The Glamarazzi

Whereever spot in the world you came from, you always, always, come back to it. Even if you are a 45 year old hotshot living in this big hot shot city that gives you every KFC hotshot you need, you still cannot help but buy plane tickets back home. Just because.

It’s not just the idea of seeing what has become of the city. It is not the thought of seeing the people that make up the city – especially also it is not about comparing whoever has the best job, who has the most money, and who has hooked up with who. It just never occurred to me that going back to the city means visiting also the dead and wishing them to rest in peace. The trip back home was sad, melancholic, bitter. It was a reminder that not all rides back home always end up with a camera full of smiling .jpegs and stories of frivolities. It is going to make you dread what is it going to be .. the next time you go home.

My mom had my room cleaned recently. Before I could defend myself on the x rated dvds she must have found or the long litany of how much I used to hate her written in volume II in my diary, she beat me to it by saying, “…Just in case you ever decide to come back home.”

Maybe what mom wanted to say was, “It’s dangerous out there. I don’t want you ensconced in a casket the next time you are back home.”

Had it been ever safe anywhere?

Poor mom. Poor Mau’s mom. Poor all parents in the world who worry all the time for their children. It must be the toughest job in the world – worrying all the time for your kids and dreading THE call from people telling them that they no longer are coming back home.

Maybe. Maybe. It is almost days before Christmas.

To everyone who is going back home, please go back in one piece. I know you cannot help it but that is the best gift any parent has ever received in his or her life.