Wish you were here

Sunday, September 21, 2008

HOUSE BEAUTIFUL

No, this is not the house of my childhood years. Ours was not grand or opulent, though the memory of which I will treasure dearly.

However, in retrospect, the one thing I wish we had in our house back then was subdued or recessed lighting as in this photograph of the Legardas' home in San Miguel, Manila. The ceiling lights that my father favored cast functional illumination, indeed, but fluorescent lighting just doesn't exude warmth.

One of the jobs I had during my early years in New York was as a stock clerk at W & J Sloane's Lamp Department wherein I learned the art of interior lighting. W & J Sloane was then the premiere furniture store in America that catered to the wealthy. Its window displays alone incited much excitement especially during October's furniture industry market week.

Because of the wonderful mix of co-workers who made it feel like one big family, this store became a second home to me, so to speak, for almost four years. The bunch of fellow students who were also working there made it even more fun; one was Billy, an Irish kid from the Bronx who was our department's technician. A few months prior to his graduation from the New York School of Visual Arts, he taught me the craft of assembling and wiring those crystal chandeliers from Italy and Chekoslovakia. When he quit, I took over his position.

At least two days of the week I was over at the customers' apartments assembling chandeliers. Their Manhattan apartments -- from Park Avenue to Fifth Avenue and from East End Avenue to Central Park West -- were a sight to behold. These were the celebrated abodes of Manhattan's old money and the noveau riche (mostly Wall Street's star traders). For the most part, it was like walking into a movie set or right into the pages of Architectural Digest.

One memorable experience was when I had to assemble two humongous crystal chandeliers at this four-level penthouse apartment of El Dorado's north tower on Central Park West. I was there for almost five days. The lady of the house was a handsome blonde woman of no more than forty who resembled Kim Basinger. She was a kind lady who would chat with me for a couple of minutes before she went out around eleven. And just before stepping out, I would always hear her asking the housekeeper to prepare a nice lunch for me, which I would enjoy at the terrace overlooking Central Park.

On the day I had completely finished the job, after calling the store's electricians to let them know that the chandeliers were ready to be installed, I decided to walk out the terrace to enjoy the spectacular view of Central Park for the final time -- from above this penthouse apartment on the 30th floor.

I was startled from my entranced state when the lady of the house walked out to the terrace to join me, holding two glasses of what appeared to be orange juice; turned out it was screw driver. Within a few minutes, I was just as animated as she -- pointing towards the tennis courts inside Central Park where my friends and I played, including the spot we called Frisbee Hill. She, on the other hand, told me about Fredrick Law Olmstead, the man who designed Central Park.

"You must see the park when lit at night'" she said. "Ah, that would be a treat, indeed" I replied. And before I knew it, I found myself embarrassingly declining her offer to stay for dinner. But the second glass of screw driver weakened my resistance; hence, the lady of the house, the housekeeper and I relished a light dinner of tossed salad and pasta out in the terrace, while enjoying the view of Central Park after dark. It was enchanting.

As I was leaving the apartment, she handed me a check which I refused. But she jolted me with a remark, "Young man, in life, you must learn to appreciate and accept praises that come your way." With that I accepted the check as I bid her and the housekeeper a fond farewell. The check was for a hundred dollars!

By the way, the El Dorado at 300 Central Park West is an Art Deco-style luxury cooperative apartment building, which overlooks the Jacquelyn Kennedy Onassis Reservoir in Central Park. It has been associated with entertainment figures such as Marilyn Monroe, Faye Dunaway, Groucho Marx, Tuesday Weld, Bono and Michael J. Fox, who have had apartments there. In 2007, Moby, the singer, put his penthouse in the south tower on the market with a price of about $7.5 million.

Barbra Streisand, Jerry Seinfeld and Calvin Klein also owned apartments in the nearby buildings along Central Park West.

And while working at W & J Sloane's Lamp Department, I had met in person Frank Sinatra, Sidney Poitier, Katherine Hepburn, Beverly Sills, Neil Simon, Jerry Orbach, Truman Capote, and many other members of New York glitterati. Greta Garbo (otherwise known as the the "I vant to be alone" actress of the silent film era) also used to walk in to browse around but never bought anything. We left her alone.

Labels: Growing up memoirs, Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:22 AM | 14 comments

Sunday, September 07, 2008

THE DISNEYFICATION OF GREENWICH VILLAGE

I came across this essay online which was published in the July issue of Vanity Fair. It was written by Christopher Hitchens who laments the end of urban "Bohemias" and why the ultimate transformation of New York's Greenwich Village is a very, very sad thing.

And although Manila doesn't have any exclusive enclave designated for our local bohemians, this essay made me wish for one. The following is an excerpt:

It isn’t possible to quantify the extent to which society and culture are indebted to Bohemia. In every age in every successful country, it has been important that at least a small part of the cityscape is not dominated by bankers, developers, chain stores, generic restaurants, and railway terminals. This little quarter should instead be the preserve of—in no special order—insomniacs and restaurants and bars that never close; bibliophiles and the little stores and stalls that cater to them; alcoholics and addicts and deviants and the proprietors who understand them; aspirant painters and musicians and the modest studios that can accommodate them; ladies of easy virtue and the men who require them; misfits and poets from foreign shores and exiles from remote and cruel dictatorships. Though it should be no disadvantage to be young in such a quartier, the atmosphere should not by any means discourage the veteran. It was Jean-Paul Sartre who to his last days lent the patina to the Saint-Germain district of Paris, just as it is Lawrence Ferlinghetti, last of the Beats, who by continuing to operate his City Lights bookstore in San Francisco’s North Beach still gives continuity with the past.

In aspect and design, New York’s West Village is the opposite of Soho in London in that it began its existence before the famous evolution of Manhattan as a grid had taken shape. As Malcolm Cowley phrased it, evoking the Village just after the First World War, “Most of us drifted to Manhattan to the crooked streets south of Fourteenth, where you could rent a furnished hall-bedroom for two or three dollars weekly.… We came to the Village … because living was cheap, because friends of ours had come already … because it seemed that New York was the only city where a young writer could be published.” Trying to sum up the ethos, Cowley wrote that for his generation the Village was something more than “a place, a mood, a way of life: Like all bohemias, it was also a doctrine.”

“Doctrine” might sound a shade pretentious. But try picturing American culture without the contribution of this unique square mile. Inter alia, you would have to subtract Bob Dylan and the Cafe Wha?, Norman Mailer and The Village Voice, Isadora Duncan, John Reed and Edna St. Vincent Millay, the Beats, the gay movement and Christopher Street and the Stonewall Inn, Lauren Bacall as “Miss Greenwich Village of 1942,” Eugene O’Neill, Dylan Thomas at the White Horse Tavern, Dawn Powell and Djuna Barnes. In his book which has the wonderful title Republic of Dreams, Ross Wetzsteon managed to evoke what he admitted was sometimes “a cult of carefree irresponsibility, but in the service of transcendental ideas.” That could be Bohemia defined.

