Friends

September 17, 2020 By Phillip Retuta

Rest Easy, Chris Copeland.

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.

May 22, 2020 By Phillip Retuta

COVID-19 and Boredom.

Day 66 of self-isolation.

I’ll admit, the past few days have had this weird, somewhat disheartening feeling of stasis. It’s not that I’m feeling depressed, but rather I’m just existing and living each day, going through the motions. However, I don’t feel lost. Unlike some people stuck in quarantine, I know what day it is: “The Masked Singer” and “What We Do in the Shadows” are on Wednesdays (but there are no episodes of “The Simpsons”), “Top Chef” is on Thursdays, “Love It Or List It” tends to run marathons on Saturdays. It’s become a pathetic routine.

Yes, I’m bored as hell — so much so that I’ve been doing work-work on days I’m off the clock, just because I need something to do. Yes, I’m not getting paid or being put back on full-time with the hours I’m putting in, but I’ve run out of projects that I could accomplish with the money that I have. I’ve applied to new jobs just in case work falls through, disastrously (because, admittedly, the scariest thing about this pandemic is the uncertainty of the future). I’m waiting on friends to help me with content for some video ideas, but I’ve learned not to hold my breath. I could cook and bake, but I’m trying to watch what I eat as well as trying to save money during this furlough.

Boredom, I feel, has finally gotten the best of me — and a lot of it stems from a lack of funds. There are so many projects I want to do — shoot film, build something out of wood, finish my garden, bake something new, shoot dog photos — but everything requires money: materials, ingredients, supplies, a dog. I’ve found that I can’t pursue new projects when I have to decide rent and bills are more important than the things that make me happy. With so many survival needs happening at the end of this month (shelter, food, utilities), I’m trying to save every single fucking penny — knowing full well that I don’t have enough to cover everything. I mentioned before that the end of May would be scary, and now it’s the end of May and I feel it. It’s not entirely that financial anxiety, but a feeling of listlessness and un-inspiration.

I’m trying to remedy this by sketching, by rearranging my existing plants, exercising, and by cleaning a whole fucking lot. In between my forced 20-hour work week and while waiting for client approval on work that’s a week earlier than the proposed deadlines, I’ve found myself taking 30 minute to 1 hour naps throughout the day. Being unconscious, I feel, just helps pass the time.

Of course, I feel a sense of loneliness — which I have a love-hate relationship with. I’m enjoying the time to myself, but on the other hand it’d be nice to see somebody. I feel so far-removed, distance-wise, from everybody, and it’d be a pleasure for someone to knock on my door and say hello. Again, this self-isolation wouldn’t be so bad if I had something new to do… and I’d have something new to do if I had a disposable income again.

I’m in no means a religious man, but I’m praying things get back to quasi-normal again sooner than later: to be inspired, to be comfortable financially again, for friends to come over without fear or anxiety. I’m praying that whatever indifference and lethargy that I’m feeling now doesn’t turn into complete dread.

I just need a free, creative thing to do (well, other than writing). Till then, I’ll just keep on smiling and waiting and watching TV.

April 25, 2020 By Phillip Retuta

COVID-19 and a Birthday Retrospective.

Day 39 of self-isolation.

Today is my 37th birthday, and I must admit that the current situation of social distancing and self-quarantine gives me some emotional reprieve — especially on this day.

Let me preface that I’m an INFJ.

Outwardly, I may appear as a very social person, but inside my own head, I like being alone and truly dislike having attention drawn onto me. I’ve noticed when I make something I’m proud of and seeking attention, no one cares — but when I’m being myself, I feel unwanted attention is brought onto me. For instance, when I’m in a social situation (particularly one where I have no control over the environment and not hosting), I remain withdrawn and quiet in order to not draw criticism or judgement. My friends like to tease me a lot, and if I talk I get made fun of; if I’m quiet, people wonder what’s wrong. It’s a dumb situation, and hence — as a sensitive guy — I like being alone.

By nature, despite whatever anyone fucking says, I’m a very shy individual. I’ve grown up very withdrawn, attached to my parents’ side at the parties they go to. Throughout elementary school to undergrad, I was always a quiet, introspective student (it wasn’t until grad school and living in New York that I started to break out of my shell). Even today, in group chats, I merely observe the conversations and chime in when personally needed or addressed. It’s these social situations that make me feel awkward, and I reflect to who I was in the past. I use social media (and very much this blog) to give a glimpse of who I am — although I just use Facebook now for animal memes and cute pet photos.

