Elektra

To get through nearly two hours of singing without any intermission required endurance and talent the caliber of Susan Bullock playing the lead role was able to deliver. Elektra is based on Greek mythology and is a story of tragedy and vengeance often labeled as a "psycho-drama" of Freudian and Shakespearean influences.

The opera premiered in Dresden in 1909 making it 100 years old now and still a popular choice among Strauss lovers along with Salome, also an opera in one act and famous for its Dance of the Seven Veils. To support the overwhelming emotional content of the opera an unusually large orchestra is used in Elektra. The music defined the moods ranging from an expression of tenderness to grim rage and in order to achieve symphonic balance, the voices of the major players, two sopranos and a mezzo-soprano, must rise above the orchestra's own powerful sounds. And that's exactly what happened.

It is a simple set outside of the palace with a giant statue of a horse lying on its side representing the Trojan Horse. In this Met debut, the demanding role of Elektra was flawlessly filled by Bullock who is as brilliant a soprano and as graceful an actress herself. She danced the ecstatic dance of triumph as she avenged the death of her father Agamemnon, waving an ax about the stage and finally collapsing to her own death. (No Celine, she didn't have a heart attack, that's not classy. This is the opera, remember?)

The climax left some of us feeling something; I for one, unsure whether Elektra died in her moment of hysteria or she killed herself. It turned out she was overwhelmed by her emotions that she falls dead. It was a superb performance with the dance scene as a great conclusion.

Once again, kudos to the Met for another splendid production. This was a thrilling experience.

'Twas a shoeless Christmas

Let me see. I've been buried in a nest of paperwork and stack of newspapers, obsessed with baking breads and cakes to salvage overripe fruits, caught in the doldrums of winter, worried sick about kinsfolk flying into town in the midst of a snowstorm, etc. I think I've perfected the science of doing a gazillion things at one time leaving me dead tired and finding no energy to write. I'm telling you it's not a cakewalk being old, ha ha.

So it's the traditional Christmas Day party that Inang and I host every year. No invitations necessary, gifts optional (sweaters that fit please) and pot luck dish a must.

This year no friends were invited. We have our own steady supply of cool nieces, whining in-laws, maladjusted nephews, smart grand kids (Matthew is now into square roots of huge numbers), to pack the place from floor to ceiling practically. That's a little exaggerated, but if you were my poor bed, you would've buckled with the weight you're bearing as these humans pile up for a pose for Facebook. Speaking of which Amor had to to be educated and lectured that there's no going back now. This thing called Facebook, not Fess Book will shape the future of her grandchildren like it or not. Note: cousin Amor has a blind spot about technology.

First they were drilled, some of these less than obedient members of the family. We'll have guests we never met before so leave those campy jokes at home, be on your best behavior and pretend you have something in common with them. After all you are part of the clan.

They were the first at the door, my favorite cousin Alice who flew in from Manila to spend the holidays in the city with her daughter Sheila Jane and son-in-law Joie. It's our first time to meet Joie. And Sheila, she was an infant when I saw her last. Before I knew it she's done with med school and now delivers babies among other things while Joie is busy drilling and pinning femur pieces together ( he is an orthopod).

Poor Joie's initiation into the rowdy family. Sure it was a warm welcome, imagine being greeted with a hug and kiss and handed a pair of socks followed by a brutally frank "Could you please take off your shoes?". I'm glad they're family, I can tell them anything - I think! Nelsie whined endlessly about this shoes-off business. This is ridiculous, she ranted. Her glitzy but sharp stilletos could've poked serious dents on my floors. Not counting the fact that she could've delivered a trail of halite indoors. Full disclosure: Nelsie is our own poster girl for fashionable footwear despite her sore heel spurs.

We were joined by the entire family of Amor and Joe, Ate Alice's cousin Flora and Aunt Marta and of course Chong, Marvee and Tita Lumen. It took just a few minutes for the kids to warm up to their newly-met cousins. It didn't take very long for Ped either to bring up the prickly topic of Amor's pichi-pichi dessert. The scanty balls of sweets look like they are just a sprinkling on the platter. Is there a chance she forgot there are at least 25 adults eating today or is there really a shortage on coconut? Ate Alice said she could've used cheese as substitute. Poor cousin went deaf on the harsh critics. How about Joe who started babbling after downing one glass of wine?

There was enough food to feed a battalion but way too many desserts. I've got to do a better job of delegating tasks so we don't end up with sugar high. We were bedazzled with sweets thanks to Grace's pecan pie, Melissa's chocolate chip cookies, Charmaine's assortment of nutty squares, Chong's blueberry cheesecake and Indian pudding, Noris' leche flan, Amor's fruit salad and the infamous pichi-pichi.

There was Ped's glazed ham, Melissa's chicken Marsala, Chong's baked salmon, Charmaine's pasta, Flora's pork bun and of course Inang's signature boiled shrimp, Christmas nilaga (puchero) with lots of veggies and Carol's favorite pinakbet loaded with okra. Amor snuck in a dish of tofu for her grandchildren Kaitlyn and Matthew. Grace brought Gabby's own home-cooked dish - she's got food allergy, eggs, wheat you name it. Poor kid.

As usual everyone left with their own bag of scraps. My big part in all of these is staying as far away from the kitchen while Inang was cooking (like me she prefers to be left alone), scraping crumbs off the floor, sponging off red wine stains on my bed cover and the big cleanup after they all left.

