Phillip Retuta's Blog

The Life and Times of a Filipino-American

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Santa Maybe.

I probably stopped believing in Santa Claus around 8 or 9, but my parents thought I still did. It was probably something about retaining innocence or the fact that I was the youngest child — as first generation Asian immigrants, maybe my parents wanted me to believe in Santa as a way to acclimate with American culture. In any event, it was always a tradition in our family to open our presents on Christmas Eve, and during my childhood, my parents and my older brother would still leave another present for me the next morning, under the guise that Santa Claus left it.

Naturally, cookies and milk were left overnight (always Oreos or Chips Ahoy), and in the morning everything was half consumed — a little bite into each individual cookie, and the glass of milk half full (as opposed to half empty). I always knew better, particularly because who could resist not eating all the cookies, of any cookie?

In 1993, I was a huge fan of X-Men: the comics, the poorly-scripted and bastardized animated series, and most of all, the action figures. I had the whole semblance of a team: Professor X, Wolverine, Storm, Gambit, Rogue… I even had the original team: Cyclops, Beast, Archangel, and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle figure of April O’Neil that I painted the hair red and blue armor around her cheekbones. She was supposed to be Jean Grey. They have yet to officially release her so I improvised — faceplate, green eyes, and all — but you know what just became available to toy market?

Iceman.

Weeks before Christmas, I was at the now-defunct department store Venture (think Target or Walmart), and I stared in awe at the Iceman/Bobby Drake figure displayed in the action figure toy aisle. Surprised at its rarity, I immediately grabbed it and begged my mom to buy it. Sure, the action figure’s head was way too small compared to his X-Men counterparts. Yeah, the toy’s special “feature” was that his chest, coated in a temperature-sensitive paint, turns from clear plastic to frost if you put him in the freezer. I needed Iceman to join my team, in order to complete to the original 5 members. Iceman, with his stupid ice slide that didn’t slide, had to defeat the Magneto that had a chest that sparks for some reason or Juggernaut, if you toggle the switch on his back, swings his arms back and forth, like he’s dancing at wedding.

After pleading with her, my mom refused to buy it, and I walked away from our cart in disappointment.

Christmas Eve rolled around, and I think I got a calculator, some shitty train that you’d get at the Walgreen’s seasonal aisle, and a giant sugar cookie decorated like a yellow smiley face. It was a sad Christmas, and by this age I already knew Santa didn’t exist. I did not expect anything to happen the next day.

To my parents’ expectations, I was wrong.

In the morning, right before breakfast, my parents and my brother forced me to search the house. By the way they acted, I deduced “Santa” gave me a present, and I spent an hour searching the house and deciphering cryptic clues my family gave me to the gift’s location. As I was about to give up, my family literally pointed to the plastic, light-up Santa displayed by the living room window. Lo and behold, next to Santa’s feet was Iceman and his dumb ice slide, packaged in bright orange, comic-halftone cardboard.

The magic of Santa? Nah, just my parents playing tricks on me, but I was privy to their games. You see, even as a child, I was a planner and a schemer. I knew how to straight-up manipulate others and turn things back onto themselves. I will use people’s predispositions of me against them, even as a 10-year-old. I knew their ploy.

The next year my parents had an inkling that I no longer believed in Santa. Still, I knew how to play the game. I think my lawyer cousin gave me a Sega Genesis that year, so my parents felt that they were off the hook from giving me a worthwhile present. On Christmas Eve, I got a book and a piggy bank — nothing spectacular. Christmas Morning rolls around, and naturally there was no present from “Santa.” Offended that my own parents failed to give me a good gift that year and had to rely on remote relatives to give me something cool, I began to cry and futilely search the house again. I acted distraught, searching every corner of the house for “Santa’s” present. These weren’t real tears running down my face, mind you, and I wailed, “Santa didn’t give me a present! Did he think I was a bad child this year…!?” The fake crying was pretty convincing, and my mom knelt down to console me as she whispered something to my dad in Tagalog. As my mom hugged me, my dad discreetly slipped away. A second later, he yelled to for us to come over to the kitchen.

Even though I checked the sliding door to our backyard during my disingenuous search for a secret gift, Santa apparently left a twenty dollar bill tucked in the opening of the door.

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A History of Cigarettes.

Age 25, smoking indoors (I know it’s awful), with Allan’s fist.

I remember I had my first cigarette ever during my sophomore year of college. After a successful Walmart run with my roommate Mike, we were walking back to our dorm room in the middle of winter. Trudging through the snow, he lit a cigarette and offered me one. I haven’t seen Mike smoke before, but he had just broken up with his long-term, long-distance girlfriend a few days prior. A part of me felt some pity for him, and I figured I’d join him — even if I didn’t inhale but let the smoke gather in my cheek.

