Disguise the limit

by RAF KATIGBAK

I get pretty bummed the day after Halloween. Mostly because I want to throw up. There’s a certain post-‘ween nausea that I equate with excess. When I was a kid, it was because I ate a year’s worth of candy in a single sitting. As I got older, that slowly morphed into drinking too much Southern Comfort and waking up with mysterious bruises and half memories of trying to climb/dry hump the John F. Kennedy statue at Jeanne-Mance and Ontario.

But waking up feeling like I got blindsided by the Flyers’ Randy Jones is not the only reason I miss Halloween. The truth is, I’m tired of always getting mistaken for someone else, and Halloween is the only time I can look like someone else on purpose. Case in point, I recently went to the Montreal premiere of my friend Yung Chang’s documentary feature film Up the Yangtze at the FNC (awesome film, btw). After he was done his après-film Q&A and I began to exit the theatre, an excited woman stopped me in the aisle and said, “I just have to say, I was on the Yangtze a few years ago and I really thought your film captured the exact feeling I had on that trip.”

Let me just take the time to say I do NOT look like Yung Chang. Sure, you may get us mixed up if you squinted really hard and were tripping on a cocktail of ayahuasca, ketamine and tequila. But otherwise I’d have to say we don’t really look like each other. At all. Yung is almost a foot taller, doesn’t wear glasses and has the looks and charm of a Chinese Errol Flynn. I’m a short, myopic Filipino with bad teeth and the looks and charm of Weng Weng, the world’s tiniest Pinoy martial arts hero (YouTube it).

The incident is even funnier considering that part of the film dealt with stereotypes of Western tourists and their exotification of the Orient. I guess, to some people, we still all look the same.

Sometimes though, it works to my advantage. A couple of years ago I found myself standing outside a club in Manhattan’s sickeningly upscale meatpacking district. It was fashion week and the heroin chic look was in full swing—by the looks of the queue, I couldn’t tell if I was at a fashion party or a methadone clinic. My friend was desperate to get in and had already been turned away when I arrived. She was in tears, “I tried to get in, but they won’t take my pass. The guy was so MEAN!”

Now, I’m a wuss, I enjoy confrontations as much as I look forward to getting a Q-tip shoved down my wing-wang every time I get tested for the Drip (FYI ladies: results are totally negatory once again!). But at that moment—maybe because I felt bad for her, or maybe because I wanted to impress her—I decided I would go over, give some perfunctory lip to the bouncer, and then we could leave and find a nice quiet dive bar to have a couple of beers, safe in the knowledge that I at least LOOKED chivalrous. As soon as I approached the doorman, I realized what a bad idea that was.

“Excuse me,” my voice cracked. The man was basically a fridge with eyes. “I don’t appreciate how you treated my friend here.” As the words left my mouth I marvelled at how completely unconvincing I sounded. Would he use me as a javelin and toss me onto W 14th Street? Or would he just take his fist, which was the size of a football, hammer me into the ground and use me as another post for his velvet rope? As I winced, preparing myself for the blow, suddenly the man unhooked the velvet rope, grinned and said, “Sorry sir, I didn’t realize she was with you.” And with that, he let us in.

I couldn’t believe it. I talked some shit and we were in. The girl was impressed. It was like Revenge of the Nerds all over again, and with my newfound mojo, we strutted into the bar. Suddenly I felt all eyes were on me. People whispered as we walked by. Perhaps the tale of my bravado in the face of the human appliance had already made its rounds through the bar. Not likely. Something was off. We sidled up for a drink and the bartender immediately ignored his other customers and greeted me with a huge smile. I ordered a beer and gin and tonic. As he rang it up, I saw the total: $25. When he saw me balk at the price, he reassured me, “Don’t worry sir, it’s on the house.”

I couldn’t resist, something was up and I knew it wasn’t because I had talked some shit to some man-beast at the door, “I’m sorry, but who do you think I am?”

He leaned in and whispered, “Don’t worry, you don’t have to go incognito here Mr. Lennon, we’re very respectful of our special guests. But let me just say your father was an inspiration to me, and a lot of other people.”

With that he winked and was off.

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca