PR 5th Ave '08

This is a view of the Puerto Rican Day Parade New York City.  In NYC, there are approximately 800,000.  On Puerto Rico, there are 3.9 million, a relative size difference of one-fifth.  It's their island.

Take Another Little Piece of My Heart (or Groove is in the Heart)

On Friday, March 14, 2008, our life as we know it has changed. Gone are the days of fear, that her heart will beat at 250 beats per minute, detouring our day or night from the highway of normal life. She decided to get it done, the brave one, after years of bearing down, breathing deep when she could not breathe, swallowing beta-blockers to inhibit cardiac stress, yet affecting her stare, that everything was cool and easy with her beta blocked. Then deciding to not block the beta because normal life did not feel so normal.

She chose to move forward, after years of postponement, and go with the odds, that 99 percent of the time, it will be a success. That's what William Slater, M.D., said, although after the ablation was done, the doctors agreed it was a 96 percent success that she was cured of Supraventricular tachycardia, SVT, the true inhibitor of normal life.

Diagnosed in 1999, Julie has lived with SVT her whole life, at least one major SVT attack per year, and daily bouts of arrhythmia.  I have witnessed, I believe, more than four attacks, three taking her to the ER, with me by her side, and guilt by my side, since an episode or two was preceded by a heated argument. My uncertain count is not due to a cavalier view on her heart condition, but due to not knowing what to include, because the small episodes that lasted for short periods of time are so numerous to count.

This is when the bearing down and breathing deep would come into play, where I would close the door and sit on the toilet of our one-room studio apartment, so that she could lie still on the bed and not feel the stress of my gaze, which only added to the stress during her attempt to be still her beating heart.

As I experienced more, and our apartments grew larger, I learned to take a breathe and leave the room, knowing that she can control them, and hoping that we wouldn't need another ambulance, and that her heart would return to 90 beats per minute, her normal resting heart rate, thanks to the extra pathway.

This is how Adam Slotnick, M.D. described it, or my interpretation of his accurate portrayal. Through the heart, electrical impulses flow down a normal pathway like a highway. In Julie's situation, and many others' as well, there is a service road off that highway, flowing down and back around on itself, in a loop. Sometimes, the blood and electrical impulses exits off the highway, detouring onto that service road, and getting stuck in the loop, unable to get back onto the main highway. The heart pumps harder, attempting to compensate for the loss of traffic on the highway, but that compensation only speeds the heart up more, because all traffic has been redirected to that looping service road. This is when the 250 beats per minute comes into play, and where I'm hailing a cab to the hospital, if the bearing down or breathing easy does not help - bearing down meaning an attempt to constrict the chest cavity and through muscularity, control the heartbeat.

But it is done. The service road has been closed off, thanks to the brilliance of the NYU Medical Center team of Dr. Patel, Dr. Aizer, and Dr. Neil Bernstein. Also included in that are the warm and comforting nursing team of Yuri, Juliet and Elisa (I don't know their last names). The team performed a Catheter Ablation, by inserting electrode catheters into veins by her groin, on both sides, snaking wires past her abdomen and up to the heart.  One of those wires sent radio-frequency electrical energy, burning the tissue of the heart, and closing the service road, forcing the heart to conduct along the normal highway.  This is all done in three to four hours.

After the ablation is complete, they test, and test some more, by adding adrenalin to her body, forcing her heart to beat faster, and verifying that the extra pathway is, indeed, closed.  When Julie was in recovery, Dr. Patel visited her and conveyed to us that during that testing, her heart never surpassed 120 beats per minute... I have to re-emphasize... 120 beats per minute.  I am tearing up now, as I write.  I rarely ever use this word, but it's a miracle.  Cured is the word the doctors used, although they must qualify that statement, by saying, we, doctors, never use that word, but in this case, she is cured.

I didn't see the actual procedure that cured, or caused a miracle; I only saw evidence to that  truth, a resting heart rate of 75 beats per minute.  So now being home with her, minus the daily arrhythmia, I hold a special place in my heart for the fifth floor of NYU's Medical Center, at First Avenue and 31st Street, within the Cardiac Catheterization and Electrophysiology department.  This is where Julie's life was changed, and in turn, our lives together.  We have spent time enough on that detour, and it is time to re-enter the highway of normal life.

"Falling Slowly"

Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova have completely inspired me, and it helps me to state, I still believe. The belief is in creation and artistry and opening oneself up to the expressive force without looking for consequence.

Who would have known two years ago that these two songwriters would have found their voice in their tiny indie film, which would then lead them to an Academy Award. It helps me take stock on where I am artistically in my life. Doing it for myself, my own freedom, my own sanity.

I must remind myself, it's the journey, allowing myself to fall slowly into the current and let it sweep me away into the undiscovered country of my soul.

Refreshing start...

Refreshing start...

It's been a while since I've written anything, and I feel a creative hole because of it. I don't even know where to begin. I feel like after I have my Valentne's day gift, the massage given so thoughtfully by my sweet shim, I can begin to reinvigorate my creative life a little.

In my recent experience, making a short video blog, sketch or whatever was so easy to do, and uploading it is just as easy, I know it's time for me to move forward with this, just to get my juices flowing again. It's not about the end result, but the creative process to allow myself a medium to express myself on a regular basis, an experiment with technology & pop culture, and I get to have fun in the process.

I spent about a half hour making the last video for Julie on V-day, and that's about all I really need to expect from myself, so I can lower expectations, overcome my fears, and just put something out there, into the Ether-net.

I could write something first then perform it. I could improv on camera and edit it. I can just talk or take the camera with me wherever I go and let it out. That's my prerogative and that's my freedom. It's up to me and I decide what to do. That's one lesson I'm getting from my genius training. I make judgment calls and take responsibility on decisions about people's lives, why not my own?

Can't Sleep Makes Me Mad

Why is it that when I'm exhausted and need sleep, my mind won't let me rest, and I'm up at 5am, wide awake? Is it that important that I have to write now? It just makes me angry at myself.

All I want to do is sleep, and I know that I'm taking two hours out of my life by acknowledging this early morning call to no peace and no sleep. Normally, I'm pondering something, turning it over and over in my head, but when I woke up, I was just pissed. Like, why, dude? Why now? Why you gotta deprive yourself of nature's healing medicine, and throw off my sleep pattern for the rest of the work week, especially when you've got FOUR more days 'til the weekend?

Sheesh to my subconscious! I'm mad at you. And my wife sleeps comfortably and immediately after waking up for a quick trip to the bathroom, while I stare at the dark ceiling and yell silently to myself. Why can't you be like that? Asleep right away.

Do I have anything important to say? Perhaps a subconscious reaction to Iran's president visiting NYC? Heroes began it's first season last night, and I missed it? I'm sick of selling to customers? That's probably more on track, and the stress of waking up and possibly losing two hours, while facing streams of anonymous shoppers, while lacking energy, stresses me out even more and keeps me up at night.

The ironic twist is killing me. As I stare at "killing me" and consider the alternative metaphors, I delay and deprive the sweetness of rest, in the comforts of my beloved's arms. I hear the murmur of voices through the walls or windows and wonder if they were up all night drinking, or if they're getting ready for work. What kind of place do I live in?

After over a year in one place, the longest stretch either one of us has spent in New York in one stretch, I can't help but long for a change, but the counterpoint of moving again seems less appealing.

I want to break free, fly away for at least a month, or drive away like my brother to the wild west, on a cross-country adventure. The world is calling me and I'm not listening. Well, obviously I am listening, at five in the frickin' morning.

Coffee helped me tune out the voices during the day, but kept me up at nights. Without the drug, my subconscious is running free, and the emotions I've repressed are flowing outward. Go west, young man.

I'm jealous of the voices through the wall. Free enough to have a fun time at this hour. Although, really, they're being free in the middle of a strange neighborhood in Brooklyn. They're probably cuckoo, and I'm being jealous of the crazies.

Ok, I think I've hit some peace. A little night time spewing, and the sleep is returning... 42 minutes later. Better claim it while it's pulling me back to bed.

The Genesis of a Host

As any might realize, I have recently attempted stand-up comedy, getting up in front of an audience with a mic and entertaining. This isn't new to me. The writing my own jokes part is, but I've been hosting/MC-ing since 2001.

I got my start by accident, attending a birthday party of someone I just met, with a new friend, who happened to be close with the celebrant. It was at a high-end club, complete with Kobe beef on the menu, aptly named The Dish, located at The Power Plant in Rockwell Center, an upscale shopping mall in Makati, Manila, Philippines. When you enter Rockwell, the outdoor entrance iss lined with culinary hot spots, one after another, allowing the upper class to mingle outdoors in tables and chairs, sharing in the tropical revelry of the night heat. As the evening progresses, it tends to resemble any block party on the street, except its imbibing patrons are decked in Prada and Manolo Blahnik, thanks to Sex in the City.

When one enters the mall, first you are hit with arctic breeze of air conditioning or "aircon," then by the international chic of Calvin Klein, DKNY, Guess, Polo, and other famous, fashion labels, just like any suburban shopping mall in America. The difference here is, the ease at which an American in Manila can afford it, thanks to the 50 to 1 exchange rate of peso to dollar. Then we climbed three levels of escalators to the top, where you must be on the guest list to enter The Dish. I must inform, malls are not just places of commerce in the P.I. (Philippine Islands), they are cultural havens, playgrounds, oases from the brutal heat, so the indoors is where the people gather.

I was attempting to meet new people and going out clubbing with them was my means of choice. The birthday girl was a semi-famous, travel show host, a filipina-Canadian, who had relocated here and succeeded somewhat in the business or "showbees." Why not bond with celebrity, and perhaps some of that might rub off on me. At the time, I wanted other things to rub off, OH!

During dinner, a contest, complete with host and game began, and I was singled out to participate, being the foreign-looking, mixed-race young man that I am. As a mestizo, one really does stand out in the homogeneous Philippines. So, the natural ham to get onstage took over, and I joined the other contestants. It was almost like a strip poker, removing one article of clothing for each progression towards the prize, which I forget. Filipinos are shy and most of the contestants were completely covered near the end of the contest. The host then challenged us to see how far we were willing to go to win.

Come on! For real? I had recently completed my acting training in New York, freed of any inhibitions, nude twice in class by my own volition. How far was I willing to go? Well, I didn't want to get arrested for indecency, so I stripped down to my boxer-briefs, with jeans around my ankles, dancing around like any fool in front of an inebriated mass, and got a laugh from the normally restrained party-goers.

Needless to say, I won, thank you, and won the attention of the club's party planners, because through a friend of a friend, my number was given to them, and I got a call to co-host one of the next events with MTV Philippines VJ, KC Montero. It seems, I had the spirit and energy that they were looking for in a host. Shit, show some skin, and you can get a job.

That's how the host was born.

Free from the Bean

Today I'm beating the sickness... caffeine addiction.  Every other year or so, I decide to drink it or not.  When the taste of coffee or soda touches my lips, it's not the oh-my-god-that-sweet-nectar-of-life feeling, but the that's-a-nice-flavor-I-once-knew-fondly taste, which I do miss every once in a while when eating some pizza.

So I decided to pay a little more attention to my day job, and it seems to have included adding the external substance that many inject from Dr. Starbuck's. I couldn't handle Starbuck's acidity, well, my stomach couldn't handle it, leading to other places, so I went milder.

But today is day three of no caffeine, and the headache is starting to kick in with a vengeance.  Actually, a slight bitterness that might be cured with a nap or a good night's sleep.

Oh, how easy I conquered thee, mighty bean.  Your fragrant clutches, I pry from my shoulders.