I started smoking casually at age 24, while living in Chicago. On weekends I’d go to bars, and I remember chain-smoking outside The Burlington or The Flatiron with Margarita (she’s a mom now) or Bryan (I think he grew up to be a firefighter) or a guy named Tre (who the fuck knows where he is now). During the day, however, nothing; I had no desire to have a cigarette or even buy a pack. I suppose I just wanted to fit in.

By the time I was 26, I moved to New York City for grad school, at Parsons. It was during this new phase in my life that I started to really smoke cigarettes. The stress of school, being away from family and trying to meet new people, and the coolness and blasé attitude of Williamsburg circa 2009 consciously willed me to smoke. Smoking a cigarette gave me that solitude, that little “me time” to gather my thoughts, realize how lonely and overwhelmed I felt, and look like a total badass (though no one did see me smoke on the roof of my old apartment). By the time I knew it, I was addicted to cigarettes.

When I’d visit my parents during the holidays, I wanted to preserve the impression of the “perfect, youngest child” and avoided smoking around them. My parents saw me as the baby of the family and “the successful one,” and deep down I never want to disappoint them. I’d wait for them to go to bed, where I’d then sneak into the backyard and light a cigarette (mind you, I’m in my late 20’s by then). After I was done, I’d toss the butt onto the roof, where it would collect into the gutter. My parents have since moved, but God knows — if the new owners of the house cleaned the gutters — how many cigarette butts they’d find.

It wasn’t always clandestine cigarette breaks, Dylan-esque moments of reflection, or (forgive me) smoke-and-mirrors. I can recall four instances when I quit smoking for long periods of time:

  1. During 2010, where I began to feel physically ill. Nauseous. Weird stomach problems. I didn’t know what was the cause, nor did I ever go to a doctor — I didn’t have health insurance then. As a self-remedy, I quit smoking for 5 months and even became a vegetarian. I relapsed into meat and nicotine during grad school finals.
  2. During 2012, when my doctor told me my blood pressure was elevated. I didn’t touch cigarettes for 7 months, and I even had an app to track how long I didn’t smoke. One day, during a time where I was laid off and relying on Unemployment checks (and quite frankly, I was just bored), I bought a pack of cigarettes for the hell of it. Big mistake.
  3. 2016.
  4. In early 2020, for 2 months I didn’t have any cigarettes. I was on the anti-smoking aid Chantix, and it helped immensely: I was slowly and surely weening off nicotine, and after cutting down on cigarettes for months, I was eventually smoke-free for 60 days. Psychologically and physically, I was in a good place; for once, I was on the path to feeling healthy. However, the first COVID-19 case came to New York, and as each day passed, more and more co-workers refused to come into the office. The news and the virus itself spread quickly, till one day it was just me and a fellow co-worker at our desks. We both knew that we’ll be working from home indefinitely, so I packed my work iMac and anything I needed. In the back of my mind, I also feared getting laid off again or furloughed (ahem). It was then that I decided to buy a pack of American Spirits — not as strong as my go-to Parliaments or Camel Blues, but enough to “de-stress” me and give me time to think. With my work stuff ready to be transported into an Uber, I stepped outside of my office to clear my head and have a cigarette. Yes, I started smoking again when the pandemic hit.

If it’s any blatant indication, I smoke when I’m stressed out or worried. Like my college roommate Mike who had just gone through a breakup, I turned to cigarettes as a coping mechanism. Again, despite the contrary and all scientific evidence, having a cigarette by myself calms me; I’m able to gather my thoughts, contemplate everything, and enjoy the quiet solitude. It’s psychological: I like being alone sometimes, and I guess nothing drives people away than the smell of cigarettes.

Recently, however, I was feeling ill — like, really, really ill: tightness and small pains in my chest, feeling dizzy and almost blacking out. My blood pressure was dangerously high. Constant tests had ruled out COVID-19, so I know it was my heart and blood pressure, and I know my diet and especially my smoking had become detrimental to my health. I’m getting older, and my habits were killing me. It was time for change (again).

So, as of this writing and as I’m chewing some expired nicotine gum, I haven’t touched a cigarette in over two weeks.

I don’t know, as fatalistic as I can be, I want to be there for my parents, my brother, my friends, and especially my dog. I figured quitting smoking (hopefully for good) will extend my life a little longer, so I can be with this puppy (I don’t want to smoke around Dusty, and a part of me feels my smoking gave Nico her cancer). I’d have a lot of regret leaving behind my family and friends, but I’d feel even more guilty for a dog — a creature wholly dependent on me — to be left alone without her owner.

I know for a fact that my blood pressure has returned to normal since I stopped smoking (I have a blood pressure kit at home, and I just came back from my primary care physician), and I’m saving so much money on not buying my usual pack or two a week. Working from home and self-isolating is also relieving a lot of stress, especially now that I’m full-time again and my social obligations are sparse. Who knows? Maybe with this pandemic and with this dog (and yes, with this expired nicotine gum), I’ll finally quit smoking for good. Wish me luck, but if I can handle and mediate my anxieties (and hey, writing on this blog is a perfect outlet), I think I’ll be fine.

