Shit to do before my 20s end
- Learn Android and/or iOS programming
- Release a mixtape
- Create an animated cartoon
- Return to stand-up
- Write a science fiction novel
Q: Do you have any videos of your performances?
A: None that I’m particularly proud of anymore, but I did record the audio of my last set that I performed at the Irvine Improv back in March.
Source: SoundCloud / andrewsantamaria
This post contains my tumblr drafts that never developed into actual posts—some up to 2ish years old. Inspired by essmusssein's draft compilations on my tumblr feed, I figured that I should just release these victims of writer's block and gradual apathy.
"You’re not really gonna get that Yeezus, are you?" asked my co-worker.
"Of course I am," I responded proudly, "you just gotta feel that soul."
He retorted quickly, “He has no soul.”
A star flashed brightly in the night sky flashing multiple colors per second, but what star wouldn’t with its observers under the influence. The waves gently blanketed the coast only to retreat, but they’d be back again seconds later to repeat the cycle. Such a moment fulfilled the positive definition of a summer evening—a moment only enhanceable with more inebriants. Unfortunately, Warren needed to drive Shawn and Nathan home, so that wasn’t going to happen.
Instead, the three focused on meaningful conversation and well-thought out activities: marveling at the flashing star seeing how many punches they could each take to the stomach. After the howls of agony ended, the trio rested on the sand, and words began to exchange. Shawn brought up the subject of the opposite gender. The subject of the opposite gender begot the subject of dating. The subject of dating begot the subject of fornicating. Warren and Shawn had a general idea of each other’s achievements; Nathan’s were about to be gauged.
"What’s the farthest you’ve gotten?" Shawn inquired.
"…Well…there was this one time…" Nathan replied with a crossfaded slur, "I was at this party. There was this Mexican girl."
Warren and Shawn’s eyes widened with anticipation. Both directed their attention toward the storyteller.
"Proceed," Warren commented.
Nathan drunkenly continued, “We went to the bathroom, and I put a condom on.”
Warren and Shawn learned something that night.
"She pleasured me—orally," he said. Warren never heard of shielded fellatio, but he accepted the declarative.
I grew up in 1990s Irvine, California where the dominant complexion was light, and it still is. I never experienced any racism other than the typical question/answer jokes I’d hear from my white friends.
"What’s the difference between OJ Simpson and an African lion? An African lion’s an African lion. OJ Simpson’s a lyin’ African!" and then we’d sip our Caprisuns.
I’d never seen any racially motivated acts of hatred. If anyone hated anyone, it was by the content of his or her character, not by the color of his or her skin. My sheltered upbringing led me to believe I was living in the perfect world. I’d see racism on television shows just to think, “Well, good thing that doesn’t happen anymore!”
"Back in the game!"
I beat my previous Bejeweled Blitz high score of the week in Google+ Games. There really was no reason to celebrate so hard considering that my co-workers earned scores tens of thousands of points greater than mine. After feeling victorious for a single-digit quantity of seconds, the door between the test department and manufacturing opened. I frantically switched browser tabs to something that looked much more productive, but what the hell was I so worried? It was lunch.
A co-worker from manufacturing walked into the office with boxes containing additional equipment for a system I needed to configure.
"Eyy," I greeted with a 75% genuine, 25% fake smile and instinctively flashed a peace sign.
"Hey," he greeted with a smile of higher percentage genuineness without a peace sign as he placed the boxes on my desk, "If you could just sign here, please."
He handed me his pen, and I signed the paperwork agreeing that I received the appended devices. I subtly scrutinized my signature which originally started out as practice for forging my mother’s signature back in 5th grade, but I just replaced the D with a fancy A. With the pen still in my hand, I initialized the process of handing the pen back to him. For a second or two—for reasons I will never know or understand—I thought, “Hey, wait, dude, hey, this is my pen.” My co-worker was just about to grab his pen back when I pulled it away. And it was only when I pulled it away did it finally occur to me: that’s not my pen. No, that’s not my pen at all.
Anxiety asked Indifference if he could take over for a while, and Indifference said, “Not a problem. I’ll be back when Andrew rights whatever he thinks are his wrongs.”
"That’s okay. You can keep the pen if you want," said my co-worker from manufacturing.
"Oh, shoot, sorry, man. Isn’t this your pen?" I replied.
"You can keep it. It’s fine," he responded as he walked back to manufacturing.
I’ve done many of horrible things in my life, and this felt like one of those horrible things. Who encompasses the audacity to steal a man’s property in front of him? I might as well have found out his phone number and called him to ask if his refrigerator was running. With presidential stress on my mind, I turned to my co-worker in the next cubicle.
"Do you think I should go back there and give him his pen back?" I asked him.
"It’s fine, dude," he assured me.
"Yeah, but, man, that’s not my pen. That’s his pen."
"Whatever, man. It’s okay."
I engaged in about five minutes of deep thought consisting of imaginary scenarios and dialogue which could have possibly come true: “You know that one guy from testing? He took my pen, man. He took it right in front of me. I can’t believe that guy. That’s like the worst thing anyone can do. Yo, after tonight, don’t leave your pen around him, true penman for real, ask my n-word, Pharrell.”
"You know what? I’m gonna give him his pen back," I didn’t want situations to arise.
"If it makes you feel better," uttered my co-worker.
And so I marched into manufacturing with the dude’s pen. This was the moment to right all wrongs. I walked past the many stacks of equipment and made it to the hardware cage in the manufacturing area.
"Hey man, here’s your pen back," I said with a redeeming smile awaiting the burden to be lifted off my shoulders.
"…You didn’t have to do that," he replied as he threw the pen on his desk next to a jar of pens, pencils, and highlighters.
And that’s okay because I felt much better.
This was a tough post to write.
Dear Mr. Santa Maria:
As the President of the Philippines, I am deeply concerned about your ethnic membership. It has come to my attention that you cannot sing. It has also come to my attention that you cannot play the ukulele. Based on your activity on the Internet, I am
I felt the holiday spirit resonating in my surroundings on a cold December night in 2010. Nearby plazas radiated with Christmas lights and flashy decorations. Cars drove by blasting KOST 103.5 which played holiday music starting from Thanksgiving until the end of Christmas day. It boggled my mind how anybody couldn’t be happy during this time of year.
One of my favorite Caucasians, CJ, invited me to his friend’s little get-together at her place. I found it an excellent opportunity to build up my social skills by meeting new people and practicing not immediately being too inappropriate. Twas a nice apartment in Newport Beach not too far away from UCI. These girls had the right idea having Christmas wine all over the place.
We proceeded to play Taboo to improve the condition of this party, but there’s nothing that turns my eyes from slants to rounds like a video game. Not only did CJ’s friend’s roommate own an XBOX 360, she owned the new Kinect. I’d always wanted to grasp the power of one of these while not spectating one at a Fry’s Electronics. As she should, she had Dance Central—a revolutionary step up from Dance Dance Revolution where you actually had to mimic the dance moves displayed on the screen.
CJ and I got on it, and the game contained a decent soundtrack. For obvious reasons, I immediately selected “Flava In Ya Ear” by Craig Mack—the remix with Christopher Wallace. Cars and a virtual crowd of thugs and scantily clad women virtually cheering appeared. The familiar music started playing. The avatar started busting moves, and I had no choice but to follow, and CJ did his darnedest, I tell you. I swear he gave it his all, but laughter ensued.
"Andrew’s good!" I heard. That admittedly put a smile on my face.
"It’s ‘cause he’s Filipino," I heard. That admittedly removed the smile from my face.
What was all just fun and games
A swagtastic sketch filmed by my homies and me
WTFisTHIS Entertainment presents “Skinny Jeans”