Phillip Retuta's Blog

The Life and Times of a Filipino-American

By

A Culture of Observation, Post-2016.

I was riding the bus today, and through the window I spot on Vanderbilt a pair of USPS mailboxes that stood out. They were painted over decorated with “We Heart The Post Office” in bold, jumbo letters — the kind of styling that looked it was a school project. As we drove past the mailboxes, the heartfelt message made me realize how much we took for granted before Trump was in office: those little and mostly ignored things (like a mail carrier coming to deliver your junk mail) genuinely have so much power and affect our lives so profoundly.

It made me sad how he and his administration tried to undercut everything: from the Post Office, to voting, to free speech and demonstration. I’ve always considered myself progressive and a believer in facts and science, but it wasn’t until Trump came into office that I realized how cloistered and unobservant we really are to everyone and everything else — how even the little things mattered. He and his believers challenged my core values, and if it wasn’t for his polarizing actions, beliefs, and words, I’d probably remain unaware and emotionally passive. And I’m not just talking about the necessity and the general efforts of the Postal Service or those ubiquitous organizations that enter our lives daily but also the opposite: there are some despicable things and some horrible people I haven’t had the courage to speak out against. Sure, I’ve always felt the world is shitty and people generally suck, but I’ve always chalked that up to depression and anxiety. I’m just glad that everyone else is now aware of it. I’m glad that what I was feeling was true and merely hiding in plain sight, under the veil of someone else’s privilege, unspoken conservatism, and money.

As for the systems that run our society — be it the Post Office, capitalism, our healthcare systems, our scientists and educators, our government, and our police and prison systems — the last 5 years have removed the blinders for everyone (and the gravity of reality seems to have only accelerated this past year alone). We see the absolute importance of some of these systems and the corruption of others, and you can attribute this new “wokeness” to the petulant man with the wafted combover whose megaphone was so loud, it blew away the curtain.

So buy some stamps, reach out to someone different than you, hand a dollar to a homeless person, thank a teacher or a nurse. Be a better and more appreciative person, and — like those painted mailboxes — let them all know you know.

By

New Beginnings.

Packing from the Bedford Apartment.

Well, I had to make the bold yet appropriate decision to move into a new apartment — one that has heat, gas, and whose ceiling won’t leak and collapse on me while I sleep. I truly loved that old apartment on Bedford Avenue, thinking that it’d be the last place I lived in New York before leaving the city for good. It was perfect till it wasn’t, and the compounding problems only cascaded into a miserable and potentially life-threatening situation. I had no logical choice but to break a two-year lease that I had signed in August, abandoning the place I called home for the last 4 years. Fingers crossed I get my full deposit back.

Fun fact: according to my neighbors who continued to live in the building, the landlord had the gas and heat restored three days after I officially moved out.

Anyway, let’s move on, shall we?

  • The Office.
  • Bedroom.
  • Kitchen with Dusty and the Fish.
  • Unpacking.
  • Built-in Shelves.

The new apartment is much better and, of course, much warmer. In fact, it’s so much warmer that there are days I have to open the windows in the middle of winter; it’s such a weird and confusing situation when you compare it to the circumstance surrounding the Bedford apartment. The rent at the new apartment is slightly less than what I paid for at the last place (bonus points, and I’d like to thank my realtor friend Brett who helped me find this place so quickly), is bigger, has better natural lighting, and has a second bedroom that I’d use as an office/Dusty’s own playroom. My TV is even separated from my work area, so I’m not watching as much Cable news (and my friend Brian would say that might be good for my mental health). With the pandemic raging into its first year and a lot of New Yorkers abandoning the city, I got a great deal on an otherwise expensive apartment. They say sticking through the hard times will yield some sort of reward, but holy fuck has it been a craptastic year for me. This new place (along with adopting Dusty) feels like compensation for all the emotional, physical (like freezing my ass off), and financial suffering I went through in 2020.