H. L. Mencken made fun of the newly arrived poet in full flight from the provinces, appareled “in corduroy trousers and a velvet jacket, hammering furiously upon a pine table in a Macdougal street cellar … his discourse full of inane hair-splittings about vers libre, futurism, spectrism, vorticism … ” Yet it is astonishing to reflect how long the Village managed to keep on regenerating itself, and helping to regenerate American culture and education. One of the best artistic and intellectual reminiscences is Anatole Broyard’s Kafka Was the Rage, published posthumously in 1993. It describes a period, this time after the Second World War, when a combination of the G.I. Bill and the expansion of the downtown New School for Social Research created a vast new appetite for learning and debate among a generation that had nearly missed its higher education, and/or had nearly been killed. Men who had been fighting the Battle of the Bulge could suddenly forgather and—to give some of Broyard’s examples—hear Meyer Schapiro lecture on art, collide with W. H. Auden in the entrance of a stationery store, and listen to Erich Fromm and other German-refugee scholars discourse on crucial matters such as the cultural danger of “pointlessness.” An outlay of a few cents could keep you in coffee and cigarettes and sitting in a bookstore half the day without having to buy what you were reading.

Read complete essay here.

Labels: Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 9:51 AM | 8 comments

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

SPRING IN CENTRAL PARK

This is one of my favorite pictures of New York's Central Park. I had posted it once before to accompany my entry on master storyteller, Joseph Campbell.

I took this picture many years ago one early spring day while my dog Niko and I enjoyed an early Saturday morning walk. Always, before leaving the apartment, I would make sure I brought along my camera.

Truth be told, Central Park is what I miss the most about New York. I guess, it's because nothing like it exists in Manila.

By the way, I started a group in flickr and named it Manhattan Project. It's where fellow shutterbugs can post their pictures of Manhattan. It now has 17 members. If you live in New York or had visited it and have some photos you'd like to share with us, please sign up and join the gang.

Labels: Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 2:00 AM | 18 comments

Saturday, September 29, 2007

A GIFT IDEA FROM THE STATES

At first glance, this bag may appear rather unassuming, or more aptly, unglamorous. But in the States, it's regarded as a tough and yet elegant utilitarian bag, because of its 24 oz. cotton canvas and that it exudes panache with practicality, if you will.

The smaller ones are referred to as tote bags, while the bigger, extra-large ones (as featured in the above photo) are called boat bags. They're washable and ideal for shopping and weekend outings, and has been a traditional favorite with American folks of all ages. I've seen investment bankers on their way to work on Fridays with their boat bags filled with weekend getaway stuff, as well as carpenters who use them for lugging around their tools. Mine is old but still sturdy as ever. I got it in Maine during one summer vacation. However, those I gave as birthday or Christmas gifts in the past were ordered online from L.L. Bean.

The main reason I recommend this canvas bag as pasalubong to our local folks besides its functionality, is to also help promote it as a viable alternative to the ubiquitous plastic bags that seriously threaten our environment. Our fellow blogger, Toe, also posted an article about the perils posed by these plastic bags. She also made mention of the reusable canvas bags that her sister has created, BYOB - Bring Your Own Bag, as an anti-plastic advocacy and livelihood project.

Incidentally, for our fellow Pinoys who are living abroad and may not be planning to come home anytime soon, but are now starting to fill a couple of balikbayan boxes for their loved ones to be shipped and delivered in time for Christmas, may I suggest including one or two of these utilitarian, environment-friendly boat bags.

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Labels: gift idea, Life in New York, photography

posted by Señor Enrique at 9:11 AM | 19 comments

Thursday, September 27, 2007

LOCAL BAKED GOODS

"Where'd you get that?" I asked my co-worker Oleg one morning as I passed by his cubicle while he was eating an ensaymada with his morning coffee. "Have you found yourself a Filipina girlfriend?" I teased him.

Oleg was born and raised in Moscow and had immigrated to New York during the IT boom years. In front of the bus stop in Jersey City where he lives, is a Filipino bakery shop. He was always attracted by the ensaymada so, one day he bought one; he has been hooked ever since.

The bakery in the above photo is located right on Plaza Miranda in front of Quiapo Church. I love baked foodstuffs although they're usually consisted of simple carbos -- from pan de coco to ube bread.

But I bet everyone has a certain favorite. What's yours?

By the way, do you guys remember the peanut bar -- those inch-and-a-half, individually-wrapped squares of ground peanut sandwiched in sweetened crispy flakes? I love them, too.

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Labels: Featured food, life in Manila, Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 7:47 AM | 50 comments

Monday, September 11, 2006

IGNITING A GLOBAL MADNESS

A picture I took of the Manhattan skyline during the mid-1980s.

Labels: 9/11, Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 10:54 AM | 17 comments

Saturday, August 19, 2006

ART STUDENTS LEAGUE OF NEW YORK

I had once mentioned -- in one of the memes I had done -- that while in New York, I joined the Art Students League of New York and took many of its classes just for the heck of it. Most of my friends then were more into art history books while I preferred to know about art by actually delving into some of its creative process.

The school was only a couple of blocks from where I lived and there was nothing more exhilirating to do on a Saturday morning than attend one of its art workshops — be it basic drawing, painting, printmaking, or sculpting. I didn’t turn out a fine artist as our friend Rey Villegas, but those classes expanded my appreciation for anything art. Also, I met a lot of other interesting people who wanted to fulfill a longing to immerse in it despite their lack of talent for it. It was the actual participation in art that we sought and for which we were rewarded with expanded horizons.

The school, by the way, has a very interesting history.

During the 1870s, New York was becoming the artistic capital of America with National Academy of Design as its major art institution. The Academy was founded in 1825 and one of the oldest organizations of its kind in the country. For an artist to have his works selected as part of its annual exhibitions was a significant accomplishment in itself. Thus, gaining full membership at the Academy had become a major goal for many.

However, by the mid-1870s, the Academy was finding itself unable to meet the needs of the growing number of artists joining this profession. There were also many young artists fresh from their studies abroad who were dismayed to find the established members of the Academy too conservative and unable to understand their relatively radical ideas and more sophisticated attitudes toward art. This led to the subsequent creation of the Society of American Artists.

In great part, this development reflected the conflict between the "old guard" at the National Academy and the young rebels: conservative versus progressive, insular as opposed to cosmopolitan. Notwithstanding, with a rapidly growing number of artists flocking to the city, the annual exhibitions of the Society of American Artists helped to alleviate the problem of not enough exhibition space at the National Academy. However, it was the Society itself which provided the more progressive artists with their own forum.

As if in lock step, a similar development took place in the spring of 1875, when the National Academy began experiencing financial difficulties and planned to cancel all classes its until December. Students were alarmed because the Academy now required them to devote the first ten weeks of each school session to drawing; whereas, painting from life, their main interest, wouldn’t be until February of the following year. Even more distressing was the possibility that there may not be enough funds to hire any instructor to direct them when classes did resume.