I feel slightly uncomfortable when people sing “Happy Birthday,” and my own emotional baggage makes me feel like I don’t deserve anything nice, much less a day or a few hours devoted to me. Certainly, I’m guilty of giving the special treatment to others on their own birthdays, but my personal psychological characterization thinks “why would I deserve this? Nothing about me merits anything.” I’m a kind, creative guy who gives more than he takes, for sure, but everyone has their internalized flaws. It’s definitely all about self-confidence, something everyone knows I’m somewhat lacking.

So how do I tolerate my own birthday when friends decide to celebrate it? The answer is alcohol; I allow my inhibitions and self-loathing to drown in a glass of whiskey. I’m not much of a drinker, per se, but I will have a drink or two in most social situations. I won’t drink when I’m alone, but at a party, hand me something on the rocks or a glass of wine. Substance escapism is indeed a way to relieve whatever dumb anxieties I have.

And that leads me to today, where everyone is forced to stay away from each other, and I don’t have to physically be anywhere with anyone. By the time this is posted, I’ll be in the middle of a Zoom party with friends near and far celebrating my birthday. I appreciate the sentiment of my friends wanting to get together, and I’m grateful that technology and the social etiquette of our current situation can allow me to remain silent or even momentarily step away; I won’t have to solely carry a conversation, and there are enough tiny little screens that people might not notice if I disappear for a second or two. This year’s birthday, I feel, will be a great one. My primary concern, though, is that it’s going to be a roast, and I’ve told a few people I have a few apprehensions. Even if they’re going to be entertained at my expense, I have enough emotional fortitude to tolerate it (it’ll help that I’ll have a bourbon with me). I love my friends, but my mild social anxiety and my overall disposition of “not being good enough” tends to make me strive for creative isolation — to be alone in self-reflection and improve my artistic skills and imaginative ideas.

Despite this pandemic and my personal (albeit flawed) rationales, being 37 doesn’t feel too different from when I was 36 or even when I was 25. There are a lot of goals I still want to accomplish, and even at this age, I feel I’m not at the level I want to be: I want to have a better job and not have to worry about money; I want to have a wife and kids and a stable home. I want the worries I have about the people I care about to resolve themselves, and in turn make me feel so less co-dependent. I still have a lot to work on myself. Thankfully, I think my coping and emotional skills have come a long way from even last year, and I’m ready to give rational advice and emotional support to anyone who needs it. I’ve lost a lot of weight, too, and I’m making better lifestyle choices, with a goal to be at a reasonable weight by the end of spring.

Who the fuck knows what is going to happen within the next year, when I turn 38 and when things in our world are hopefully better. Nevertheless, I can look back at this post, on the edge of this apocalypse, and see who a younger Phillip Retuta was.

April 9, 2020 By Phillip Retuta

Oaxaca, Mexico.

Before I get started on the details of my trip, I absolutely loved Oaxaca. It’s such a small, beautiful city in the mountains of Mexico, and nearly everything is accessible by walking. The bright colors of the buildings, the cobblestone roads, the bustling markets and park squares — all of it was a refreshing reprieve from the hectic routines and stresses of New York (and, well, America in general).

Santo Domingo Cathedral, on one of my morning walks around the city.

As I had wrote before, I flew down there for Brett and Vi’s wedding, and although it was great traveling and hanging out with friends, I found myself more relaxed and more emotionally-rejuvenated when I wandered by myself: in the mornings, before any of my AirBnb housemates woke up, I’d wander the city alone.

Iced Americano with a ham and cheese croissant at La Ttertulia Cafe.

I’d stop inside the cafes, sit with a cup of coffee and often a breakfast sandwich, and just watch people get along their morning business. I’d break off from the group and take photos, one time searching all of Oaxaca by myself for a camera store that would sell 35mm film.

I flew into Mexico alone, renting a hotel in Mexico City for a 13-hour layover (who knows if I’ll write about that part, but I do have some good photos of Mexico City at night). Although I ran into some mutual friends and Brett’s family at the airport, by the time I reached Oaxaca I was left alone for a few hours; my other friends who I was sharing an AirBnB with were at a mezcal tasting, so I just walked around the city for a little bit. With the temperature reaching the 80’s, my first goal was to find cold brew coffee (hint: go to Cafeto & Baristas).

After a while I was tired of wandering and admittedly catching Pokemon, and I returned back to the AirBnB, climbed up onto the roof, and discovered an array of hammocks that our host generously provided. I tried taking a nap in the largest hammock and listened to A Funny Feeling Podcast while I waited for my friends to return from the mezcal tasting.

When they arrived a few hours later, we dressed up, wandered through the dark streets of the city, and gone to Criollo. After our dinner, we met up with the rest of our mutual friends — many of whom were familiar faces from New York and old friends from Chicago — and went bar-hopping.

One particular bar, Bar Ilega l, happened to be a regular spot that my friends and I frequented during our stay in Oaxaca (side note: apparently Ilegal Mezcal had a pop-up bar here in NYC). They had live music one night, and I think our friend Juan bought a bunch of bottles of their house mezcal to drink in the streets. The other night, he essentially bought the entire bar a round of drinks.

There are two things that I absolutely loved about Oaxaca: the food and the artisan crafts. During my short week in the city, my friends and I visited several artisan shops and markets. It seemed a lot of the shops were located in modestly lavish mansions or houses with their own outdoor courtyards.

Mujeres Artesanas de las Regiones de Oaxaca.

I definitely wanted to bring some stuff home for my apartment and backyard, and some of the craft prices ranged from ridiculously expensive for Mexican prices to super cheap, comparative to the US. For instance, I figured a table runner would be nice for my table: some shop had one at about 65 US dollars, but at another one it would cost 3 (needless to say, I bought the $3 one). I managed to get a lot of drinkware for when I have backyard barbecues and little dog-looking knick knacks for what I hope would one day amount to a collection of all my international travels.

The other thing that I loved about Oaxaca was the food: I love cheese and I love spicy things, and luckily Mexican cuisine manages to satisfy those two cravings.

I learned about tlayludas, which are essentially fried, large, flat tortillas with a shitload of toppings — much like a pizza. I also learned about memelas — thicker corn tortillas that are fried but smaller and slathered with sauce, beans, and cheese.

By the time I got back in New York, I probably gained 20 pounds. I’m fairly certain my cholesterol and blood pressure was also raised.

Mercado 20 Noviembre, one of the biggest food markets in Oaxaca.

Last but not least, it wouldn’t be an international trip without photos of the local dogs. I swear, I would have easily taken one of these strays back to the US with me.

March 17, 2020 By Phillip Retuta

COVID-19.

Via Brett. Me Facetiming Gino while Brett picks up some medical masks from me.

Today’s the second day of working from home/self-quarantining because of the COVID-19 Virus (I hate using the general term, coronavirus; MANY viruses are coronaviruses).

With the onset of the virus affecting the US a few weeks ago, I had two initial fears: my elderly, medically-fragile parents contracting it and me spreading the virus to other people. It’s my nature to never harm a person (emotionally or physically), and I care too much about people over my own well-being. If I got COVID-19 — and sure, I might recover or even fall gravely ill with my medical history — my greatest fear is to give it to someone else, and their condition worsens to the point of hospitalization. Self-quarantining and isolation has never been a problem for me, because it’s also been my nature as an introverted artist/designer to find the greatest comfort in being by myself.

Now with New York virtually shut down, I’ve developed a third fear: economic hardship and collapse of others. I’m so fortunate to be able to work from home, maintain a salary (albeit not so much as some of my fellow designers and art directors), and health insurance, but I have friends who aren’t so lucky. Talking to some of my friends who are bartenders, baristas, restaurant workers, movie theater operators, and hairstylists — they are now left unemployed and without benefits for God knows how fucking long.

I worry about those who have small businesses, those who solely rely on tips, those who are an integral part of the service industry, the immigrant worker who has a cart or small restaurant, those who don’t have a salary — what will become of them during this time? How will they pay rent, especially in such a shitty-expensive city like New York? How will they buy groceries? How will they, God forbid, they get sick and need to go to the doctor? And let’s not forget about school kids who are now at home, whose parents are healthcare workers or live paycheck to paycheck in a job that requires them to be present. What happens to the kids who rely on a hot meal at school? Yes, public places and schools, should be closed, but what in the meantime and what of the future?

All of it is so fucking complicated and so fucked up.

What this virus has taught me is the huge social and economic disparity between the haves and the have-nots, those who can survive this financially and to those who struggle to live in this stupid city. It depresses the fuck out of me, and I want to do something about it. The day before all restaurants and cafes were closed, I tipped 200% to the acquaintances that work behind the counter. I’ve donated money to a few causes to help those who are now left without work. I definitely don’t have much and I struggle to maintain a life in New York too, but it pains me to see someone who’s in a worse situation.

We’ll get through this, physically. I’m fully aware of the precarious and dangerous situation of the immediate now, but my mindset has always been to be anxious of the future. I’m always thinking of the bigger picture, and right now the bigger picture looks very scary. People are going to be needing help once the curve of infection (and, yes, fatalities) eventually flattens, so do what you can to help your fellow human being to prepare for the future. Love one another, videochat with your family and friends and keep them sane and happy, donate to those who are struggling or will most likely going to struggle.

Oh, and wash your hands.