TRICK OR TREAT

My earliest recollection of Halloween was 1983 at the height of Michael Jackson's "Thriller". As a recent transplant from the Philippines to San Francisco I was well aware of the concept of Halloween, but never participated until then ~ and what a treat it was! Where and when else could you knock on a stranger's door and receive candy? Certainly not in Manila for fear of being branded a beggar and certainly never in my formative elementary years.

Fast forward to 2011 to my condo complex-wide sponsored Hallway Halloween for our condo-mmunity's children. In addition to the the typical fare of store bought candy, chocolate dipped Ritz Crackers and white chocolate drizzled brownies were the perfect personal touch. The unexpected ritzy treat's sweet and salty combo was appreciated by the parents more than the kids, but just as well for showcasing the fruits of my labor born of my recent baking hobby. Based on the parade of toddler trick or treaters, I learned that our condo-mmunity is comprised of young parents with the most adorably costumed children seemingly on their maiden voyage of this American tradition.

"You guys win!" cheered one of the parents who snapped away with his camera. One would expect that a grown man who buys a child's medium sized Superman costume at Target would look to be a trick on me, but to my most pleasant surprise it was the best treat of all to have this fit like a glove (except the legs which were slightly shorter, hence the cropped pics). My dear cohort Tonya joined me as Wonder Woman, making it so much more memorable for the Hallway Halloweeners who were greeted by Super Friends!

Coming of Age

As far as birthdays go, a tween may look forward to the monumental age of thirteen for the excitement of adolescence, eighteen for the aspiring graduate, twenty one for a chance to saddle up to the bar, or even twenty five to rent a car (at least in the USA). These milestones marked with their own traditions, folklore, and the occasional instruction manual have thankfully been a part of my healthy journalling habit since the age of eleven.

I fondly look back on them, reading thru old journals as a detour from house cleaning. Thirty was a particular highlight. I was doing exactly what I prepared for all my life, touring twelve cities in Italy as a performer in "Hair" as Teatro Smeraldo's audience of two thousand in Milan sung "Tanti Auguri" (Happy Birthday) at curtain call.  As a family member said ~ "That is something money cannot buy".

As one who has advanced past these benchmarks, increasing age becomes only a number, but the yearly celebration is time to take stock of the blessings of friends and loved ones. I've taken it upon myself to turn my birthdays into creative challenges, weaving my penchant for travel, food, wine, song & dance into this year's "San Francisco Birthday Restaurant and Karaoke Bar Crawl". Inspired by Guy Fieri's "Diners, Drive Ins & Dives" on the Food Network, I listed several restaurants, some of which were featured in the aforementioned show, and invited friends to join me in this tastebud tour ... tasting the world thru my buds.

I'm glad to report it was time well spent at each establishment. From Evergreen Vietnamese Restaurant's delectable minced chicken with basil & green peppers, the Salvadorean pupusas of the Mission's Los Panchos, the delicate dance of pomegranate & chicken flavors at La Mediteranee, to the "Madmen"-esque interior and perfectly temperatured meats of Harris Steakhouse ~ these epicurean delights paired with good wine and shared with great friends / family is a tradition worth upholding and even reinventing as we come of age.

We Will Never Forget

September 11th 2011 started as a cloudy day and much trepidation about going into the City. Noticeably increased security of rifle carrying guards patrolled train stations as well as the streets a few days before. Commemorative television programs populated the airwaves, bringing us back to the same day ten years before. I've come to expect a lack of or restless sleep around this time every year, perhaps I'm psychologically revisiting that day of infamy. Sometimes I think that maybe I am somewhat sensitive to the souls of those who perished, still crying out in anger, pain, seeking peace. Somehow my body returns to the fears and physical reactions felt that very day when the world lost its innocence.

I was running late to work that day in 2001, quickly glanced at my usual view of World Trade Center right before taking the PATH train.  Someone said that a small plane that crashed into the top floor a few minutes before (which explained the billowing smoke), so I called into work explaining this could potentially delay me further. Onlookers slowed their motion in curiosity at this sight, but with a lack of alarm as it didn't seem that grave of a situation. 

By the time I exited at the last Uptown PATH train station at the 33rd Street station, the slowed motion of previous onlookers was replaced by the frenetic pace of Manhattanites. There was nothing normal about this frenetic pace as it was downright panic with people calling loved ones on their cellphones. It didn't take long to see the root of all this as I turned around at the sight behind me. The usual view of World Trade Center that welcomed me into Manhattan after a twenty minute ride was no longer. Widening my eyes as if just waking from a dream didn't clarify the cloud down town, but it confirmed the tragedy that was unfolding.

Although about two miles away, I ran to seek shelter in my then office at the New York Press alternative newsweekly to find the staff gathered around the television. As if we weren't in enough shock, a communal gasp came as soon as the second plane hit, and everyone saw in each other's eyes that we were now under attack. Some felt anger, shock, to downright nausea speaking for myself, at which time I had to be excused. Not knowing what to do or what was to come, some coworkers had to take a drink at the neighboring bar. Some of us walked to Bellevue Hospital to perhaps give blood for the anticipated injured, but were turned away as there were sadly more casualties than injuries.

Masses evacuated from lower Manhattan, and the whole island following this tragedy including myself. I walked uptown further to meet a friend in Central Park and hopefully safer ground even further to his apartment in Washington Heights, then across to New Jersey. However for the next few days, safety seemed nowhere to be found as fear struck not just the cities and people affected by this act of terrorism, but the nation as a whole.

Fear alone has a way of not just taking hold, but incapacitating and disabling an otherwise able bodied person. Not only was I in bed for the next three days feeling extremely tired and sleepy, but sought at least the feeling of safety under the covers clutching my favorite pillow. Plunged into what now seems like a trauma induced depression, this was surely one of a kaleidoscope of responses not just to the immediate tragedy, but to lingering fear which was an equally intended target. Like an earthquake, my psychological ground shook violently with aftershocks of media flashing further reports and developments, until I forced myself to venture back to the world of the living (and might I add with much guilt for those who were no longer).

"Others came back to work a day after, why didn't you?" asked my boss. I had no answer for this, nor wished to do so. Clearly an over achiever as an NYU Stern graduate of only three years, my younger boss had the daunting task of remobilizing a magazine as this monumental tragedy brought us to a grinding halt. It seems she did so in a timely manner without much negative impact to the business, but resuscitating the intangible morale required of her far much more than her impressive credentials. In hindsight, recalling the varied ways we all had to cope and move forward, she may have tried her best to refocus an otherwise astute, and I'd like to think, efficient Credit Manager towards the daily operations. However, I found myself paralyzed by her question even more than my fear. Prior to the end of that business day I knew this was no longer the choice environment for a majority of my waking life.

It was ironic for many that I boarded a plane to San Francisco shortly after so I could be with family. My contribution to the spike of alcohol sales promptly began then onboard as a coping mechanism, and has continued since as a mere culinary compliment mind you. For hours on end I ensconced myself on Mom's couch, fluffed amongst pillows for a month. Mom became alarmed, and in the tradition of my boss asked a question I couldn't seem to answer, "Why did you leave your job?"

Death and destruction may have had something to do with it, and getting my head around this reality two train stops away as a part of daily life. Yet that was half of the equation. I asked myself the next question "Why did you move to New York?" to which I automatically responded "To be an actor."
That seemed so glib, but the ensuing question of more depth was "What does being an actor mean in post 9/11 apocalyptic world and why do I have to participate in it?" I could posit as much as scholars, but I knew my answer would lie only upon returning to New York and a more active pursuit of creating.

Risk was the name of the game, with a mound of credit card debt, unemployment, and the daily reminder of World Trade Center's crematorial fumes. Yet step by step, I rebuilt my life just as the brave and unwavering rescuers and rebuilders did at Ground Zero. Following my streak of irony, I accepted a temp position at a financial firm despite the recruiter's question "Would you mind working Downtown?" My newfound daytime position afforded me the mounting of my zany cabaret "Andy, the Musical" reformatted as a talk show simply to create and entertain at a time when we all really needed it. Shortly after, the opportunity to see ninety one cities of our country in nine months presented itself via the National Tour of Rodgers & Hammerstein's "Cinderella" so I left the comforts of home again. And by home, this time, I meant New York (which I now add to San Francisco & Manila). After a successful year on the road doing exactly what I loved and needed to be doing, I've taken a permanent position Downtown and am busier than ever creating "in my own little corner, in my own little chair". Did you ever come out of dark and difficult moments, dusted yourself off, thankful you survived, and said to yourself "There's no other way I would've learned that lesson"?

The beams of light signifying the Twin Towers serve as a reminder this time every year of those we lost. For many who long to reunite with their loved ones, ten years do not mitigate their loss and doubt if any length of time will. Yet out of respect, may they also rebuild, renew, and reinforce hopefully from what they have found.

Come on Irene

You have twelve hours to evacuate your home, pack a "go bag",  and seek higher ground from an impending hurricane's storm surge with anticipated floods soon to ravage your zip code. GO!

Two gallons of water, a can of Progresso Clam Chowder, Cup o' Noodles chicken soup, two bottles of red wine, one Chardonnay, Spicy Cheez Puffs, Double Stuff Oreos,  Sees' Candy Awesome Chocolate & Nougat Bars, a family size bag of Doritos Nacho Cheese flavor, a pack of Parliaments, dried cranberries and 30 vanilla scented tea light candles ~ these are to have been my sustenance away from home during the unforgettable Hurricane Irene of 2011.

As a veteran of Filipino typhoons, gusty winds and rain are all too familiar and dare I say sometimes comforting. Many were asked if they felt these evacuation measures to be exaggerated, and for once New York / New Jersey residents were in accord with a resounding "no"as they heeded the warning.  Ironically, the rain was hardly my motivation for following Jersey City's highly suggested voluntary evacuation.  The anticipated flood at next morning's high tide, compounded by high risk of being unable to descend to a potentially flooded first floor is a different story. It was at that point I welcomed a dear friend's invitation to be their hurricane refugee for the duration of this calamity.

Unlike a dramatic movie's exodus scene from catastrophic consequences (complete with cars embroiled in traffic), this was a leisurely twenty minute drive to the higher grounds of Weehawken, New Jersey.  Two miles prior to reaching my destination, turning onto JFK Boulevard East,  I was reintroduced to the a most breathtaking Manhattan skyline from Hamilton Park (pictured above). Rain clouds, mist, and increasing winds provided more than ample  foreshadowing of what was to come: a sit down dinner with good friends, an excellent dvd movie "The Conspirator", and zany photographic fun involving the cats of the household.

This afternoon's venture outside to investigate thankfully yielded bettter news. Damage, though clearly apparent in several areas, was thankfully not as severe. Now onto tomorrow's commute to work as that's surely a whole disaster of its own.

Shake Shack Was All Shook Up

"What a beautiful day" has got to be the plainest Facebook status. But it was simply that - a beautiful day. Tuesday August 23rd commenced with a pleasantly warm sunrise. It was the kind of day that anti depression drug commercial film crews wish for in order to film the after effect - that kind of "happier" day. Precipitation was nowhere in sight, humidity was on vacation, and only the sun remained with a gentle breeze - at least that's what I absorbed from my ten minute breather before heading back into my office. 


At approximately 150pm I rolled my chair back to reach for something on the floor,  and noticed a vertical bounce building from underneath. The San Franciscan in me leapt to attention and identified the movement as emanating from the earth. Emergency crisis announcements advised that we stay in our seats. However, I took the more visceral approach and darted for the closest exit with droves of similarly rattled co workers. 


This was an historic 5.9 magnitude earthquake that hit Virginia and was felt as far as Manhattan. Located about six kilometers of Mineral, Virginia the magnitude was initially 5.8 but since then has been upgraded. Suddenly, the East Coast was caught off guard by something unusually Californian. 


Suddenly I was transported back to San Francisco during the equally historic earthquake of October 17 1989. The World Series was interrupted, a portion of the Bay Bridge collapsed, and I was at King Norman's Toy Store on Clement St. where the ceiling had cracked open and I climbed out from under the rubble of board games Life and Risk. 


Thankfully, I was jolted back to the safer reality of the current temblor which reported no serious injuries. A sigh of relief followed by a string of jovial Facebook messages from San Franciscan friends gave me comfort. And why not mark this historical quaking moment with a densely packed chocolate shake from our office's neighboring gourmet burger brilliance, Shake Shack, right?!


Alas Shake Shack was all shook up! The adjacent edifice that houses this fiercely rebranded burger joint was under construction and had to undergo more extensive post tremor examination prior to allowing public access. So no chocolate shake (pout). Yet I happily return to my desk albeit sensitive to the slightest vibration. 


So where were you at 150pm yesterday Wednesday August 24th? Did you feel the earth move under your feet? 

A Favorite Facebook status ~ revived from this day last year 2010

Dalai Lama says "The purpose of our lives is to be happy." 
Dalai LIM. A says "Find your passion so you find your purpose." 


And once you find your purpose waste not a single minute. So grab that shot of cappuccino, get excited til you just can't hide it, and run the like the wind. Perhaps it's just me and my usually sleep deprived self,  harkening back to memories of my early 20s when my mom would, like clockwork at every New Year's Eve, sit at the foot of my bed and advise "When are you going to change? You waste so much time, and it's worth much more than gold. Wait til you realize this, and hope it's not too late." Love my mama for this, and I'd like to think I "got it" in time. 


To Everything There is A Season, as sung by the Byrds in the 60s. May we find our moments, our pace that echoes our heartbeat, while pushing the envelope and challenging us to be the best we  were meant to be. Living this motto in the moment would mean getting out of bed now that it is three o'clock on a Sunday afternoon. Freshly French pressed coffee can only assuage one's guilt for so long, not to mention a dwindling box of French macaroons - well you can call it an empty box now.


Checking in on my passions as follows in chronological order: Performing (singing, dancing, acting), Photography, Baking, Blogging/writing. One wouldn't ask a parent of four children "Who's your favorite?" I think mine is apparent, but each of these purposes was born in its own time, with its own personality. So I will nurture them in the hopes that they, like children, become my pride and joy. That for all the world's drudgery and dismay, I have contributed towards a fruitful future. 

Staying Alive after Saturday Night's Fevered Dancing in "Awesome 80s Prom"

What is it about jazz and coffee paired on a lazy Sunday afternoon? Perhaps java is your internal alarm that wakes your senses, complimented by jazz for a gentler commute to consciousness? Certainly so for this actor in the "Awesome 80s Prom" recovering after a Saturday night of dancing and improvisational hyperactivity with a myriad of audience members from happily stunned tourists whose faith in their Times Square TKTS purchase yielded a happy return, regular Prom goers in 80s regalia armed with matching vocabulary and catch phrases, to the wistful bachelorette and her ten friends bidding adieu to single life (and sobriety for the evening).

The show is but a thirty minute PATH train commute on a Saturday from my Grove St. stop in Jersey City (the glamorous part of New Jersey).  Iced coffee in hand, I descended to the steamy platform to  await the 33rd Street train for a thankfully brief five minutes. Pavonia Newport and Hoboken are the quick Jersey stops before Christopher St, 9th Ave, then my destination 14th Street.

A familiar face is always welcomed and worth removing ones headphones especially for an old friend James Rado. Lovingly known to many as "Jim", he is a Hoboken resident, the co-creator and original cast member of the mutli-generational bastion of Broadway musicals, "Hair", and the director who gave me a chance to live two seasons of my life in a singer/actor's dream with its European Touring production.

He politely declined as I offered my seat, yet I gently insisted until he graciously acquiesced with a smile. "I always enjoy running into you on the train Jim!" I say this every time we've run into each other on the train and I mean it. I also asked what was keeping him busy, equally sharing goings on of my theatrical and creative ventures. Not only am I happy to report that Jim is doing well, keeping busy with a new workshop, but I also have to note that I subscribe to his ever creating, developing, and workshopping work ethic.  We discussed how a director gets the desired performance from an actor, which led to Jim's poignant question "Where does the freedom of the actor lie?"

I enjoy Jim's organic style of direction. My best recollection reveals somewhat of a democratic dance between leading and following, listening to the actor, guiding him/her towards a naturally successful trajectory based on a healthy brew of actor's instincts and Jim's vision. This short ride to Manhattan clearly didn't give enough time for an intelligible answer, unless Jim was about to ring a buzzer, revealing that I was the subject of his new reality show "Actors on a Train" (Hey why not if you can have "Snakes on A Plane"...). Salutatory greetings were also in order with 14th Street coming up so I offered mine ~ "Jim, this is a great question! It's great to see you man! May I respond thru my blog? " He nodded elegantly as a blessing I suppose, gave a firm handshake, and offered a similar parting cheer.

A gentle rain on Manhattan's streets welcomed me back to the "Prom" after last week's groovy San Francisco trip (see previous blogs). Webster Hall was my dry destination, and once reached, I shook my umbrella like a dog fluffs itself after a bath. What I didn't shake off was Jim's question, and it seemed fitting to source the answer as I enter the halls of Wanaget High as Feung Schwey, the Asian Exchange student of the long running Off Broadway show "Awesome 80s Prom".

Feung Schwey's name is a play on the term feng shui - the ancient Chinese system of aesthetics believed to use the laws of both Heaven (Chinese astrology - possibly mislabeled as "astronomy" on Wikipedia) and Earth to help one improve life by receiving the positive. And receive the positive I must,  given that one must never say no in improv. Take, for instance, the unsuspecting audience member, sporting an 80s headband. He is a tasty morsel for our cast's well honed improv-predatory instincts, which are constantly called upon by our supportive and fearless leader, Prom creator/director, and theatrical marketing genius Ken Davenport. Ken's observation of my lack of fear, later reiterated as an encouraging and complimentary note, was my green light. It was my license to continue the fearless involvement of surprised theatre goers who otherwise would've enjoyed a passive evening in their seats.

So with a full tank of improvisational petrol,  Feung Schwey arrives at the prom literally coming around the block with schoolmates Louis Fensterspock on his bike (played to nebbish heights by Daryl Embry) and spasmodic Kerrie Kowalski (introspectively waxed last evening by Ashley Campana, and on a regular basis by the engaging Melissa Diaz). All would catapult onto the scene nearby our headband wearing audience member as Feung would pounce on this theatrical prey and be transfixed on the gentleman's similar accessory. All this while visually demonstrating how their common headband garment theatrically transforms an otherwise powerless exchange student into the Karate Kid, Olivia Newton-John amidst a "Physical" workout, Jennifer Beals mid-pirouette and "flashdancing", or not - when said garment is devilishly re-purposed as a mere blindfold by the abrasive bad boy rebel Fender (lovingly played by Brandon Marotta). Suddenly, Feung's less compromising, nerdier position becomes a golden opportunity seized by Principal Snelgrove (handsomely played by Dr. Thomas Poarch) as if stealing a base with more focused determination than the recently traded Astros-to-Braves Michael Bourn. Our innocent bystander is surely not to be spared from the principal's spray of insults, soon to silence our guest's nerdalicious laughter. Insult is added to injury as nubile cheerleaders parade by like the Supremes led by Whitley Whitaker (expertly played last evening by the visually arresting Kate Riley, and on a regular basis by the equally appetizing Jessica West Regan) towing along her Greek chorus of identically named Heathers (intelligently played by the blonde beauties Jennifer Peters and Megan Gerlach). These sirens appropriately sneer at the now tentative participant while en route to their perch of popularity from the dance floor, to the stage, and then to the occupied couch where they shriek away beer filled audience members. Their male counterparts, the Football Jock & Player, are the Laurel & Hardy-esque duo (played by Chris Cafero & Michael Barra) offering a similarly guttural response to the unfortunate audience member's plight.

Should the unnamed audience member find himself tapping into scars of adolescence, the more sympathetic characters of Wanaget High are sure to detect this improvisational opportunity just as dogs smell fear and provide some relief. Salvation could be an embrace from the heavenly milkmaid in blue named Inga Swanson, the Swedish exchange student (effortlessly exuded by the perennially radiant Lindsay Ryan). Inga's enthusiasm compliments her accidentally sensual vocabulary, being the busty Bonnie to Feung's Clyde and together they machine gun the audience with an ammunition of mismatched vocabulary.

There's nothing mismatched about a chic 80s ensemble showcased by Dickie Harrington (played by the enigmatic Wade Dooley) as the vocaliste /drama queen of Wanaget High. Once our embarrassed patron moves past Dickie's narcissistic hunger for fame, he's sure to be offered a welcoming embrace, or a martini if successfully undetected by Principal Snelgrove or his female counterpart, the drama educator Mrs. Loscalzo (expertly played by Andrea Briggs). Mrs. L takes her job seriously, patrolling the dance floor armed with a stiff wooden ruler to illustrate at least ten inches of distance required between those dancing closely as they come of age. Soon to orbit our unsuspecting 80s dude are are the freshmen brother and sister duo of Lloyd and Molly (dynamically portrayed last evening by Zach Sciranka and Pamela Macy). On the other end of the spectrum are the politically mature & aristocratic pair Michael Jay (diplomatically played by Alex Fast last evening, and on a regular basis by the equally dignified and deliciously industrious Craig Jorczak) & Missy Martin (honorably established by the gracious Lauren Schafler). Both are sure to advise our Prom goer to cross his T's, dot his I's, and much to their Republican chagrin, democratically cast his vote for Prom King & Queen. Let's not forget these moments are puppeteered by our ring leader, Wanaget High's alum and resident "Barnum" known as DJ Johnny Hughes (orchestrated by Craig Jorczak last eve, and on a regular basis by poetical Dillon Porter whose wit unfailingly receives a speeding ticket).

As Feung Schwey, I ironically found my freedom within the confines of my character's seemingly stereotypical facade unmasked by music, and within the willingness of cast mates and participatory audience members to play in this field of improvisational dreams. Pinball wizard or not, audience and actor alike will hopefully feel like a steel ball plunged into a gigantic pinball machine, kinetically bounced between a host of stimulating personalities, suggestive lighting and memory evoking music of the 80s.

Pardon as I digress with a full dissertation of the "Prom", though it seems befitting that the answer to Jim's question be vetted against a large part of my theatrical life. Within previous roles listed in the resume tab of www.andersonlim.com,  my freedom as an actor truly had lain within the structure of each character. Each provided a unique mold, an unusual canvas, onto which I painted my blood, sweat, and tears. Furthermore, the length of a show's run has played an integral part in allowing me the comfort and eventual freedom to grow each character on a nightly, weekly, or even yearly basis. Time, after all, doesn't just heal all wounds, but is a gift worth heavier than gold.

As one who looks fondly on memories from the 80s while accurately replicating the running man, Roger Rabbit, and the Reebok to the surprise and cheering delight of my weekly audience - staying alive after Saturday night's fevered dancing in the Awesome 80s Prom is definitely not for the faint hearted. It's for all of us who wish to revisit a carefree and colorful era, for those who actively participate in our sense of humor, and for those of us willing to jump into the unknown to find creative freedom.

Did You Leave Your Heart in San Francisco?

I left my heart in San Francisco when I moved to New York in 1998, but I packed ambition and dreams. Whether the latter two were going to be realised was another question, but bring them I did along with my new New York clothes, pots and pans that Mom wouldn't let me live without, and sheets for the already furnished 9 x 10 sublet room bunk bed awaiting me in Jersey City, New Jersey (the glamorous part of New Jersey as mentioned in a previous blog).

I happily say that the Jersey City zip 07302 has been my home since then, having grown up and out of my shared living situation of two years into a junior one bedroom for ten years, and now a flat I lovingly named "Cassie" the Casa. Entering the ranks of home ownership with "Cassie" after an exhaustive three year search can only be likened to my dating life which awaits its similarly happy fruition. But I digress. 

The address of my younger years in San Francisco now doesn't seem as close to the heart of this great city as the Westin St. Francis Hotel, my address for this weekend. Framed prints of celebs and figures (the likes of Queen Elizabeth chatting with Ronald Reagan) from the art deco period serve as murals behind the registration desk. Grecian columns sunk in dark marble greet the guests and bring me back to my days as a haberdashery professional at a fine mens' clothing store, Hastings, located below the hotel's main lobby (now MaxAzria).

How differently am I seeing these same halls seventeen years later? Formerly traversed to use the high end men's lounge while on break from my retail job, I am now a hotel guest wondering what happened to the once bustling florist that contributed a genuine waft of roses. Victoria's Secret continues to reveal its sensuality, weathering years of fluctuating economy where many were stripped financially naked. The Oak Room, a restaurant decoratively reminiscent of the world renown Taillevent of Paris (see pictures in "Paris July 4th"on facebook) embraced me with the aroma of what I could only guess as roasted duck breast in a berry reduced sauce. These play harmoniously, marking the passage of time, and in my mind launching into the recognizable (at least for contemporaries) intro to the theme of "Mahogany" where Diana Ross sings the questions "Do you know, where you're going to. Do you like the things that life is showing you? Where are you going to .... do you know?"

This weekend gave me a chance to take stock of such blessings with my loving family and friends, the ones who ask questions that you don't know answers to, much like Miss Ross' . Though it's fair to say that 1998's ambition and dreams eventually convinced the heart to follow my eastward migration, the best of 2011's technological advances have allowed me to be as in touch and involved with the lives of my loved ones. So as I hungrily sink my teeth into the Big Apple, my heart very much breathes the damp fog ridden San Francisco mist,  climbing atop a hill on a cable car from which the bell tolls. 

Coffee, Tea, or Me?

There are surely as many blogs about the horrors of flying today as there are travelers. Dreadful upon dreadful accounts of luggage traveling to exotic places unbeknownst to its owners,  flight attendants activating life rafts then sliding down along with a coupla brewskies, or ducks caught in a plane's engine causing a landing on the Hudson River. All this have given pause and within reason for those who have developed a fear of flying. 

Yet every so often, even when flying coach, I am pleasantly surprised by a flight attendant who smiles and welcomes you to his/her day at work.  Glad to report that American Airlines fight 17 has been pleasant so far. The Soho Bar at JFK unfortunately cannot be commended for its service, but instead for a decently sized twelve dollar chicken quesadilla that arrived in time to be wrapped to go for boarding. Mind you that Mexican meal came in handy when we sat on the tarmac for two hours due to outbound weather traffic, much to the envy of my seatmate in 25B. But yes, the unintelligible waiter (and pass-the-buck-waiters who deferred to the unintelligible waiter) left much to be desired so it's best to order quick, get your two pre-boarding drinks and grab the check when the order comes! 

Another pleasant surprise is the gentleman named Miguel who commiserated with my restaurant experience, and eventually offered to lift my luggage into the overhead bin. (I do declare that at times, one must rely on the kindness of strangers). Not to mention he laughed at my post Chardonnay free flowing jokes. Too bad this isn't a Virgin American flight where passengers can chat with other passengers individually and/or by group. (Remind me to tell this story for a more intimate evening audience, perhaps my next cabaret "Where In the World Is Anderson Lim?")

All in all not a bad experience today even with the 2hr delay. My friendly seatmate, a Motorola executive (not Miguel) graciously endured my feedback about my new Motorola Xpert's lack of optmal sync-ing with the Facebook app, obviously a worthy topic. And perhaps some tips will come my way on  the next best equipment. These pleasantries are what have not changed since the beginning of travel: a friendly smile, a helpful stranger, and the eternal romance of flight. I don't mind dating myself when I say I miss the glamorous days of travel when flying economy on United included a wonderfully hot meal of chicken, or beef, a glass of wine (Note I was underage ok!), and a delectable dessert capped off by a cup of coffee with a relaxing cigarette (Note once again I was underage and not smoking then - I am merely reminiscing of a time when this was ok and glamorous though we clearly know better now).

There is a slight bitterness as I am not entitled to the Business Class chocolate chip cookies which are clearly warm as the scent wafts this way. But no worries, this is why I baked a mini rum bundt cake, brought my own Tetley tea, and enjoyed this on a petite ceramic plate gingerly placed on a British Airways biz class table cloth I brought from home. 

They Tried to Make Her Go to Rehab ....

But she said no, no, no. And sadly so.

As far as I knew, Amy Winehouse was this pop singer who was known for her bad behavior. Her unfortunate passing has stirred a flurry of media frenzy accompanied by a juggernaut of judgment whizzing past with race car tire burning fury. From "It was inevitable",  "Oh I thought she was already dead", to "We cried" were some comments in passing.

Clearly with no personal connection to this artist, I was compelled to research more of her music (apart from "Rehab") and watched YouTube footage of performances before her stardom and decline. At the tender age of 20, her youthful exuberance was a counterpoint to her emotional depth and access to pain. Her acoustic version of Carole King's "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow" seemed almost like a premonition as  evidenced by her seductive voice / delivery reminiscent of a lonely trumpet player sitting shirtless by a hotel window, blowin some blues with beads of sweat. Her vocal maturity was more akin to that of a weathered 40 year old's.  It was truthful and ironically a beautiful symphony of nails accross a chalk board.

 Could her untimely death simply be a completion of her artistic journey now that she leaves behind an immortal collection of music?  Is her posthumous fame yet to skyrocket ? We never know and I am not the judge. I can only listen to her songs and picture a lost soul from 1960s who had a chance to trail a blaze of glory today, and make a grand exit upon the fruition of such dreams.

As inevitable as it seemed due to addiction and whatever else plagued her, we are brought back to the reality that she is survived by those who knew her as a daughter, girlfriend and family. These people will take no comfort or journalistic glee from comparing her story to those who succumbed to a similar fate at the age of 27. They will simply have to move on,  and I wish that they take comfort in her contribution to the world of music.

Sunset and Splash - New York Breaks 100 Degrees

Friday nights are known for frolic, frivolity, and downright weekend fun. Many an ad agencies have branded this otherwise natural and weekly occurrence as a reason to spend. Club kids are investing in well deserved disco naps for a full night of divalicious dance floor antics.

Perhaps it's my fast paced dayjob, or a constant pang to create, but apart from last Friday's birthday bash for a friend, my Fridays usually trend towards a spa treatment. These treatments (operative syllable "treat") usually commence with a glass of wine, bookended by yet "un autre verre" du Chardonnay, some fruits, as well as a sampling of facial products in a boudoir like environment while jazz or classical selections are offered on an unassuming and ambient volume level.

The fast paced dayjob with its well air-conditioned offices is a much appreciated blessing especially on a Friday like yesterday, the 22nd of July. The thought of traveling anywhere further uptown than 14th Street on the subway to partake in any pleasures described in the previous paragraph was met with an emphatic no from the boss of me (that would be myself).  New York surpassed 100 degrees Fahrenheit (32 degrees Celsius) and walking outside after a full day of pleasant ventilation only made me sympathize with a well marinaded butterball turkey entering the oven.

