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The Life and Times of a Filipino-American

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January 15, 2021 By Phillip Retuta

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?

Filed Under: Dusty Doggerton, Family, Friends, Home Life, Nico Doggerton, Ramblings, Supernatural

January 5, 2021 By Phillip Retuta

You Were The Best, Marissa Snoddy.

Marissa Snoddy: 1985 – 2021.

I just learned last night that my friend, Marissa, suddenly passed away about two days ago. Talking to our mutual friend, Margarita, she just felt dizzy one day and collapsed.

Marissa was one of the funniest people I knew back in Chicago, and she always had a joke to tell. She always humorously put our friend Erick into place, and I remember when she got hit on by some drunk dude, and uninterested by his persistent advances, Marissa chewed him out. I remember when our group of friends would head into the city from our respective suburban homes to hang out, dance, or just go bar-hopping. She loved going to gay bars in Boystown or dancing at Debonair Social Club in Lincoln Park. I remember when Obama got inaugurated, Marissa and the Aurora crew came over to my house to watch it on TV, she slipped on some ice, and we then got drunk off Smirnoff (don’t worry, Margarita was the designated driver).

Marissa was super creative, a great poet and writer, and when we all parted ways a few years later, she moved to San Francisco to become an art therapist. Even today, we would occasionally talk once in awhile over Facebook or Instagram, giving the obligatory “Happy Birthday” or “How’ve you been?” to friends who’ve moved so far away but still made an impact in your life.

I’m in shock, and I can’t believe you’re gone so soon. You will be so missed, Marissa.

Filed Under: Chicago, Friends

December 23, 2020 By Phillip Retuta

New York Is Dead (Or Why I’m Toughing It Out).

Day 283 of self-isolation. Day 144 without gas/heat.

Alright, I kid; New York is not dead, but it’s in trouble.

A lot of my co-workers (past and present) have decided to move from Queens and Brooklyn and into the suburbs, especially since they can just work remotely. Classmates I went to Parsons with have recently escaped to California or Upstate New York, and some even talked about moving to Georgia. Though “the incident” played a huge part, my building currently has only 3 out of 8 units occupied — many of my neighbors moving back home to their parents (you think NYC officials are slow to fix things? Try them in a pandemic). My favorite bars, restaurants, and coffee shops are struggling and many of them are going out of business (my coincidentally-named everyday coffee shop, Daily Press, has shuttered).

All of this — from the fear of riding the subway or even going out, to the economy, to government resources being bogged down — is because of COVID-19, this catastrophic virus. It’s impact has biblical-in-size ramifications and, without hyperbole, feels fucking near-apocalyptic. Too many deaths, too much chaos, too much struggling. There’s a huge exodus of people leaving the city: if you can’t do anything and you don’t feel safe, why pay so much rent and so much money to stay and live here? The reason a lot of people moved to New York was for the experience, and with the virus out of control because of a lack of common sense in all of America, that said experience becomes inadequate, becomes impotent. I don’t know how it is in LA, Paris, or London, but New York feels like a former shell of what it once was in 2009, much less a year ago. Then again, with the rates of infection and the death tolls rising, I can’t imagine any city being as vibrant as they should be — but are their residents noticeably leaving en-masse?

From the viewpoint of a now 11-year resident, the city isn’t the same; it’s weird and depressing, and the sight of pedestrian-less blocks or empty subway cars makes me feel numb. Still, I’m clinging onto hope. I also have some perspective: my friends Brett and Gino — a Philly native and a Montreal transplant, respectively — have lived in New York longer than me. They went through the darkest time of 9/11 (and the literal dark time of the NYC blackout a few months afterwards), but they remained in the city and watched it transform back to greatness. After 9/11, New York became a tech magnet: venture capitalists funded startups like Vimeo, Tumblr, and Foursquare; a Google HQ was even built. After 9/11, New York became this past few decades’ arts/culture capital of the world: The Strokes and YYY’s and the burgeoning music scene, Parsons and Project Runway, Williamsburg and Soho and the Lower East Side became synonymous with creativity and style. All of those were the very reasons I dreamt of moving to New York — to be successful in tech, to immerse myself in culture. Brett and Gino have seen it all, and they’ve established themselves in their job fields and social niches, and I see them as examples of the young, ambitious, and talented quintessential New Yorker (if either of you are reading this, don’t let it get to your head). As inexperienced as I was, they were great guides at how to navigate this city, and better examples of New Yorkers who can overcome.