Lacking any viable alternative by which art students could engage in any formal course of study from live models, the students met with teacher Lemuel Wilmarth to discuss the matter. The result of their meeting was the formation of the Art Students League. The students of the League soon aligned themselves with, those artists who would soon form the Society of American Artists (and who would later become the chief instructors at the League). Like the National Academy, the Art Students League was established as a membership, but offered membership to any candidate with acceptable moral character and the means to pay his dues. The informal nature of the League's organization was also very different from that of the Academy.

The major reason for the Art Students League's continuous success is mainly attributed to its long line of dedicated teachers and loyal and appreciative students, many of whom subsequently returned to the League to teach. To date, the Art Students of New York remains a cooperative society based on mutual help among all its members. There have never been any degrees or diplomas, no set curriculum; one must be there solely for the love and pursuit of art, the yearning for the exchange of artistic ideas and techniques. It is an institution founded by students for students, and these are the major reasons the school has continued to flourish.

Read the complete history.

Labels: art matters, Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:39 PM | 8 comments

Sunday, July 30, 2006

NYC YELLOW CABS

No, this is not about the local pizzeria here in Metro Manila; rather, about New York City's yellow cab taxis. Since I had posted an entry about our local jeepneys the other day, felt compelled to feature its infamous New York counterpart. Originally posted on October 17th last year, thought I’d re-post it for this purpose

Here goes:

Some of the more perplexing yet, intriguing characters you can meet in New York are its cab drivers; not those who work the daytime shift, but the ones at night (they seem to have more of an edge about them).

One I came across was an Israeli. Since a teenager in Tel Aviv he aspired to join the Mossad. With military service a prime requirement for applicants, he signed up for a stint with the Israeli Air Force’s pilot training program. It was so intensely gruelling — intellectually and psychologically — that afterwards his frailed nerves suggested kibbutz management after his discharge might be a more suitable career choice.

At one solo flight exercise — he related as if pained by the memory — he was to fly sideways underneath a bridge; its clearance allowed just enough space for the aircraft to go through without clipping a wing.

I could only imagine that a couple of years of excessive adrenaline rush from his training turned him into a reluctant addict that upon immigrating to New York, he was immediately drawn into the perilous excitement that city cab driving offers – dodging holdups, outsmarting theft of service scams and coping with incorrigible New York pedestrians and passengers; all that while negotiating hair-raising overtakes and evading the unmerciful men in blue.

The next day, over lunch, I mentioned to one of my best friends who is Jewish how badly I felt for this man who was so rattled by his air force training that he failed to realize a teenage dream. He retorted that the driver was not so much tormented by the grim prospect of crashing a million-dollar jet into a bridge and die in the process as to be overwhelmed by guilt for having wasted millions of dollars for destroying both the jet and the bridge. Guilt, he exclaimed, is a major issue to the Jewish psyche. I guess he meant to be funny.

The other memorable cab driver I chanced upon was a struggling artist from Madison, Wisconsin. He was so new in the city that I had to navigate our entire journey from midtown Manhattan to Brooklyn’s Williamsburg section. He was so dazed and confused – not with the city streets but in his entire demeanor. I figured he was either an innately brilliant artist or just took fine arts because he didn’t like math. A couple of months later, a friend dragged me to a gallery exhibit opening at the Lower East Side. While working the room, so to speak, I was surprised to run into this artist/cab driver. He didn’t quite remember me but told me anyway that he had just started working for Mark Kostabi. I didn’t know whether to be happy for him or not.


Addendum:

A cousin's wife was insisting on hiring a personal driver for when she and a couple of their kids visit New York for a month. She must have asked every one she could think of who might know someone from over there who knew anyone willing to do the job. She finally trashed the idea when I told her the average per hour rate for a personal driver in New York is $30.00 for an 8-hour period; beyond that she will have to shell out the usual time-and-a-half per hour overtime rate. That is, of course, if the driver would be willing to work overtime. She pays no more than P10,000.00 a month for her live-in family driver here in Manila with only a single day off every week.

One of my friends in New York does that but for only one client -- a rich couple from Madrid who would fly to New York twice a year. They would rent a sedan while my friend would drive it for them for the two week duration the couple was in town. He gets $30.00 per hour plus a generous tip when they depart, which supplements his regular income as a freelance personal trainer.

Labels: Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:42 AM | 6 comments

Sunday, July 16, 2006

SUNDAY GOOD READS

One of my favorite pastimes in New York was going to Barnes & Noble Bookstore on Broadway in front of Lincoln Center. This is an entire building with about four floors of books galore.

On its very top floor is a café and near it is an entire wall of racks of magazines — from consumer to specialty trade. Although these are for sale, you can browse through them at your heart’s delight provided, of course, that you handle them with care and not crumple the pages.

What I would do is grab a couple of magazines after getting myself a mug of decaf coffee or green tea and then find myself a stool by the counter that runs along the immense floor-to-celing window. With Lincoln Center as my view, I would leisurely read those glossies as I sip my hot beverage. This super bookstore also offers tables and comfortable couches for its patrons, but when alone, I usually prefer sitting by the window where, after reading, I would just gaze at the Manhattan skyline and space out. Quite meditative, actually.

The magazines at Metro Manila newstands are oftentimes enclosed in clear plastic bags and sealed shut. This is to prevent passersby from making a public library out of their kiosks. Understandably so but a potential customer can only base his decision to buy on the merits of a magazine's cover (back covers are superfluous since they're mostly contracted to major advertisers). However, regular customers are sometimes privileged to open the plastic bag and quickly browse through a magazine's table of contents, as well as its inside pages prior to making a purchase.

These days, instead of Barnes & Noble or the local newstands, I go online and bloghop. Incidentally, I recently came across some fine reads that you may want to check out (if you haven’t already). On Manuel L. Quezon III's site, I discovered the behind-the-scene story about The Beatles and their alleged snubbing of Imelda Marcos during their Manila visit 40 years ago. Manolo also cited Carlos Celdran’s 2000-word essay about the Spanish mestizo's ouster from the Philippine's privileged class .

One of my favorite smart kids on the blogosphere, Jhay, has an entry that we ought to implement nationwide — ICE (In Case of Emergency). That is, in our cellphone's phonebook, we should add a contact and name it ICE. This will contain the name and number of the person we have designated for the police or paramedics to call in case, God forbid, we find ourselves unconscious in a gutter somewhere; in dire need of medical attention.

Global Voices has picked-out two entries by our fellow-Pinoy bloggers: Torn and Frayed’s circa 1762 Manila when it was attacked by the British and Synesthetique’s requests from the ghost that frequents her office.

And there’s Conrado de Quiros’ previously published, Ten Things to Love About Being in the Philippines, Part 1 and Part 2. Mr. de Quiros included the abundance of DVDs in Quiapo as one of his reasons, but quickly quips, “Those who feel like berating me for listing the DVDs from the Quiapo district in Manila among the things that make this country livable might first wish to examine whether the Windows they're using to boot their PCs and the software they're using to write their furious letters with are original or licensed.”

Oookay... I think that’s enough selection of good reads for this cloudy in Manila Sunday.

Labels: Featured Writer, Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 9:02 AM | 17 comments

Saturday, July 08, 2006

NO BUTTS NO MORE

Ask me to talk to someone about kicking his smoking habit and I wouldn’t do it.

First of all, I was once in his position — the more people would tell me to stop smoking, the more I would light up a cigarette; not out of defiance, but because just the thought of how tough it is to quit would only make me light up another stick.

Actually, any form of challenge to any smoker, be it cerebral or physical, would be a good enough trigger to make him reach for a cigarette. When playing a pick-up game of basketball with a smoker, ever noticed the more exhausted he got, the more he craved for a cigarette? That’s the way it is with someone with a nicotine addiction.

Almost everyone knows nicotine does not stimulate relaxation; on the contrary it shocks the system. Why do you think smokers must have a cigarette when going to the bathroom in the morning? That is because nicotine jolts the system into inducing a bowel movement without resorting to the hemorrhoid-causing birthing push.

Neither does smoking make one look cool and unperturbed. Reaching for a cigarette is more often a dead giveaway that one is undergoing stress at that moment.

Nicotine addiction is not selective and would just as easily afflict anyone. I know a couple of successful doctors — one a pediatrician, the other a heart specialist — who, to this day, smoke more than a pack of cigarettes everyday. Even our young people — despite of frequent public awareness campaigns about the perils of smoking and breathing second hand smoke — would still light up or hang out at crowded arenas filled with this lethal fume.

For me, it all started back in high school when my friends and I would light up a cigarette as pang patapang or to embolden ourselves when about to meet with some girls from another school, or as a prop to our macho posturing — pang porma — at a school dance or private party. And before I knew it, it was 20 years later and now seriously addicted to it.

How bad was it? Well, immediately upon getting up from bed every morning, the very first thing I would do is reach for a cigarette. At work, there were times I would light up only to realize a couple of seconds later that I still have a half-smoked cigarette burning on the ashtray. I was to discover later on that this whole motion of reaching for a cigarette and lighting it are integral parts of the entire nicotine addiction process.

There was also the incident of once waking up at 3:00 o’clock in the morning only to realize I had already smoked my last cigarette earlier before I went to bed. What happened next, to this day, would embarrass me to share with anyone: I went through the butts that had collected on the ashtray, including the ones already dumped in the trash can, looking for maybe a half-smoked stick. When none was found, I hurriedly put on my sweater, pants, boots and overcoat to look for an open store in the neighborhood. It was in the midst of a dreadful New York winter with the howling wind dragging down the outside temperature way below zero. I must have walked an hour with about seven inches of snow and ice on the ground until I finally found a 24-hour deli.

Yet, going through that horrendous experience was not a good enough incentive for me to consider quitting; it only made me better prepared. That is, even with still half a pack of cigarettes in my pocket, I would now buy an extra pack before going home. I was, in effect, in the stocking up mode of my drug, or whatever it was that would get me through the night. In this particular case, cigarettes.

Be that as it may, like other heavy smokers, I had made a number of attempts to quit — from cold turkey to moderate cessation with the use of an electronic gadget — but to no avail. I even tried the nicotine patch but only to discover my skin was allergic to its adhesive. Eventually, I’ve become totally resigned to the idea that I would live the rest of my life as a nicotine addict — a life of incessant dry coughing, horrible skin, bad breath, smoker’s lines around my mouth and a severely cracked voice.

However, such dismal personal resolve came to a sudden end when one morning I woke up with a distinct sense that my body no longer wanted it. As if miraculously, that morning, I stopped just like that. Although every now and then, to this day, I would dream I was once again a heavy smoker and would wake up deeply troubled by it. Nonetheless, on that fateful morning, I never — not even once — craved again for a cigarette.

After about a year of being a non-smoker, while at a bar having a couple of rounds with co-workers to celebrate our bonus, I tested myself and lit up a cigarette. I immediately coughed after a subtle inhale. I held on to the stick anyway and after two minutes tried to inhale again. I coughed again in response. I realized that not only had I gotten over the psychological need for cigarettes, but my body was, in effect, rejecting nicotine altogether.

That night at the bar, I also noticed how awkward I’ve become when holding a cigarette — I was now waving it like a piece of French fry while engaged in some animated conversation; unlike in the past when I used to hold it the way Humphrey Bogart did — with an air of confidence, style and charm. At least, that was the image I thought I exuded.

It was a Friday night and before heading home from that bar, I stopped by St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue to light up a candle. It was my offering of sincere appreciation to the higher power that helped me lick my nicotine addiction. That was what it was — like someone ravaged by alcoholism, I needed help from a higher power to duke it out of my system. It was, in essence, a soul thing.

Unarguably, despite my having a history of intense addiction to nicotine, I feel it would be utterly presumptuous and condescending of me to suggest to a smoker to quit. And especially since not knowing an iota about his inner self, how dare I intrude and tell him how to deal with the vast emptiness that he feels inside of him?

It may just be a cigarette to anyone, but the grasp it has on a smoker’s life runs deep. I should know; I was once enslaved by it.

However, for those who may know someone struggling to kick his smoking habit, I suggest not to attack the cigarette itself at first, because smoking may be the symptom of the problem and not the problem itself. Instead, find a way to help the smoker sort out and resolve any deep-seated issues that may be underneath it all. And who knows? Just like what happened to me, this smoker you know might just suddenly stop one day and never crave for it ever again.


This post inspired by Jairam's Non-smoking Please

Photo credit: Baylor College of Medicine

Labels: Growing up memoirs, health issues, Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 12:34 PM | 16 comments

Saturday, June 24, 2006

FILIPINO ME

This picture was taken one night after having dinner with balikbayan friends over at Aristocrat Restaurant at Roxas Boulevard.

I took it with my phonecam and while tweaking the picture (with Picasa, Google’s free image editor) the other night, a particular memory from my teenage years while living in New York City suddenly dawned on me.

With nothing better to do one summer, my friend Murphy suggested that I sign up for a class at Herbert Bergoff Studios down in Manhattan’s West Village. Murphy is about six years my senior and someone other friends my age and I would run to if we had any question pertaining to dating, clubs, trendy stuff and whatnot. In short, he was our designated big brother.

Herbert Bergoff Studio, otherwise known as HB Studio, is a legendary school for aspiring stage actors. Murphy highlighted it as a cool place to meet other young people who came from various parts of America and Canada to attend the school's summer workshops. I had no desire to learn the craft of acting, but the speech classes interested me so, I signed up.

Towards the end of that summer, my instructor gave me a pat on the back for doing well and predicted by the final week of the class that any trace of foreign accent in my speech would be completely erased. Hence, I could be mistaken as American born altogether. Although I finished the workshop in its entirety during that summer, I chose to continue speaking with my usual Filipino accent.

In New York’s highly competitive business arena, there are those who may find even a slight trace of a foreign accent a disadvantage, unless of course, you’re Henry Kissinger or Arnold the governor. I did, however, compensate by constantly developing my vocabulary and being mindful of proper grammar. Even New York's men in blue (NYPD) would wave off minor traffic offenses when you communicate with them with a slightly above average choice of words (but without being disconcerting, of course).

And as I got older, although I process and articulate my thoughts quicker and more coherently in English than in Tagalog, the cadence of my speech still denotes my being a Filipino. I prefer it that way. Somehow I consider my speech a significant aspect of my identity in which I had no intention of letting go as I had regrettably once done with my name.


Note:

This entry was inspired by myepinoy’s recent and evocative blog post, which features a picture of a button that says, “I am a Filipino."


Highly Recommended Reading:

Culture in the Nationalist Struggle: A Sense of National Identity
By Manuel L. Quezon, Jr.

Labels: Growing up memoirs, Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 8:35 AM | 13 comments

Sunday, June 18, 2006

WILL THAT BE CASH OR CREDIT CARD?

Without my laptop again for almost two weeks—this time, HP main office had to borrow it to verify my complaints—I was back to resorting to the newspapers when keeping abreast with some current events.

What got me excited one day last week was coming across a print ad in the Philippine Inquirer featuring Canon’s EOS digital camera

There’s a project I’ve relegated to the backburner due to my lack of a better camera to work with. The Canon SLR film camera I've been using no longer seems to cut the grade. It's cumbersome, too. The film has to be developed and the prints scanned; whereas with a digital camera, all I have to do is hook it up to my laptop and the pictures are ready to be tweaked and published. And now that this Canon EOS 5D is available locally for purchase, acquiring one may finally breathe life into this project.

Adhering to a personal rule of thumb, especially with high-priced acquisitions, I started looking around for an Item I own with similar value as this Canon digital camera. Also, it has to be something I haven’t used in at least a year. The intention is to liquidate it in order to raise the cash for this new camera.

Surely, I could just use my credit card and rush off to a nearest Canon retailer; however, I strictly use the only credit card I have for emergencies, and pay off the entire balance when the bill comes.

You see, I’ve learned the hard way (while living in New York) how a piece of plastic could lead to spontaneous shopping sprees and constant insignificant partying. I was young and frivolous then. And may I add, not expecting to live beyond 30 and therefore, didn’t have to worry about any outstanding debts. Oh my, was I wrong!

But carrying a substantial personal debt has always been deeply entrenched into the American psyche. In a recent New York Times article alone, The American Way of Debt, author Jackson Lears claims “The fattest nation on earth is also the greediest consumer of global resources and now is borrowing more than ever to satisfy its appetites.” He then goes on to illustrate the large core of truth in his indictment.

Actually, to agree with him, I need not go any farther from my own family circle to exemplify his argument.

Just the other day, while speaking to one of my brothers over the phone, I was astonished to hear the dilemma his eldest son had gone through recently. Not satisfied with their beautiful home in a tree-lined street in Teaneck, New Jersey, his son decided to buy a much bigger house with a sprawling lawn. Not only is the new house an extra sixty miles farther away from Manhattan where he commutes to work everyday, he now has to pay an additional $200 a month for someone to clean and maintain his lawn.

Supposedly, the most troubling aspect was his making the purchase for a new house without the current one having been sold beforehand. But then again, how could he sell it without having a new house to move into; a catch-22 scenario, indeed. So, for four months, he was paying off two hefty mortgages and had to borrow money from his parents to pull it through. Thus, my nephew was no longer representing the glamorous ethos of self-gratification, but instead personifying a middle-class American homeowner seriously burdened by both his possessions and obligations.

American Consumer Credit Counseling figures also attest to the country’s alarming trend of consumers owing soaring debts and having no savings to speak of. And that many are filing for bankruptcy at record rates. Unarguably, Americans are indeed bathing in red ink; as consumers their combined credit totals to an astronomical $1.7 trillion.

Personally, it took some years for me to correct the course of my financial affairs. I even sought professional guidance to help me with devising sensible budgeting and saving schemes, as well as making more clarified distinctions between personal desires and needs.

One of the many lessons I’ve learned and have been applying since then is first disposing off an item I already own prior to making a new purchase. For example, before buying a new necktie, I must first eliminate one from my tie rack. As for taming my urge for instant gratification, I would save for those things I want instead of buying them immediately with a credit card.

When I purchased my laptop and upgraded my Nokia 3310 to a 6630, I sold some jewelry beforehand. When the credit card bills arrived, I had the cash to pay off entirely the total amount due. I don’t particularly like wearing or collecting jewelry, but have received some as gifts from my family through the years; which they’d rather give me instead of gift certificates that expire or tend to be forgotten.

By the way, I once won from a drunken bet a vintage watch. I find it ostentatious and therefore, would rarely wear it. I handed it over to my nephew the other day to have it cleaned by a professional. I also asked him to take it to a watch dealer in Glorietta for appraisal. If sold, I might just be able to afford that Canon digital camera and some of its nifty accessories. Hmm, I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Labels: Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 10:18 AM | 17 comments

Sunday, June 04, 2006

MY CAMPERS

Most definitely, amongst your worldly possessions there's at least one item that seems so quirky only you can appreciate its existence, or as a sage would say, it speaks only to you.

For me, it’s a pair of Camper shoes. I love them, although they make me look like I just walked out of some bowling alley without returning the borrowed shoes.

The first time I ever saw a pair was about four years ago when my nephew came back from Milan sporting a pair. I immediately liked them and assumed they were made in Italy. But much to my surprise, I was told they are a product of the island of Majorca, about 150 miles from Barcelona.

That following spring, upscale New York stores such as Barneys and Bloomingdale’s started carrying them. But they came with a steep price, especially for casual shoes — ranging from as much as 150 to 200 dollars a pair. Yet, upon closer inspection, one can appreciate the superb quality of the leather and the excellent workmanship involved, which justify their price tags.

To save a few bucks, my nephew promised to get me a pair when he went back to Europe that following autumn. However, when I went to Manila before then, I was thrilled to have discovered a Camper shoe store in Robinson’s Malate. They had quite a selection of styles marked down at 40 percent off their regular prices so, I immediately grabbed a pair.

In Manila, I would at times wear my Campers when playing badminton, although they're a tad heavier than gum-soled badminton shoes. However, they’re perfect for hardwood floor courts like those at Peregrine’s (located in the university belt area). But I must admit they're not nearly as comfortable as those made with Vibram soles usually found in Nike and Merrell sneakers.

If it is indeed true that shoes reveal something about the man wearing them — besides being mistaken as a bowling shoe bandit — my pair of Campers might hint my sometimes non-conformist nature — a major liability, especially in Manila’s clannish culture (wherein the finer styling of Tod, Ferragamo and Gucci are highly favored).

But much to my delight, the other day, I came across an article about the history of this shoemaker, which after reading it, made me appreciate even more so the only pair I own. Moreover, I no longer feel such a weird loner whenever I put on these quirky shoes.

The article goes on t say that the current owner of Camper, Lorenzo Fluxá, is a fourth-generation shoemaker and comes from a long line of shoe innovators. Supposedly, his grandfather hauled from England some machinery that modernized the family's shoe factory. When it was his turn to take over the family shoe business, Lorenzo found that he liked the shoe business, but was bored stiff by the company's usual product line.