In regards to COVID-19, I’ve received my first dose of the Pfizer vaccine. With my high blood pressure as a pre-existing condition, I was in one of the early eligible groups to get the shot — or as I call it, a Fauci Ouchie. I suppose my smoking and high stress living/working/money situation grotesquely and morbidly paid off (just thinking about my shitty life a year or even a few months ago and how it is now brings me a sense of relief). I really want to see my parents in California (who’ve been vaccinated for a while), and getting vaccinated myself brings me one step closer to seeing them again.

The shot itself was administered at a local college gym by FEMA soldiers, and it hurt compared to some other vaccines/shots/blood tests I’ve had it the past. I chalked it up to some young, inexperienced kids in uniform as opposed to the gentle touch of a nurse or doctor. As for side effects, my arm is sore, but I haven’t experienced anything else. I can’t wait for the second dose so the Deep State can eventually track me when I go to Taco Bell. At least, I’m sure, my cellphone coverage can handle 5G now by the sheer proximity of my Pfizer-branded microchip.

All in all, 2021 is starting to look positive (and yeah, we got rid of Trump), so cheers to some new beginnings.

By

Done With This Apartment.

Everything is soaked.

Day 323 of self-isolation and day 184 without gas/heat.

I loved my apartment — at least, until 6 months ago.

Temperature inside my apartment.

The past few days have been the coldest New York has experienced this season, and even with 4 space heaters constantly running, my apartment has dipped to a low of 52 degrees. It’s been very uncomfortable, and I dread leaving the covers of my bed to put on a coat and gloves and do my design job at my work computer. I’m joining Zoom meetings in a trapper hat, and I’m designing email headers with fingerless gloves. My toes are cold even with thermal socks and slippers, so I’m usually standing in front of my computer to keep my blood flowing.

One day, I thought, we’ll have gas again and all will be well and warm and I can use a proper stove.

On Friday, I get a call from my landlord and texts from my remaining neighbors saying that the pipes froze. Luckily, because I’m by the source and near the electric water heater, I still had running water.

Well…

This morning, at 3:30 AM, I was finishing up Spider-Man: Far From Home, when I thought I heard rain outside of my window. I knew NYC was going to be hit with a snowstorm in the next few days, but there was no precipitation on my weather app.

Water everywhere.

Then, the doorway to my bedroom started dripping a lot of water — it looked like it was raining inside. I quickly entered my room, and all the walls were leaking. Every single fucking corner. The sound of water rushing could be heard above me: a pipe had clearly burst.

It’s early in the morning, so I couldn’t reach my landlord. The superintendent picked up eventually, and I called 911 to shut off the water. My super was on his way, but he instructed me to check the two vacant apartments above me for any leakage; there was none, so the water was probably coming from inside the walls (side note: those other two apartment were very small, so I definitely lucked out with this building).

The FDNY quickly came and turned everything off. As the fireman was leaving, he said “You’re not gonna have gas either,” to which I explained we haven’t had gas or heat since August. He shrugged, and left without saying anything else. No advice, no empathy.

The super eventually came and inspected everything, and I apologized for waking him up. He made sure the water was off, and as he looked inside my bedroom, he looked at the wall of all my dog photographs and asked which one passed away. I pointed to the middle one, and my super of four years said “That was a good dog.”

Fortunately for me, I found a new place nearby. Before the pipes froze, I already put in a deposit and am just waiting for the proper documents to break my current two-year lease and a time to sign the new one. Truly, I had so much hope that I could stay. I thought I could wait things out, and the city would turn on our gas and that my landlord would get everything fixed. It was a tough choice to leave, but for my health and sanity, it’s time to close this chapter in my life.

I was sentimental at first, nostalgic over the happy memories I had in my current apartment; it was my home for the past 4 years: I built an amazing home with an amazing backyard. I had amazing rosemary and mint and lavender plants in a garden I tended for years. My climbing rose vines were coming up nicely. I hosted parties where friends would grill, let their dogs run around, and sit beside a firepit.

Then I realized, no — the past two years had horrible memories: my dog died in my arms here. I got furloughed. I got kicked out for 1 month for that facade falling. I’ve cooked on a hot plate since September. I’m freezing in January. And now I can’t even keep warm and sleep in my sopping-wet, water-logged bedroom. I can’t even drink a glass of goddamn water. No, I’m leaving this apartment with bad memories.

Ceiling bubbling.
Walked Dusty, came back and shelves fell from the walls being soft.
So many broken things.

My plan was to completely move out by February 28th and try to appease my current and future landlords by paying rent at both places. After this morning, with everything wet and no water, I’m feeling less than diplomatic.

By

Thoughts on Dying, Death, and the Leftovers.

Taken in 2008, during a ghost tour in Chicago’s Mt. Carmel Cemetery.

Let me preface this post: I have no intention of dying anytime soon, so don’t worry about me, my physical health, or my state of mind.

I was lying in bed the other day, and I realized that if I were to ever die in my sleep, the medical examiner or coroner would be able to pinpoint the exact time of my death. I wear my Apple Watch to bed every night in order to track my sleep, and the app I use monitors my heartbeat or if I’m wearing my watch at all. I assume that if my heart stopped and I died during my sleep (the best way to go, in my opinion), my watch and the sleep app would record the exact minute I passed on. All the data would then be transferred to my iPhone. Good luck, though, trying to figure out my watch or phone’s passcodes.

I know it’s morbid to think about death, but the thought of it has always been in the back of my mind — especially with my family and friends. Those thoughts are only exasperated at the fact that I lost two good friends in the past 6 months. I worry and dread the day either of my parents pass, and I fear I won’t be able to handle it. My dad just turned 76 and has surpassed my grandfather’s age when he died, so I have slight anxiety about inevitably when it comes to my loved ones. We all know it’s coming for everybody eventually, but are we emotionally and mentally prepared for it?

Me, on the other hand? I think I accept myself dying at anytime. It’s entirely possible I could die tomorrow or next year or 60 years from now. I’m a fairly unhealthy individual (hell, I’m trying to be otherwise), but maybe I’ll be one of those centenarians who’ll tell his great grandchildren the horrors of 2020, of Trump, of 9/11, of AOL, and of how Taco Bell removed potatoes from their menu. It’s hypocritical to worry about others dying but not worrying about the death of oneself, and I know my loved ones want me to live as long as possible. I admit, it’s selfish to hold onto others but have a certain degree of apathy towards oneself.

Regardless, I feel like I should make a living will. I’m not rich enough yet to have my own lawyer or create a will on Legal Zoom, so I’ll state my intentions here. This may not be official official, but here’s where I want everything to stand, and how I want to divide my pitiful estate. Who knows, I could get married and have kids, and this could all change.

In the event of unseen circumstances, this is the will of Phillip Nievera Retuta (well, as it stands like right now):

  • I do have life insurance from work, and currently my brother is the first benefactor, and then my dad.
  • I’d want Dusty and Nico’s ashes/paw print and collar given to my parents. They’ll love Dusty as much as I do and would want Nico’s remains.
  • Electronics, computer equipment, and design/camera/media equipment given to my brother. He’ll need it and want it.
  • Fish given to my fish enthusiast friend Gino. He’s the most capable of taking care of my aquarium.
  • Plants to be split up between Morgan, Vi, and Monica. They’re good with plants.
  • Vinyl records can be split between friends.
  • Mark can have my sourdough starter.
  • Cooking equipment given to my mom.
  • Books to be split up by anyone — first come, first serve.
  • Any nice clothes can be split up by anyone — first come, first serve.
  • Dog toys to be split up between Dusty and the rest of the dogs.

I suppose that covers most of my earthly belongings in the unforseen event of my death — but god knows if I’ll buy a car or house next week, win the lottery tomorrow, or suddenly adopt a dozen kittens. It made me realize that when I do make an official last will and testament, this post might cause some conflict: if I die at 107, I don’t want my friends feuding over my LCD Soundsystem records or my copy of David Sedaris’ Me Talk Pretty One Day. Ah well.

Should I end this with a signature to make it more formal?

By

To Be Vaccine and Heard.