Despite the empty Manhattan streets, the closed storefronts, and the constant wailing of ambulance sirens, I have hope that something new and wonderful will come out of this current crisis. New York City will once again rise from this mess, and like Gino and Brett beforehand, I’d like to be present when that happens. I think I can be that grizzled-but-experienced guide for the next person, be it a recently hired co-worker or new neighbor or a student if I ever decide to teach. It’s in my capacity to pass wisdom to others, to the fresh-faced and uninformed (and, I begrudgingly admit, the less jaded). Knowing how things can change and evolve, I have such hope for everything to get better than it was before, especially in this stupid yet wonderful city. Yeah, I’m going to try to stick it out. Let’s go with a dumb sailing metaphor: I want to see this storm through and witness what beautiful vastness awaits this battered ship.

Filed Under: Friends, New York City, Ramblings

December 21, 2020 By Phillip Retuta

The Night Before Dog-mas.

Here’s something I wrote for a Holiday card in 2018, Nico’s last Christmas with me. RIP to all the pets who’ve passed on since then.

‘Twas the night before Dogmas, when all through New York
Not a Sebby was barking, not even a bork;
The pizza was placed on the counter with care,
In hopes that St. Nico soon would not jump there;
Pupperinos were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of sugarplum Mogwais danced in their heads;
And River in her ‘kerchief, and I in my newsboy cap,
Had just came from a walk after River’s long crap,
When out on Fulton there arose such a clatter,
I put down Instagram to see what was the matter.
Away from the apartment I sauntered like molasses,
Did Amazon come, or is Fedex on their asses?
The moon on the street and the unplowed snow,
Made me think, “What the hell, DeBlasio?”
When what to my bespectacled eyes did appear,
But an Altima driven by eight cats in snow gear,
With a furry old doggo dressed red like Magneto,
I knew in a moment she must be St. Nico.
More rabid than Bullet with skateboarders untame,
She howled, and growled, and boofed them by name:
“Now, Butters! Now, Nyan! Now Katsu and Nori!
On, Violette! On, MeToo! On, Portabella and Shiitake!
To the edge of Bedstuy! To Phil’s backyard right now!
Now drive away! Drive away! I need some chow!”
As D’Arcy on a couch as her sight catches a fly,
When they meet a speed bump, the cats’ car mount to the sky;
So up to my apartment the felines they flew
With co-riders Fozzie and Zoey, and St. Nico too—
And then, outside, the sounds of a zoo or a vet
The meowing and barking of each little pet.
As I drew in my fat head, and was turning around,
Down the fire escape St. Nico came with a bound.
She was shedding her fur, from her head to her paw,
And her tongue was all out, slung from her jaw;
A bundle of Bark Boxes she had flung on her back,
And she sniffed like a Brendan, and searched for a snack.
Her blue eye—how it twinkled! Her smile, how merry!
Her tail swung like a typhoon, her nose wet like a berry!
Her peppered long snout was drawn up like a bow,
And the fluff on her chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a Greenie she held tight in her teeth,
And the loose fur, it encircled the air like a wreath;
She had a kind face and wanted a rub on her belly
Scritches so rough, it’d make Diego jelly.
She was happy and loving, a right jolly old woof,
And I LOL’d when I saw her #NicoVids, those movie spoofs!
A wink of her brown eye and a shake of her head
Soon gave me to know she needs to be fed.
She barked not a word, but went straight to her work,
And jumped on the counter, what an inconsiderate jerk!
And eating the pizza, red sauce on her nose,
And pooping a little, up the fire escape she rose;
She jumped in her car, to her team gave a yip,
And drove down Brooklyn like a Lyft deserving no tip.
But I heard her bark, ere she drove out of sight—
“Happy Dogmas to all, and to all a good night!”

Filed Under: Friends, Holidays, Nico Doggerton, Personal Projects

September 17, 2020 By Phillip Retuta

Rest Easy, Chris Copeland.