Meanwhile, his urbane friends from mainland Spain kept asking him where he bought his slip-ons, which are basically espadrille-style footwear fashioned after old peasant shoes (in which islanders would cobble together from cast-off canvas and recycled rubber). Sensing an opportunity, he asked his father to help him launch his own line of casual shoes.

Although they would be a far cry from the family's established brand of dress shoes, Lottuse, Lorenzo's initial production of his new line of casual shoes went ahead; guided, though reluctantly, by his father. Consequently, their longtime loyal retailers were resistant; perplexed as how to exactly sell this new line of shoes designed after the local farmer shoes. Incidentally, Camper means peasant in Catalan.

Nonetheless, when the craze for blue jeans and slinky casual clothing hit the now dictator-less Spain, Lorenzo once again knocked on their doors and this time, successfully convinced those retailers to carry Campers. Sales instantaneously took off.

The design team at Camper would argue that the outside detailing of their shoes is not so important since they tend to get scuffed up anyway. They think that wearing them should feel like having a funny conversation with one’s self. It's a notion reflected in the soles of the shoes, which Lorenzo believes to be the soul of the shoes. Try saying that to Manolo.

In fact, they’ve even gone so far as to register many of their soles as trademarks, which they see as investments for themselves. Previous productions even had poems or messages stamped on the bottom (Hispanic causing panic, for example). A company that refuses to take itself seriously, its designers, in certain styles, will purposely not match the right with the left shoe. Surely, this was Camper’s way of demonstrating its wit. Now, I wonder if one of those stamped messages was borrowed from Chevy Chase’s - ‘70s Saturday Night Live's Weekend Update segment - headline: “General Francisco Franco is still seriously dead!”

As if to underscore its culture of weirdness, Camper employees were known to count the number of Camper customers on the island by examining footprints on the beaches of Majorca. The company also boasts that some of their employees came from various parts of the world. Shubhankar Ray, moved to Majorca from London last year with his wife and small child to work at Camper. This year's design interns came from Japan and Scandinavia, among other places. Then there's Kim Fabio, who grew up in the Caribbean and spent 10 years at Converse before moving to Majorca last year. If not by the weirdness, these people were definitely attracted by Camper’s old-economy attitude of unwillingness to compromise, as well as by its product line that reflects a strong sense of itself and rich in local character.

For more than a decade now, this peculiar footwear company has been quietly raking in more sales in its native Spain than any other casual-shoe brand. Now the company is going global, adding new stores in London, Milan, New York, Paris, and Taiwan. This explains a store in Manila.

Last year, more than 3 million pairs of shoes were sold, which brought in about $120 million in revenues. The industry's leading trade publication, Footwear News, named Camper "fashion brand of the year," and all kinds of celebrities — from Woody Allen to Rosie O'Donnell to Robert Redford to Bruce Willis — were soon seen kicking around in these unique footwear. Hence, Camper has become globally chic.

Although neither the largest shoe company in the world nor the most visible, it is arguably the most eccentric and, for the moment at least, the hottest shoe company on Earth.

I wish Camper a long existence. Way back during the '70s, a Canadian shoe company, Roots, conveyed the same sort of weirdness with their sandals called Earth shoes. I had a pair, but never got used to walking with shoes whose back part (heels) were lower than the toe part. I didn't know whether I was going forward or backward. I eventually gave them away, because I was already confused enough during that era and had no need for anything else that would only further discombobulate me.

Read the complete article, The Shoes from Spain by Ron Lieber.

Labels: Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 7:36 AM | 13 comments

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

PERILS OF NEW YORK LIVING

Imagine driving along the streets on a quiet early morning and then stopping on a red light. While whistling a happy tune waiting for the light to turn green, the very earth below suddenly drops out from under you.

That’s exactly what happened to Nancy Batista according to a New York Times report. At about 3:30 a.m. the other day when she was stopped at a traffic light in her Ford Explorer on Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn, headed south, as in toward the South Pole. A few seconds later, she was heading south as in toward the center of the earth.

What happened was, which has been an every-now-and-then-phenomenon in New York City, is that an ageing water main pipe exploded. In the process, it had scoured away the earth beneath the surface of the street, and Ms. Batista's Ford Explorer broke through the asphalt and fell in. The hole was 10 feet deep. But Ms. Batista was lucky: her S.U.V. landed on a gas main pipe about four feet down. Ms. Batista, 46, escaped with only bruises and cuts, doctors said.

The whole neighborhood around Fourth Avenue and 73rd Street, in Bay Ridge, was lucky as well. This incident did not precipitate the gas main to explode in flames; neither was there any gushing water to flood the neighborhood. Usually, a burst water main would be immediately followed by lost of power, or gas, or water service; restoration to normalcy would take several days.

Labels: Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 10:33 AM | 6 comments

Friday, March 17, 2006

ROLLING, ACTION!

The above picture by Chang W. Lee of a house in Queens being prepared for a movie scene was the accompanying photo of a New York Times article about the recent surge of TV and movie productions in New York City. It goes on to say that the film and television industry has become the fastest-growing source of employment, putting almost 10,000 New Yorkers to work over the past year alone. The reason is the 15 percent credit that production companies receive to shoot in New York.

I think that’s just swell. Really. But, however glamorous and lucrative this whole thing is, there’s the often unreported downside as well. That is, the inconvenience experienced by some residents during filming.

Like one early Sunday morning around 7:00 am, I was awakened by the annoying sound of a hovering helicopter. This may be common in South Central, Los Angeles, but definitely odd in my New York neighborhood. As it turned out, they were shooting a scene for another sequel of Bruce Willis’ Die Hard movie.

When I went out with my dog to buy the Sunday paper and some groceries to make breakfast, we had to wait almost half an hour before the production assistants allowed us to cross the street; same on our way back. It took them an entire day to shoot a scene which appeared less than a minute onscreen. Friends and other residents of Manhattan's Upper West Side faced an arduous task of commuting to work when the same film crew took over the 72nd Street subway station and its vicinity for more than two weeks. Bruce Willis, at that point, was losing the love of New Yorkers.

In another incident, my friend’s elderly parents were livid when they had to be told when they could leave and enter their apartment building when Woody Allen was shooting in their lobby and front steps for several days. Another friend was annoyed when Spike Lee was shooting a scene right in front of her Brooklyn ground floor apartment. She wasn’t allowed to open her windows or even peek out.

On tougher neighborhoods, residents would pump up the volume of their stereos and TV sets as soon as they hear the director’s cue for action. Others would purposely open their windows and stick their heads out, especially if they’re within camera range. This would make the producers shell out some cash to buy the residents’ cooperation.

In New York, at least, if someone (not a cast member) appeared quite prominently on camera and the production staff was unable to secure his or her signature on a release form, that person can sue the studio for using his/her image without permission and financial compensation. However, if it was a news item, the law does not apply. I found out about this accidentally and in a very embarrassing way.