On Bergen Street. Someone wrote “HOAX.” Can you believe there are deniers in NYC?

Day 304 of self-isolation (and day 165 without gas/heat).

My entire family back in California received their first dose of the COVID-19 Vaccine yesterday — my parents, my brother, my uncle, aunts, and cousins. Despite the horrible, horrible infection, hospitalization, and death rates in the Los Angeles area, there was apparently a surplus of the vaccine at my cousin’s nursing home (he works there, and I think as a director). The extra doses were distributed to friends and family of every patient and worker at the facility, and my mom explained to me that this was all legal. I suppose it helps that my parents, aunts, and uncle are over 75-years-old now and that my brother has a lot of pre-existing health conditions, so I can’t judge them for wanting and receiving the vaccine.

Yesterday started off horribly: my brother and my mom were fighting and had called me several times to complain about each other, interrupting my work day. What can I say? My co-dependency and empathy can’t ignore my family. The last phone call, however, was jubilant: my brother and mom miraculously reconciled, and they were all driving to LA to get the vaccine.

I’ll admit, trying to talk and counsel my family earlier in the day left me pretty irate — I acted collected, sure, but I was still very annoyed inside. In spite of my healthier lifestyle, I could feel my blood pressure getting raised. During that last phone call, however, my entire family insisted and begged for me to immediately fly to California and get the vaccine with them. Was it truly that much of an emergency? Sure, if there was a death in the family, I’d drop everything (with at least a day or two to prepare), but they wanted me to come now — despite work (and a new semester starting in a week), not having a dog-sitter for Dusty, waiting for my gas to get fixed, and a little apprehension of flying 6 hours, enclosed, on a plane.

Logistically, it’s hard. I do a lot of design and video work for my day job on a new iMac Desktop; my 2010 MacBook with the broken shift key sure isn’t powerful enough for work if I were to “work from home” in California. Dusty, also, is a major issue: she’s in the midst of blended, in-person/virtual dog-training (which I poured a lot of money into), is too big to put under a seat on an airplane, and it’s hard to find a dog-sitter so soon and in a pandemic. For fuck’s sake, each time I let someone dog-sit her (or with Nico), I’d prep meals and winter clothes and poop bags and compile a comprehensive yet exhaustive care guide.

Nah, my family just felt so desperate to see me, and I think the prospect of personally getting liberated from seriously contracting this virus excited them too much. My mom, especially, is super worried about COVID-19 that it’s almost paralyzing. I know she just wants the best for her family.

I don’t think my family even realized that both the Moderna and Pfizer Vaccines (and I don’t know what they got) requires two doses. I’ve tried looking it up, and I’m wondering if you have to get your second dose at the same location. Surprisingly, there’s no info on that anywhere on the internet. Did my family expect me to stay in California for a month? Fly to LA then back to NYC and then back to LA? It all seems too silly, too rushed.

Despite my parents wishes for me to quickly fly to California for a dose of the vaccine, I’m not worried. Again, COVID-19 in California is pretty bad right now, and flying to LAX and being in the LA area feels pretty dicey. Here in New York, I’m not really exposing myself to any risk, aside from walking my dog, getting coffee, and running errands — all the while masked like a ninja, mind you, and my errands aren’t everyday occurrences. I don’t see anybody, and I’ve gotten used to washing my hands 2000 times a day.

Plus, if there’s any positive of having high blood pressure and working in the higher educational system, I think my pre-existing conditions and being academic administration poise me to get the vaccine sometime between late February and April. I’m in Group 1C, perhaps? They say patience is a virtue, and I’m willing to wait — even if I don’t receive the vaccine in the spring.

Anyway, I’m glad that the vaccine is here, and I’m especially glad that my family got it. Their fears and hyper-vigilance regarding the virus will definitely temper down, but I do worry about everyone else in America — especially the anti-mask and anti-vax people (the Capitol Riots will undoubtedly become a Super-Spreader Event). The daily death toll is breaking records every fucking day, and despite the vaccine, I wish parts of America would just come to their senses.