Chris and me, circa 2003, playing 20Q.

On Sunday, I got a call from my friend Aaron in Portland. We talk every few weeks, and I figured he wanted to chat about the fires or the protests. No, the tone of his voice was shaky and sad: our friend, Chris, had died.

According to him, there was an accident, and the details were sparse. I did some searching and found out exactly what happened: Chris was outside the restaurant he manages, and a drunk driver ran a stop sign and an oncoming truck t-boned the vehicle. The car flipped to its side and pinned Chris to a building. The driver was a fucking 18-year-old, driving with his friends, with blood-alcohol level of 0.12%. The friends ran from the accident, till one of them came forward as a witness.

My friend was killed by a reckless fucking child — as a pedestrian, a person just doing his work.

When Aaron told me of the news, I was in shock; I couldn’t process it and wandered around my apartment in a state of numbness. It was a day later that I felt the sadness and anger of losing a friend. To hear of him so callously taken away was devastating. Chris was a victim of shitty decisions and utter disregard, and in this current social climate, I am infuriated by the lack of caution of everyone.

Chris and I met my sophomore year of college. He was Aaron’s roommate, and since neither of us really partied or drank at the time, we became very close — just mocking the sheer stupidity of college stereotypes. I remember going to their dorm to escape my shitty roommate, where Chris introduced me to Homestar Runner (we’d watch and imitate “Teen Girl Squad” a lot). We had common musical tastes, and I recall the nights where we’d just listen to Third Eye Blind, Something Corporate, and Weezer. I remember the nights where the three of us would just hang around, play that handheld game 20Q, and watch Super Troopers or a David Lynch flick (the Dumpster Lady of Mulholland Drive still freaks me out). I remember the night Chris, our friend Dave, and I walked around the empty quad at night and came back to his dorm to tease a very high Aaron.

Chris, at his restaurant, in 2015, when I visited Portland.

Chris was a great guy, and the last time I spoke to him was my birthday (the last time I saw him in person was when I visited Portland in 2015). We drifted apart a little, but he was in no means out of my life — even after I transferred to U of I the following year, we remained friends. In fact, he was the very inspiration for “Chris,” the main character of my college comic Sausage-Fest/Ghost Potato. Like me, Chris was a hopeless romantic, slightly insecure, but so damn hopeful for the future.

He was a contributor to my old blog, Bluegoomba. After I received the news of his passing, I scoured the archives for photos of him (Chris and I were great friends long before Facebook or Flickr, and sadly a good number of these photos are probably lost). I stumbled across a post he wrote (under his AIM Screen Name “IcemanChomp” — Top Gun was one of his favorite movies), and found this excerpt from May 2003:

The only thing worth your concentration is the future. Learn from the past, but don’t dwell on it, because you will miss everything coming at you with your head turned around like that. As far as the present is concerned, it’s over as soon as you think about it, so just react. However, don’t make big plans too far in the future, because they will get screwed up. I guess I am saying, don’t have a plan for life unless you have a million back-up plans, cuz dreams don’t come true, because they are just dreams, duh. (Man, I am evil…)

You were such a good friend, Chris Copeland. I’ll miss you so fucking much.

Filed Under: Friends, Ramblings

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    Welcome


Born 1983. Art Director, UX/UI and Digital Designer. Illustrator. Dog Owner. Coffee Enthusiast. Pizza Lover.

I love over-thinking the simplest of things and making stuff at every waking moment: comics, food, videos, photos... you name it. This blog is a record of my work, my exploits, and my philosophical, political, and psychological ideologies. So enjoy reading my dumb ideas and inane rants that I'd otherwise be ashamed to verbally speak out in public.

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Recent Posts

  • A Culture of Observation, Post-2016.
  • New Beginnings.
  • Done With This Apartment.
  • Thoughts on Dying, Death, and the Leftovers.
  • To Be Vaccine and Heard.
  • Nico Calendar 2021.
  • You Were The Best, Marissa Snoddy.
  • Ugly Americans: All Your Base Belongs to Suck.
  • Thoughts on 2020 and New Years Resolutions.
  • Ghosts, Gangsters, Vampires, and Weed: Favorite TV Shows of 2020.

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