It was a beautiful early spring day with the temperature hovering in the 60s. By 3:00 pm I faked illness; told my boss I wasn’t feeling well and needed to take off early to sleep it off. Concern was etched on his face and even suggested that I take a cab home while he pulled out some singles from his pocket to make sure I have change. I told him I have it.

My real intention was to enjoy the rest of that warm early spring afternoon outdoors. I walked up Fifth Avenue to 57th Street and then turned west to meet some friends at a neighborhood Italian bistro for some drinks and dinner. It was a lovely walk with most New Yorkers in a good mood.

Later on in the evening, at the bistro, everyone was having a wonderful time until my friend grabbed my shoulder and pointed at the TV monitor at the bar. On the screen was the local news’ weather report. For its backdrop, they used an earlier video of Fifth Avenue with me walking up nonchalantly from half a block away towards the camera. By the end of the report, my figure filled the entire monitor as I passed by the camera.

Unfortunately, my boss saw it also. After all, it was a segment of New York’s most popular local evening news. The next day, he walked over to my desk and in muted tone said that it was too bad I wouldn’t get any remuneration for my TV appearance. It was considered a news item. He sensed my discomfort and walked away without waiting for my response.

Later on that day, he didn’t come back from lunch. His secretary claimed he called from the restaurant to say he had gone home; sickened by the oysters he had for lunch. I knew better. It was spring fever like what I suffered from the previous day. Besides, they were filming a movie in his neighborhood with his favorite actress Kim Bassinger. It was a chance to see her in person and even get her autograph; if he were lucky enough.

Labels: films, Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 11:00 AM | 8 comments

Thursday, December 08, 2005

THE NIGHT THE MUSIC DIED

It was a night similar to this photograph—Christmas lights adorned some parts of the streets; there were steam coming out of manholes; some buildings’ were gaily lit; and giant billboards featured beautiful women promoting newest trends.

It was nippy outside when I stepped out of my Tai-Chi training center on Sixth Avenue and 43rd Street near Bryant Park. It was really late; they had a special demonstration conducted by a master from the West Coast that featured some of his students. I was compelled to sit through the entire performance; amazed by their disciplined forms and techniques. After which was the courtesy chit-chat with the visitors.

As I headed towards a bus stop on 42nd Street, a man came out of a Blarney Stone bar shouting, “He got shot! He got shot!” A couple of other patrons trailed after him; their faces seemed aghast from the breaking news broadcast that interrupted a football game on television.

I dismissed the commotion and kept walking towards the bus stop thinking the victim might be a Mafia kingpin or some Washington figurehead.

It was a slow night for buses. I must have been standing there for a good twenty minutes when a young couple walked over to wait for the same bus. The guy turned to me and asked if I heard the latest development—that he just lost too much blood to survive. When they told me who it was, my knees weakened; I just sat on the cold curb. The couple knew how grief-stricken I was.

"Damn, Lennon is dead," I whispered to no one.

I grew up in a household of diverse music. My father favored Gene Krupa, Benny Goodman, Cab Calloway, and Xavier Cougat to name a few; my mother loves George and Ira Gershwin, Irving Berlin, and Rogers and Hammerstein; my eldest sister adored Pat Boone, Paul Anka, Doris Day, Patsy Cline, Johnny Mathis and Nat King Cole; my brothers would rock to Bill Hailey, Fats Domino, The Platters, Chubby Checker, Little Anthony and the Imperials and of course, the king; but when the Beatles came along, I immediately declared possession. For the first time in my life, I have music to call my very own.

So, when Lennon died that night it felt as if all music died as well.

He was my idol. I was always amazed by his quick wit, as well as by his courage to speak his mind. When the White House took him on as a nemesis, he fought back just as fiercely. But most important, I was in awe of his words and music. He was to me the finest wordsmith.

The first time I saw him in person was in Manila. He was seated at the back of a white Cadillac; George on his left and Paul on his right. When he noticed me and some friends running towards their car from a distance, he must have asked the driver to slow down a bit to allow us to catch up. He then bent forward and waved at us with a big smile on his face. When we all dropped on the grass as if struck by an invisible force of his gesture, they all laughed—amused by our antics. The white Cadillac then picked up speed, made a u-turn and headed towards the yatch club.

I would run into him many a times since that afternoon; usually around the Upper West Side. On a couple of times inside a café in the 70’s between Columbus Avenue and Central Park West. I would always greet him with, “Hi John!” And just like an old friend he would say hello back while meeting my eyes. That would be it. No small talk, autograph requests or pictures to take. He was considered a neighbor and that was it.

He was always with his baby, pushing his stroller. Inside the café, after giving the baby his bottle or letting him nap, he would lose himself in a book while he sipped his cup of tea or coffee. No one bothered him. Almost all of New York granted him that kind of respect; treating him as an ordinary citizen just out to enjoy the day with the baby. Always, the locals would greet him either with a quick hello or a simple knod of acknowledgement, which he would reciprocate in kind.

Wikipedia’s profile of him claims, “When asked once in the 1960s how he expected to die, Lennon's offhand answer was ‘I'll probably be popped off by some loony.’ In retrospect, although he might have meant it as a joke and did not expect it to happen, the comment turned out to be chillingly accurate. Another chillingly accurate comment was made in his last interview, where he mentioned that he often felt that somebody is stalking him: first it was federal agents in the 1970s trying to deport him and later the obsessed fan in 1980.”

New York has a handful of celebrities as its residents, but none compared to John Lennon in terms of integrity, madness, brilliance and influence. But most striking was his deep longing for peace for all of mankind.

Labels: Featured artist, Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 4:35 AM | 2 comments

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

FRUIT OF THE GODS

One of my friends in New York loves fresh fruit. The weekend before Thanksgiving, she would have already ordered online and delivered at her apartment an ample supply of apples and oranges. She would put them in large baskets near her Christmas tree. The scent of which would add magic to her apartment beautifully adorned with Christmas ornaments. As for the grapes, nuts and cheeses, she would just walk over and buy them at Zabar’s on Broadway and then have them delivered. Zabar’s, by the way, is a gourmet Epicurean emporium much like Gourmet Garage (photo of which accompanies this blog post).

To her friends, her apartment has become a sanctuary of sorts during the Christmas holiday season. Depressed by a feeling of emptiness or strung-out by the stress of preparations for it, most friends would stop by at her place to recollect their senses or regain the needed emotional balance even if for a couple of hours. She would serve tea or wine and of course, fresh fruit. I always favored the apples and cheese.

As a kid in Manila, the Christmas season was always filled with great anticipation and sheer joy. But as I got older in New York, I became more aware of how adult issues gave the Christmas holiday season an entirely different meaning; that instead of jovial excitement, a feeling of depression, loneliness or anxiety may manifest instead.

For some, financial constraint is the reason — unable to give every one the ideal gift or prepare the usual festive banquet for the entire family and relatives. Others, on the other hand, may complain of their inability to be with their loved ones or close friends; ironically, it is during these times when stressful family and relationship issues would often arise. And in such instances, forgiveness is the key element to survive the holiday blues. That instead of devising ways to get even, forgiving the culprit may in fact deviate any one from harboring negative emotions.

