East Coast Revival
August 4, 2019
and the chapters in between
August 4, 2019
May 31, 2019 Leave a comment
Deneng Deng (left), the Ilocano pinakbet (simmered vegetables in fermented shrimp paste), and lumpiang Shanghai (top right; mini meat egg rolls), fresh tomatoes and atsara (pickled papaya)
June 29, 2017 2 Comments
May 26, 2014 Leave a comment
You would hit the books most of your life in your hometown of Pittsburgh, PA until your twenties, when you would spend most of the years after college having roommates and misadventures and working in your dream job in a city you weren’t completely sold on, even taking it for granted, until it’s 20 years later, and you’re still here. Many times you would want to quit San Francisco, but you just couldn’t quite pull the trigger.
You would fall in love before you turn 30 and lose your job and man in one year. But you would travel to Paris at the end of the year with a ragtag band of your two sisters and two of your friends from high school and college, so that you would return to San Francisco, not only tinged with sorrow, but also the joie de vivre of that magical city. You would clean up after the party you had in your twenties and start figuring out in your thirties how you would want the rest of your life to look like. Your Paris gave you the spirit, and you would try to recapture and infuse it. You would tell people what you don’t want. The things you would love most–music, writing and your family and friends–are your saviors.
June 17, 2013 Leave a comment
September 27, 2011 Leave a comment
I was talking recently to Carmen, one of my closest friends, and I began wondering what it might be like living full time once again in the Burgh. Judging from my visit last year in October, it would, no doubt, be great fun.
Right off the bat after she picked me up at the airport, we headed to Shadyside for a late supper and nightcap. It was a Friday night, so the bars were heavily populated by young patrons, the majority of which came from nearby universities like Pitt and Carnegie Mellon. At one bar, every square inch was virtually occupied that wherever I turned I could easily have found myself on someone’s lap. Actually, the closest thing to anything of the like was being personally treated to an impromptu Vegas-style dance of the Seven Veils from a girl who obviously was too plastered to know any better.
Raunchy entertainment aside, Carmen and I finally ended the night in the quiet of Pangea, a fusion cuisine restaurant off Walnut Street with a decent wine bar, where she bumped into an old high school friend she hadn’t seen since, well, high school. During the course of my stay, we went to places “dahntahn” and “uptahn,” starting at Paris 66 for French bistro food, to Bossa Nova, where we crashed an Indian family’s hen party, sewing up the night at the Brillobox for Yuengling beer, DJ music and dancing in Lawrenceville.
It also turned out to be a wondrous Indian summer, with the temperatures in the 80s against the backdrop of falling gold, burnish brown, orange and Rainier cherry-color leaves –I couldn’t have asked for a better, dare I say magical, time to visit. It goes without saying Steeler games on Sundays are occasions for parties, and Carmen followed suit, throwing ribs on the barbie in her backyard.
This fall, Carmen and I were planning a trip to New York City so we could celebrate turning 40, but I told her I most likely I won’t be able to make it back to the East Coast, although I am still keeping the door slightly open. I’m a little bummed, of course, but talking with her and Channa, the woman who does my hair and nails, has eased the disappointment. No one should underestimate the power of a good haircut, plain old-fashion pampering and the support and affection of an old friendship.
©photos by Rachelle Ayuyang
May 20, 2011 Leave a comment
I grew up on a steady diet of Hollywood classics and musicals, but getting older and wiser, I jettisoned the heavy portions of happily-ever-after, love conquers all and pipe dreams. I became more inclined toward pragmatic, no-nonsense entertainment–with the exception of the last two months. I was willingly and pleasantly drawn into those same old guilty pleasurable moments of sweetness and light as I followed the 12th season of “Dancing with the Stars.”
I am also a diehard Pittsburgh Steelers fan who was raised in the former Steel City, obviously rooting for Hines Ward and his professional dance partner Kym Johnson to win it all. But it became more than a dance contest after this week’s show because of Kym’s terrifying injury. It put competition in greater perspective and thus pushed the show to another level. They went on to dance the Argentine tango of a DWTS lifetime.
Watching this show turned a minor diversion into an almost obsession. I signed on to the Hines Ward & Kym Johnson Dancing with the Stars Facebook fan page, and I couldn’t believe how deep the enthusiasm ran–wall-to-wall postings of photos, footage, interviews and even dance analyses by some rather clever observers. It took my mind away from worrying about paying for dental work, imagining once again the magic Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers once created on Hollywood sets and soundstages. With such ease and flow that belie endless hours of practice and rehearsals, they expressed the story of their romantic coupling in dance. The fourth wall is torn down; in my opinion, it has the intimacy of a play.
While folks try to figure out Kym and Hines’ chemistry–will they or won’t they–I like to compare them to Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck in “Roman Holiday.” They were two appealing actors who had immense respect and admiration for one another, with the latter, who was a bigger star at the time, even admitting without hesitation that the then-starlet stole the 1953 movie from him, and she deserved top billing as much as he. They embodied my ideal couple–reserved, smart, attractive and simply lovely together–just like Hines and Kym who are so complimentary toward one other it’s not clear who the star is. The final dances almost seem moot. Next week with them, though, there’s no shame in riding off into the sunset.