The first in a series of drawing tutorials. Enjoy.

One of the defining characteristics of Filipino culture is the inseparable bond of the fork and the spoon. I would say that just about all 2nd-generation Filipinos like myself were raised eating with a fork and spoon, having mastered the technique after a lifetime of training.

Then, for many, comes the fateful day when they are invited to a non-Filipino household for lunch or dinner, and they are faced with the ultimate dilemma of having to eat with just a fork. It’s not a pretty sight (Cue “impending doom” music here).

This dark day came to me in my senior year of high school, when I was over at a friend’s house. It was summer and we’d spent the whole day messing around, so when his mom called us in for supper, you could bet we were starving.

It was actually the first time I’d ever had a real dinner at a friend’s house, so I was careful to mind my manners and be on my best. Yet, as I sat myself at the table, I studied the dinnerware and noticed I only had a fork and knife on either side of my plate. My heart raced inside my chest and I felt a huge lump in my throat.

Meanwhile, my friend’s sweetheart of a mom smiled at me from across the table as the rest of the family settled in. She brought to the table a large pot with a lid on it. It smelled delicious, but the only thing I could focus on was that darn missing spoon.

Now, my parents always taught me never to ask for things at a host’s home, and to be thankful for everything they gave me, no matter what. But in this case, I just could not imagine eating my dinner without a spoon. It took some nerve to ask, but finally, I mustered up a meek, barely audible request—”Um…could I have a spoon please?”

The entire family—mother, father, sister and brother—responded with the most puzzled look ever. “But honey, we’re not serving soup,” his mom replied. “Dood,” my friend whispered with a what-the-heck-was-that tone. “What do you need a spoon for?”

“But—” and my parent’s training cut me off immediately. Do not ask. Just accept. “…Oh. You’re not serving soup. Okay.” All I could do was smile the way someone smiles when they’re about to eat something they don’t want to.

For someone so accustomed to eating with a pair of utensils, eating with just a fork was like some kind of torturous game-show challenge where I had to eat with one hand tied behind my back. Whenever I could, I tried sneaking in my thumb to help push food onto the fork, but that was next to impossible since it was a small round table, everyone was close by, and everyone was watching me anyways.

It was by far the longest and most tedious meal ever, simply because of a missing spoon. And don’t get me wrong—the food was delicious—but I just couldn’t enjoy it.

Fast-forward to almost 25 years later and I’m the total opposite. I only use a spoon for stirring coffee and eating soup, and I eat my meals with a fork and maybe a knife if needed. Heck, even my own rice cooker is practically brand new. I guess it all started, or ended rather, after I left from home. Tell you one thing though, whenever I see stray grains of rice or morsels of food left on my plate, I push them onto the fork with my thumb, and smile and say to myself, “Man, this wouldn’t happen if I was using a fork and spoon.”

I remember laughing to myself while drawing it, thinking that tight/skinny jeans would never, ever be associated with Hip Hop culture. Little did I know that nearly 20 years later, skinny jeans would actually dominate the scene. Just goes to show that one generation’s extremes become the next generation’s norm.

Take mohawks, for example. Back in my day, anyone who had the balls to sport one (which were basically only punks) were seen as ultra-extreme and often criticized and/or outcast by the mainstream. Nowadays? I see tellers at the bank with ‘em. Same with this “skinny jean” thing. Hip Hop fans and thugs in the ’80s shocked the public wearing pants with waist sizes 2–3 sizes large so that they “sagged,” showing perhaps the boxer hem underneath and maybe a little more. Today? Forget it! You can literally see their whole boxer-covered butt.

Interestingly though, the “skinny jean” phenomena, to some, appears to be some kind of homage to the ’80s. I’ve seen some comments by young kids who claim that ’80s star Hip-Hop artists such as Run DMC “wore skinny jeans.” But sorry to tell you, kids, but those weren’t circulation-constricting leg-huggers like the ones you have on. They were simply regular, fitted jeans, which may have seemed “skinny” to everyone, after the whole baggy saggy fad.

I was at the local Graphaids buying supplies for the stuff I’m crafting for my kid’s birthday party. As I was signing the receipt for the credit card purchase, the cashier commented, “Ooo, a lefty. I’ve had ten lefties today. Yup, been countin’. I’m a lefty too, you know.”

The bond was instant. It’s always nice to meet another lefty. But it seems I’d missed the party. “Wow,” I remarked. “Ten lefties? That’s a lot!”

“I know, huh? A little creepy, isn’t it?” She made one of those “creeped-out” looks.

“Well, this is an art store though, right?”

“Yeah.”

That put us both at ease.

By now, you should know that Star Wars was pretty much my everything from ’77 to ’79. What ’70s kid didn’t obsess over Star Wars?

Meanwhile, though, you may be happy to know that I did pursue more down-to-earth interests:

But my mind would still constantly wander off into space:

Who could blame me? I was a product of my environment.

That ’70s Box strikes again. In color.

More to come soon.

Ah, yes. An early indicator of my fascination with the loss of life rather than life itself.

Yet another treasure unearthed from That ’70s Box. I’m guessing this was drawn between 1977–79. I absolutely loved drawing catastrophic scenes of explosions and epic space battles at the time, and this is yet another example of my delight with disaster.

Notice how the car is just barely going over the hill, but it’s already completely destroyed. Perhaps it’s American-made. Yet, in its misfortune, I’ve managed to flesh out all its gory details, from the fractured front axle to the little arm rest inside the rear door, which was certainly inspired by my dad’s ’72 Dodge Dart, whose interior design I always admired. Hey wait. That was also American-made.

Then we see a motorcyle rider, who just so happened to be tailing this car this fine day. Wait, he’s going over the hill. Oh well, guess I’ll follow. I dig how he manages to give a big peace sign before biting the dust. Now if that ain’t ’70s, I don’t know what is.

Enjoy.

I think I’ve found a new use for junk mail.