afterthought to Christmas, where they get to set off millions of firecrackers, but that’s about it. What New Years really marks is the beginning of the countdown ……. to the NEXT Christmas!

Letters from Bootcamp, Installment VI (Krishnas Suck!)

In this letter I decided to send a personal note to each of my three siblings. THE most difficult part of the training, Mess Duty, was almost behind me. In the next day or so, our two weeks of rifle training would begin. After that, two weeks of infantry training awaited. And finally, we'd head back south to San Diego for the homestretch to graduation.

I was struck with irony when I read my message to my sister, where I told her I planned on being on an airplane for home less than an hour from the moment I graduated. It didn’t exactly work out that way…in fact; it worked out horribly opposite to that scenario. Check out that “Airplane” story at the end of this installment of “letters from bootcamp.”

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August 3, 1975 – Dear Gail:

I’m not doing too badly now. The days and weeks are beginning to move faster it seems. Although that’s okay with me, I’m sure you don’t like that considering school starts in only 30 some odd days.

Congratulations! It feels pretty good being on a championship team doesn’t it? Too bad about Burt though. By the score though, you guys put up a pretty good battle.

I got all your letters so far; keep writing them. I look forward to hearing from everyone.

Dear Mary Kay:

I can’t believe the people I’m getting letters from. So far I’ve got one from Terry and one from Jean Martin. What are the 4 movies you’ve seen since I left? That’s the one activity I feel most deprived of. How much have you saved up now from your job? It’s nice to hear you’re working regularly again.

When I graduate I plan to be on a plane for home between ½ to a full hour after it’s all over. The airport is right next to M.C.R.D. Mark’s doing fine and he said “Hi!” Take a few of the family so I know what everyone looks like these days. Too bad Dad’s always grumpy. Dad, you behave yourself!

Dear Kevin:

If I know you, you haven’t been working on your running. Don’t put it off. Make yourself do it or you’ll find Cross-Country season has arrived before you know it and you won’t be ready. This year, when they have the Haley reunion why don’t you run out to it? It’s a good way to get in shape and impress a few people while you’re at it. Aside from that, coke and cake and ice-cream and Jello will all taste a lot better when you have to run the 7 or 8 miles to get out there.

How much was your profit (from your newspaper route) for July? How’s my old route doing? Are you keeping Gail (our sister) on the job?

You’ve only sent 1 or 2 letters. Next time your get a chance, and soon, answer this one. I’m sitting on the edge of my footlocker, literally, waiting for an answer.

Love to all of you,

Phil

P.S. I’m returning the cutout (newspaper clipping) of Dawson (now Mr. & Mrs.) in this letter. Save it for me. Send some more interesting cutouts. (clippings)

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I had every intention of being on an airplane back to Michigan just as soon as humanly possible after the graduation ceremony when that wonderful day at long last arrived after the third week of September. A line of buses waited to take us the short distance to the terminal. Seeing them parked just off to the side was comforting. After months of watching “freedom birds” take off continuously overhead from just over the fence, I knew I was soon going to be riding one home.

31 years later, I remember plainly our platoon commander, SSgt Trevino, awaiting his turn to dismiss us for the last time after having taken us through our graduation paces, the most important part being the pass-in-review parade along with our three sister platoons. As platoon 1075 began cheering themselves hoarse, Trevino came to attention in front of us, snapping his ceremonial sword sharply up next to his side, the point coming to rest just to the side of his head. Dressed smartly in our full “class A” greens we listened expectantly for his last order ever to us. When he delivered it, boomed out loudly with Latino flair, we practically exploded with joy:

“Platoon 1076, DISMISSED!”

In unison, all 78 of us responded at the top of our lungs, “Aye-Aye Sir!” We took two steps back, first with the left foot, then together with the right one, performed about-face, drew in huge breaths and together we yelled out a hardy, “AuuuRAH!” We screamed our jubilance, snatching the barracks covers from our heads and throwing them high into the air where they formed a fleeting flock of green saucer-shaped caps. One platoon after another did this until all four platoons had been dismissed.

Those of us in a hurry to catch flights allowed ourselves a few moments to congratulate each other. After three decades, other than the two guys from my hometown who went through it with me, I never saw any of my platoon mates from bootcamp ever again. My two high school buddies and I hurried over to our bus; we scrambled aboard with several other newly minted marines, all of us carrying our “seabags” and “ditty bags.” (A seabag is what marines call a duffel bag and a ditty bag is a gym bag). I looked out the bus window and watched most of the platoon gather round and shake the hands of our erstwhile DIs, something that I had no stomach for whatsoever.

The San Diego airport was just a few minutes drive away and in no time we checked in our seabags at the counters and received our boarding passes. Mark and I strutted proudly down the concourse to where our plane waited to take us back home to Michigan. A lot has changed in our airports since 1975, and back then Hari-Krishna’s were allowed to harass people right up to the gate entrances. I had never seen one before and a pretty Krishna girl approached giving me a “free” book about her religion. Not being wise to the ways of the world back then, I took it, offering a “thank you” and feeling woozy at being so close to such a pretty thing after more than three months of not seeing any women at all. I figured I could read it on the plane, which was due to take off in about 15 minutes. Knowing our flight was about to go, Mark spoke to hurry me along, “Come on Phil, our plane!”

I turned to walk off and absentmindedly placed my ticket and boarding pass in my new book. The pretty Krishna gal spoke sweetly and pleadingly about then, “Sir, could you perhaps make a donation just to cover our costs?”

I should have tossed the book back at her, instead, being a nice young STUPID fellow, I said, “Okay, is ten bucks enough?”

Now Mark was beside himself. “Come on man!”

Hold this for me Mark.” I handed him the book, forgetting that my ticket was in it.

“Okay man, I’ll see you on the plane!” Mark grabbed the book and that was the last time I saw him AND my ticket.

I gave the pretty gal with her sweet face, long brown hair and flowing garb a twenty and hurried down the concourse after Mark, who was long gone by that time. I went up to the counter and began searching futilely for my ticket in all my pockets. With panic setting in I picked up my ditty bag with "USMC" printed in bright yellow letters across its side and searched through it too, all to no avail.

The doors were about to close and I did NOT have my damn ticket! I could feel my face turn beat red while perspiration popped out of every pore. Suddenly, my tie was way too tight. I ran back down the concourse for several hundred feet thinking I must have dropped my ticket, didn’t see it anywhere, and then ran back to the gate counter. By this time the doors were closed and the plane was running engines. My voice flustered and tense, I tried to explain to the airline lady that I could not find my ticket, but I was supposed to be on THAT airplane! She was sympathetic, but said there was nothing she could do; it was too late.

So, instead of catching the first possible flight back home it took an extra half-day to straighten out the mystery of the lost ticket. Mark found it in-flight and realized to his dismay that I hadn’t made the flight because he had my ticket. He informed a stewardess and they radioed back to confirm the location of my ticket. To their credit, the airline people, and I don’t remember which airline it was, set me up on the next available open flight. Just the same, it sure wasn’t a very auspicious start for a young guy trying to make his way in the world on his own for the first time. I felt like a complete goober.

To this day, whenever I watch the 1980 movie “Airplane,” I cheer when Robert Stack’s character kung fu’s the crap out of the horde of aggravating Hari-Krishnas. “Give ‘em hell Stryker!”