In her new book, Heal the Hurt: How to Forgive and Move On, Dr. Macaskill guides her readers how to come to terms with issues around forgiveness. She explains, “We often find it very difficult to forgive people for the things they have done to us, we carry around hurt, anger and sometimes fear and can spend large amounts of time and emotional energy brooding over the wrongs done to us. Bad feelings can escalate, particularly around Christmas-time, when financial difficulties, relationship issues and family problems appear to be magnified. This can prevent us from getting on with our lives and can ultimately make us ill. I argue that in refusing to forgive or at least to put the hurt behind us we are frequently allowing the perpetrator to continue to hurt us. I introduce the reader via exercises and examples to strategies to help them to deal with the resentment and anger linked to the perpetrator so that they can out the events behind them and get on with their lives.”

There are many published books out there, as well as online resources to help those afflicted by this seasonal disorder. If you know of any other effective measures or resources, please share them with us. Having them to pass along to afflicted family members or friends may turn out to be the best Christmas gift that we can give to them. Along with some apples and oranges, of course!


Links

Heal the Hurt: How to Forgive and Move On
By Dr. Ann Macaskill
Sheldon Press

Surviving the Christmas Blues
Tips by psychotherapist Beth Mares

Tips for Reducing Christmas Stress
Better Health Channel

Photo credit: NoelG
Nclicks @ blogdrive

Labels: Life in New York, Words of wisdom

posted by Señor Enrique at 8:01 AM | 0 comments

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

SOHO (South of Houston Street)

I had recently asked Noel, should he find himself in Soho, to take a couple of shots of the neighborhood. And much to my great delight he obliged me with five wonderful scenes. I was so overjoyed because they evoked many fond memories of the city that I love (other than Manila).

They say the isle of Manhattan is in a constant state of renaissance, and how true it is. This photograph shows Gourmet Garage at Broome Street and Mercer. This wasn’t here when I left New York. The reigning food emporium around here then was Dean & Deluca on Broadway and Prince Street.

Incidentally, the photos that Noel sent me were mostly of this specific area of Soho I have in mind (West Broadway and Broome), but never mentioned it to him. He could have gone to Prince Street which I had alluded to when I spoke of Dean & Deluca on my email. But as if some stroke of magic, he took some shots of the very spot I would always find myself whenever I went to Soho. Call it my starting point, if you will.

Walking west from this Gourmet Garage store—on the southeast corner of West Broadway and Broome Street—is Kenn’s Broome Street Bar where my friends and I would meet after work before heading to an art exhibit opening in the area or somewhere in the Lower East Side. It was also in here where we would all meet if we decided to have dinner in Chinatown, which is walking distance from here.

Directly across the street on the second floor is The Kitchen (Center for Video, Music, Dance, Performance, Film & Literature) where I saw Robert Fripp perform the early series of his Frippertronics repertoire as inspired by Brian Eno. Robert Fripp, as we all know is the lead guitarist for the English art rock group, King Crimson with Bill Bruford on drums.

Also, from Kenn’s Broome Street Bar, walk south down a couple of doors is where The Cupping Room is. It used to be a small café where we would hang out on Sunday mornings reading The New York Times’ Sunday edition while having a cup of coffee from various exotic countries. Subsequently, The Cupping Room was expanded to occupy the space next door when it became vacant. It is now a spacious fine restaurant.

When we first started hanging out in Soho, it was still mainly a district of various factories. But when the manufacturing industry moved elsewhere—predominantly in Asia and Mexico—like most of Manhattan, Soho was eventually transformed into a posh neighborhood of fine restaurants, clothing stores, art galleries and stunning loft residences. It was a gentrification process resented mostly by the previous residents of fine artists who got evicted out of their cavernous loft studios. Most moved to the Lower East Side. When it, too, got gentrified, they crossed the river to the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn; other artists found home in Hoboken, New Jersey.

I will post the other pictures Noel had sent me in the next few days. For now, go visit his site, NoelG, and check out his truly unique style of photography. He’s currently featuring a series of Philippine provincial life photographs; one of which inspired my blog post, My Life With A Pig.

Once gain, many thanks, Noel!

Labels: Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:26 AM | 6 comments

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

A Master Storyteller: JOSEPH CAMPBELL

If you do follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while waiting for you, and the life you ought to be living is the one you are living. When you can see that, you begin to meet people who are in the field of your bliss, and they open the doors to you. I say, follow your bliss and don't be afraid, and doors will open where you didn't know they were going to be.

Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth with Bill Moyers, “Bliss and Sacrifice”



It’s interesting how people in New York behave with some of their neighbors. They can be living in the same apartment building for years, but the extent of their interaction — when in the elevator or in the laundry room — is often limited to a nod of acknowledgement. Such was with my neighbor, Marc.

He was already living in the building for about two years, but I only got to know him when we ran into each other at a lecture about Joseph Campbell and his influence in film and television storytelling. It was held at the Institute of Religious Science on East 48th Street in Manhattan; the speaker was at that time the curator of the Joseph Campbell Library at the Pacifica Graduate Institute in Santa Barbara, California. A lot of people in the audience were graduate students of Jungian depth psychology, as well as writers in film and television. Marc, I later found out, was a writer for Late Night with David Letterman.

It was a delightful evening with the speaker citing several popular films and pointing out the basic storytelling elements they all shared; elements that are imbedded in our universal subconscious as expounded upon by Joseph Campbell in his book, A Hero With A Thousand Faces.

This master storyteller gained major prominence in 1988 when millions were introduced to his ideas by the broadcast on PBS of Joseph Campbell and The Power of Myth with Bill Moyers. It was a series featuring electrifying conversations that the two men had videotaped.

When he died in 1987 before his PBS series aired, Newsweek noted that “Campbell has become one of the rarest of intellectuals in American life: a serious thinker who has been embraced by the popular culture.”

Since that evening at the lecture hall, doing the laundry became more interesting. Whenever I ran into Marc in the laundry room, we would talk about Joseph Campbell and Carl Jung. Other people would join in and then someone would collect money for pizza and soda; before realizing it, we would have a pleasant weekend afternoon party going on in the laundry room. Oh well, that’s Manhattan for you. When Mark’s contract with David Letterman expired he headed west to Hollywood with his fiancé.

Here’s an interesting trivia for fans of Star Wars: PBS is a network of publicly-supported television stations. When Bill Moyers was scouting for an affordable location for his series with Joseph Campbell, George Lukas heard about it and immediately offered his facilities at the Skywalker Ranch in California for free provided that he was allowed to sit in during the videotaping. George Lukas is one of the many storytellers greatly influenced by Joseph Campbell.

Labels: Featured Writer, Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:29 AM | 0 comments

Life in Manila as observed by a former New Yorker who with a laptop and camera has reinvented himself as a storyteller. Winner of the PHILIPPINE BLOG AWARDS: Best Photo Blog in 2007 and three Best Single Post awards in 2008.

 

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