Khan artist

by RAF KATIGBAK

Do you make lists? I ask because a friend recently converted me to the obsessive satisfaction of making detailed daily “to do” lists and ticking each thing off one by one. “There’s nothing like taking a look at the end of the day and crumpling that finished list into a ball and sky-hooking it into the waste basket,” he beamed.

That never really happens with me. Partially because I’m supremely lazy. But also because, since my daily activities only ever consist of two or three easily accomplished things like “buy milk” and “drink coffee,” I end up padding it with random shit to make it look bigger and more important.

Of course, things like “Use the phrase, ‘It’s all Greek to me’ seven times in the wrong context,” or “Secretly swap groceries from a stranger’s cart while shopping” will probably never get crossed off. They just serve as reminders of ongoing things to make everyday life a little more interesting (plus I like the idea of a stranger finding the list and wondering what “Ask landlord to trade Texas Hot Lunch for next month’s rent” means). I only say these things will “probably never get crossed off” because one thing I had on my “random” list actually did get crossed off the other night. It was “Be mistaken for every other Asian ethnicity in the world.”

Some people like collecting shit like stamps or records. I like collecting Asian ethnicities (I also have a wall of needlepoint fishermen and a complete set of New Kids on the Block action figures). So far, I’ve been called all the obvious ones like Chinese, Japanese and Korean, and over the years have been mislabelled as more exotic ones like Javanese and even Sri Lankan. Last night, my collection became complete. Here’s the scene:

Taxi Driver Where are you from?

Me My parents are from the Philippines.

TD Really? You look Mongolian. You’re not Mongolian?

Me Hold on, lemme check… nope. Still Filipino.

TD Ah, Philippines, very nice. It’s hot there, no? Tell me my friend, what do Mongolians eat anyway?

Me Excuse me?

TD What do they eat? They are so robust. Let me tell you something, once a Mongolian gets a hold of you, you’ll never break free…

Instantly I was reminded of the Mongolian camels scene from the BBC series Planet Earth, where the females would lewdly slap their private parts with their tails in order to entice the males. I couldn’t help think that is what he meant by, “Once a Mongolian gets a hold of you,” but decided to keep quiet about it.

TD …So what do Mongolians eat to get so strong?

Me Well, like I said, I’m not Mongolian, but I think there’s a Mongolian restaurant in Chinatown. I think it has, uh, beef? But maybe it’s the climate…

TD Yes! Of course! It’s the climate! They are very tough. Very, very tough. You look Mongolian, in fact you must have some Mongolian blood in you, I am sure. I love Mongolia.

At that point, there was a lull in the conversation. This man obviously had some kind of weird fetish for Central Asian tough guys and was convinced that I was one of them. I didn’t know what to say. He eyed me in the rearview and kept talking about how strong Mongolians were. Then after a brief pause, he nodded decidedly as if answering a question he asked himself in his head, then turned. “You like music? You will love this…” and then he rifled through the pile of CDs he had sliding around the passenger’s seat.

Immediately, I wondered, “What could he possibly play me? What could a man—an ambassador of the outside non-Mongolian world—have in his musical arsenal to impress me, a warrior from the far reaches of a frozen alien wasteland?” I felt like it was that scene in Close Encounters where they make First Contact and communicate through music. Maybe it would be something that represents the height and beauty of Western culture. Could it be classical music? Or maybe it’s something more contemporary, complex and spontaneous, like jazz? Perhaps his obsession with Mongolia has led him to amass a collection of Mongolian folk music and he wanted to ask me what I thought about his new Tuvan Throat Singing compilation.

No. I was wrong on all counts. He raised the CD up to the rearview and wagged it at my reflection, “This, my friend, you will love,” and placed it in the CD player.

His idea of perfect music? The sound that would bridge the gap between our distant cultures and resonate with this stranger from an alien land?

Rod fucking Stewart.

At least now I can also check “Have the weirdest taxi drive of my life” off the list.

RIFF-RAFF@SYMPATICO.CA