I remember H.G. pretty vividly, even though I can’t quite put my finger on which class we had together at SBHS. The first memory that sticks is us standing out on the front lawn after school, the sun doing its usual flawless thing in Santa Barbara. H.G. asked if I liked Led Zeppelin, and proudly mentioned he’d just gotten the new box set on CD. He invited me over to his parent’s place to check it out and stay for dinner.
That was the start of a friendship that's lasted decades—packed with countless adventures and way too many laughs to count. H.G. had this wild energy, always a little rambunctious, and I think a lot of it came from the pressure his mom put on him. She was the classic Chinese/Filipino mother, expecting nothing less than perfection: lawyer, doctor, or whatever came with a big paycheck and “success” stamped on it. Needless to say, she wasn’t exactly thrilled about her son’s new free-spirited, punk-leaning friend. But my family lived up in the hills of Montecito (you know, where Oprah and Ellen hang out), so I had just enough of that shiny fake pleather sheen to earn a pass.
One thing about H.G.—he was never a “dog or cat” kind of guy. He was all about the unusual pets: saltwater fish tanks, reptiles, birds.
We were tight, roommates in several different places, and even worked at a sushi joint together. We had this ragtag crew, and let me tell you, that’s a blog post all on its own. H.G. was my right-hand man for years, and those years were full of drinking, laughing, and just living life to the fullest. What’s wild is I don’t remember us ever fighting or even getting on each other’s nerves. We were super close but also very independent.
With some friends, I’d get weirdly competitive—like I had to be the best friend, the one they picked above all others (thanks to my co-dependent streak back then). But with H.G., there was none of that. We just got each other.
Most nights would end like a scene straight out of an indie film: after too many drinks and smokes at our go-to dive, Wild Cat, we’d head to the all-night diner for stale coffee, sad eggs, and pancakes with bacon. Some nights it’d just be the two of us, other times we’d roll in with a crew of eight.
One night, a group of us decided to go camping up at El Capitan State Beach. Typical of us, we didn’t actually arrive until it was already dark, and, unsurprisingly, we were wildly unprepared—though I’m underselling it a bit. It was me, H.G., T.O., and Shin. Fun fact: I was the only non-Asian guy in the crew, and also a cocky, blissfully unaware 19-year-old male who had zero clue what I was doing most of the time.
We brought the essentials—or at least, what we thought were the essentials: quick and easy food for the BBQ, an obscene amount of alcohol, tents, and sleeping bags. The one thing we forgot? Firewood. You know, the thing that makes camping, well, camping.
But after a few drinks, in my infinite 19-year-old wisdom, I had what felt like a brilliant idea. "We're surrounded by trees," I thought. "They’re made of wood. Problem solved." It made perfect sense to my slightly inebriated brain at the time.
Despite the firewood debacle, we ended up having an awesome night. We drank, laughed, and listened to Gon play his acoustic guitar while Shin—who, after a few drinks, was always ready to belt out a song—serenaded the camp. It was the kind of night where nothing went according to plan, but somehow, that made it even better.
I woke up early that morning, still groggy, and decided to walk down to the beach for a quick pee and to grab some driftwood for the fire. Now that it was light out, I could actually see what I was doing. It was one of those perfect California mornings—clear skies, the ocean glistening, and life just felt... good. Or at least, it did.
When I got back to the campsite with my armload of driftwood, I saw a park ranger’s truck parked at our site. The guys were all sitting around the table, looking half-asleep and more than a little hungover, chatting with the ranger. The ranger turned, took one look at me, and I could practically see the "Ah-ha!" light bulb go off above his head.
"Sit down," he commanded, like some kind of state park sergeant. I sat down, trying to suppress my nervous smirk—a terrible reflex of mine that always gives me away. He launched into a stern lecture, telling us how breaking branches off trees in a state park was illegal, and that we could all get into a lot of trouble. My friends, still half asleep and hung over, looked both concerned and confused.
Without hesitation, I fessed up. “It was all me,” I told him. “These guys had nothing to do with it.” Not like the armload of driftwood and my guilty smirk helped my case. The ranger clearly had no problem believing I was the sole culprit.
Then, in true sitcom fashion, he turned to my friends and said, “This guy is a bad influence. You shouldn’t hang out with him anymore.” But, fortunately, they didn’t take his advice, and we went on to have many, many more adventures—and, of course, plenty of laughs.
H.G. wasn’t just a friend; he was more like a brother. We went through so many of life’s early rites of passage together—some ridiculous, some profound, and everything in between. He was there for me during the best and worst of times. We didn’t have to say much to each other, but when we did, it felt like we were the only two people who truly understood the chaos and beauty of growing up in that wild bubble of Santa Barbara. It’s funny how some people come into your life at just the right moment and, without knowing it, help shape the person you become. H.G. did that for me. He was fiercely loyal, always up for an adventure, and had a way of making you feel like you belonged, even when you didn’t quite fit in anywhere else. I’ll always be grateful for that.
H.G. was such a central figure in my time in Santa Barbara—so many amazing memories, laughs, and wild adventures we shared. As I get older and reflect on my life, the beautiful friendships I’ve been blessed with, and the countless swashbuckling moments, I realize I have a few regrets. One of those is that I don’t think H.G. ever truly knew just how important his friendship was to me. I worry that I took it for granted at times. After I moved to L.A. for film school, our lives naturally grew apart. We stayed in touch here and there—he opened an incredible sushi restaurant, got married, had kids—but the regular connection faded.
I was lucky enough to visit him a couple of years ago while passing through Santa Barbara. We picked up right where we left off, like no time had passed at all. It’s funny how life moves forward, pulling us in different directions, but those moments of connection stay alive in our hearts and minds. The memories we made together are still there, and I’ll always carry them with me. Thank you H.G
Love & Light;
MM
EYE AND EAR HOLES:
I went to see NegativLand with SM last Friday at the Madison Contemporary Art Museum.