We missed the rest of the family. Elli took George's place. We saw him make a few trips to the kitchen scooping hot broth from the pot. George loves Inang's soup with plenty of kilig-kilig pork. Ramon had a feast, a big break from his diabetic diet and so we had to keep an eye on his plate. Ruel was so flattered when told that he strongly resembles his handsome Uncle Lauro.

Teasing, reminiscing, drinking, and eating; didn't we all have fun? I hope our guests Sheila and Joie feel the same way and we also hope you enjoyed your stay with NYC's best.

And how did you all like your brand new pair of socks for Christmas? Sucky? That's tough!

Merry Christmas. I sent you all the link to the tons of photos we took, so enjoy us!

Badass of the Year Clint

Clint Eastwood, GQ's Badass of the Year!

In my book, he's right up there with the coolest, the Cooler King, Steve McQueen

and my blues-rock man Eric Clapton.

Spot on!

The Red Book, The Tree & George

Overheard in the subway yesterday: "The problem with New York is that there is so much to do you can't leave it". This was a local giving directions to a tourist from Liverpool and who claimed he's been "temporarily living in NY" for the past 30 years. So much to do, so true. Certainly New York with all its surprises isn't for everyone. Alligators in the sewer, rats caught in the third rail, sardine-packed subway cars with all the RSS (Really Stressed Subway riders) passengers are only some of the added pressures in life here. I for one have paid my dues and often ask myself how many more dues does one have to pay?

There's a good chance you've had enough of my NY ramblings so I'll carefully tread on that but will make one exception. My good friends and I have a great appetite for anything NY, stuff that may not appeal to everyone but will thrill others. So if you're one of the latter, tag along on our Manhattan escapade.

Last month, while nervously waiting in the hospital sitting area for Maria to wake up from a snooze after another rotator cuff repair, I stumbled on an article in the Smithsonian about the book of Carl G. Jung. The Red Book which for decades had been kept by Jung's heirs in a secret vault in Switzerland, is now released for public viewing and publication. It was intriguing and my initial response was where can I find it and the answer was there - the Rubin Museum of Art in NY. This museum in the Chelsea district which also has a vast collection of art of the Himalayas and its surrounding regions is the host of this never-before-seen book. So off we went to RMA.

The Red Book featured C. G. Jung's active imagination and fantasies which many believed to have been the center of his work in analytical psychology. It is my interest in calligraphic illustrations, as in the Book of Hours, and not the psychoanalytic content that drew me to this rare exhibition. Jung typed his manuscripts in calligraphic scripts onto parchment pages and painted elaborate representations of his dreams and fantasies. Bound in red and nearly 100 years old, it is one of the most artistic works in illuminated style I've ever seen. It is a painting. A priceless work of art.

From the lower gallery we proceeded upstairs to view the rest of the RMA permanent collection. One exhibition Mandala: The Perfect Circle explored the circular diagram that symbolizes the world of a deity and which is also widely used as aid in meditation. Precise and technical, it is created in colored sand or painted in cloth with warm spicy colors bursting in reds, greens and oranges.

The art work depicted the cosmology and philosophy of the cultures and religions of Hinduism, Jainism and Buddhism. With due reverence and speaking of rotator cuff tear, Maria wondered how much pain and suffering the deities with many arms had to bear if they had been afflicted with this condition. This was somewhat of an extension of her experience. Judy added: "It'll make any orthopedic surgeon happier and richer." Bad girls!

True to its promise, the RMA provided a dramatic and exceptional exhibit of Himalayan objects of art which are numerous, very colorful but to the inexperienced viewer like me may seem redundant.

After this heavy dose of culture and religion, we were ready for some light entertainment so we scooted to the Rockefeller Center. The brightly lit towering Christmas Tree is gorgeous, and as expected, one could easily get lost in the crowd or have their picture taken by a total stranger unless they are 7 feet or taller and could steer clear of all the camera lenses around. Five minutes, that's all and four of us decided to leave The Tree for the tourists.

Lather up, Celine. She got her triple-milled French bar of soap at L'Occitane before we escaped the mob at the Rockefeller channel gardens. Having sworn off McD or Burger King, we were now in search for decent grub.

Celine suggested the Palm which we never got to since Maria was so hungry. We instead ended up at Le Pain Quotidiene. Sounds like we're having French tonight. Turns out it's one of those Belgian invasions - it's an international chain of bread/salad/sandwich/bakery European style. The tartine of chicken with smoked mozzarella, greens and a slice of melon stood up to the test. At Midtown hefty prices, it was okay to splurge for something this good and well presented. I'm no Francophile, but this was great, filling enough and healthy. Is this why French women don't get fat?

More interesting was the conversation we struck with our waiter. George is a transplant from the Polish district of Hamtranck, Detroit, who for the last two months has been renting a room from a Russian family in Brooklyn. The kid from Ham what? has a knack for languages, about six he claims he speaks but not fluent enough, except French, to land him a job at the United Nations. It was interesting. One never knows what's behind that apron-donning host or hostess, this one is also an artist. NY is the stepping stone. He seemed happy here at LPQ but here we were as usual dispensing of our motherly wisdom, wishing him much luck in searching for a better job.

Back in the days, say 1970's I wouldn't have said a word to him. Now I have more time to talk and listen. Look out! You can't leave now, welcome to New York, George!