Being an avid baker,  I can only equate yesterday's outdoor weather with the initial gust of heat as you open the oven door. Humidity may have been a mere 33%, but it did not make the arid air and omnipotent sun any less bearable than if one were to flee from the lair of Lord Voldermort to the depths of Hades. It was HOT, get the picture?

As pictured above (titled "Sunset and Splash"), I found this scene down the street from my home to be particularly telling of yesterday's temperature tantrum. The liberated hydrant sprayed a sexy and generous arc of water without end. Precious children a few blocks away with a similar makeshift fountain danced with wild abandon along with scantily and inappropriately clad mothers. The loving dog owner pictured above dangles her pooch by the inverted waterfall. Cackles, laughter, and Latin music harmonized with the swishing spray of hydration. I was glad to be home, as I am now on a Saturday afternoon debating whether I should brave similarly oppressive climate (Oddly enough I've heard myself say the same thing in the middle of winter.)  The sense of Guilt is attempting to creep into bed with me and my billow of eight pillows, but the pang of Hunger at this lunch hour is really vying for my attention. Did I mention Creative Juices as the other bedfellow in this menage a trois? May the best lover win.

I appreciate the cool refuge I call my home. What is yours?

Bridge Over Romantic Waters

In the most fashionable city of Paris, it's en vogue to wear your heart on your sleeve, jump into a romance like an unsuspecting tourist gambler in Vegas, and hold a kiss for five minutes or more on the street midday (yes I did see that and clocked it at six minutes). So here's a picture of one of many notable bridges as seen from a boat ride at dusk.

Luckily, the previous week's heatwave gave way to cooler nights where one could sport a casual coat and a light scarf on what was a glorious time of Bastille in Paris. I ate my fill of magret du canard and confit du canard so I wouldn't yearn for it until next year's visit. I drank the gifts of the vine and yes they were divine. I spoke the language of the natives with a more than novice command of the vocabulary and accent,  and was warmly received despite my horrific grammar.

Along with the one night cabaret engagement at Swan Bar which was a pleasantly suprising comedy of airs, a very pleasant date on a Friday night, and a kaleidoscope of pictures shot with veracity, my third trip to Paris proved to be another success. It also spoke to the old adage  "Do one thing everyday that terrifies you". As the boat approached the bridge you hear the American accented English recorded tour guide blaring through the speakers "And here is the most romantic bridge in Paris. Now turn to the person you're with and kiss them." My travel buddy Eric would not have appreciated such a move on my part, nor was I longing to follow what seems to be the French equivalent of the mistletoe tradition. Right then and there I acknowledged the thought that I might actually be happy not kissing anyone - and that terrified me.

What Places Do You Call Home?

Hello Ladies and Gents
They say that regardless of her global fame, both in the real world and online, Oprah still journalizes - writing longhand in a certainly much treasured journal. While I am trying to continue a personal tradition in a similar fashion (one that started on a sick day from school at the age of twelve), it's a bit of a challenge when you work an average of 50 hrs/wk, are usually producing / performing in a cabaret on Sundays, performing Off Broadway every Saturday, and catching enough episodes of "Glee" or similar shows that keep you on the beat of pop culture. But as the old adage expresses, a picture says a thousand words, and I will never cease to carry my Lumix camera every day when I live/work in a city like New York and call Jersey City my home (yes that's New Jersey folks, but the obviously glamorous side).

I invite you to chime in, stay a while, chat get a glass of wine. And like a visit to my home, I promise to provide good conversation, a good laugh, and perhaps a glass of wine

The photo above was taken on West 44th St. as I was heading West towards The Irish Rogue Pub, to join my friend Craig's birthday bash. My Facebook comment was something like "Serenity over New York" ...identifying the moon as the sole representative of serenity over what we clearly know as the most beloved and attended chaos called Times Square.

I love New York City for putting a much needed fire under my ass as a theatre hopeful upon moving from San Francisco on June 1st 1998. I love New Jersey for its lack of pretense and real estate sensibility, where I also now happily own my piece of the sky (and what a sky it is especially at sunset). I love San Francisco for being the cradle in which I gained lifelong friends, where I had lain and honed my craft of singing, dancing and acting. I love Manila, Philippines for its dietary dangers, its sense of family, and tight knit Filipino-Chinese community which I consider to be home, as much as the Yankees.

What places do you call home?