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Old Wives’ Tales: Wet Hair Horrors.

I searched “wet” in my Flickr library. Here’s a photo I took in 2008, in my hometown in Illinois.

I just finished taking a shower a few minutes ago and am writing this as I’m about to go to bed. My hair is still wet, and as I’m lying on my pillow, I can’t help but recall the stories my parents had warned me about when I was a kid: if you sleep with wet hair, you’ll go blind.

I don’t know the scientific facts regarding wet hair and the total loss of vision. Maybe some unwashed shampoo will somehow seep into your pillow and blind you in your sleep. Perhaps excess moisture will puff up your face so much, your eyelids swell shut. In any event, as someone whose life centers around visual acuity, losing my sight would mightily suck. Water is water, and unless you’re drowning in it, I find it relatively harmless.

Another old wives’ tale my parents would tell me is that if you go out with wet hair, in the middle of winter, you’ll get pneumonia. During this COVID crisis, that would be catastrophic. Who needs to suffer from a debilitating lung infection? My habits will take of that, thank you. Luckily, however, I’m not going out that much these days — if at all. Still, when we were able to step out of the house without fear, I can’t help but count the numerous times I’d shower and then immediately rush to work. Winter, summer — it didn’t matter. And come to think of it, I haven’t really been sick at all these past few years.

Maybe it’s me, but I don’t make an effort to dry my hair after a shower; I don’t blown dry it, and I rarely put any product. A simple scrub through a towel is all I need, and I’m ready to go about my day (or in tonight’s case, go to bed). I’m a pretty low-maintenance guy when it comes to looks, but perhaps this is one of the many fucking reasons I’m still single.

No, as far as I can tell, wet hair won’t kill or maim you. I suppose just be careful around low-hanging ceiling lamps without lightbulbs…

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Throwback Thursday: Music That Inspired Me To Move To New York.

This is a photo from June 2008, when I wanted to move to NYC. The caption reads, “Ate three fortune cookies leftover from a Chinese restaurant. Considering my search for a job and my desire to eventually move to New York, these fortunes are awfully succinct. They’re cryptic, yes, but we’ll see…”

I couldn’t sleep a few days ago. I was lying on my bed, sifting through my personal thoughts, and I fell into a rabbit hole of music that inspired me to move to New York City.

I remember, back before I graduated and was living in Urbana-Champaign, of the new music I’d listened to. I remember going into Postal Service, a record shop on Green Street, and buying particular CDs of indie artists I’d discover on MTV2. I remember, after graduating and returning home, of all the bands I’d blog about on my old (and fairly popular) music blog. I remember going to Chicago to see all the bands that were finally getting the spotlight they deserve. Most of all, I remember how all this music made me dream to move to New York.

I wanted to live in Williamsburg, Brooklyn (I did). I wanted to experience the hip and cool culture of artists and musicians (I did — before that lifestyle got phased out/priced out by everyone else wanting the same thing). I wanted to meet some of these bands and buy them a beer (I did, for some). Many years later, I now reflect that I achieved that foolish, Bohemian dream of being cool and artistic and binging on Parliament cigarettes and cheap-ass beer.

Here are some of the native New York bands that, in my youth as an undergrad and a recent grad in Illinois, would want me to make a life-altering decision to move to one of the greatest cities in the world, to shape my future as a creative and moderately successful adult:

The Strokes
I recall watching this video when it premiered on MTV2. They were careless, carefree, and cool — like a bunch of drunks. They epitomized the NYC indie scene and were constant fodder for my music blog that made fun of hipsters. I loved (and still love) them.

Interpol
Another essential NYC indie band. I’ve seen them at several festivals in Chicago, and their first album (an encapsulation of New York) was always played when my old friend Jeff (who I created a comic character and subsequent blog about) and me would hang out in Urbana-Champaign.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs
I saw this “Buzzworthy” video late one night in undergrad. I loved the song, and I love the video — so much so, that I made a still of Karen O crying as my computer background. Everything about “Maps” was so raw and beautiful, and I became a fan of theirs for years to come. I even remember buying Fever to Tell at Postal Service and when I moved back home, going to several of their shows at Chicago’s Metro and Vic Theater. When I eventually moved to NYC, I’d still catch some of their shows — of course, they got even bigger, and I had to pay a little bit more to see them.

TV on the Radio
TVOTR have always been so cool and had a sound I never heard before. They were definitely Williamsburg mainstays, and I recall meeting lead singer Tunde Adebimpe at a bar when I first moved to New York.

The Walkmen
When I heard their song “We’ve Been Had” in a car commercial, I had to find out who these guys were. Plus, their refined sense of collared shirts and sweaters inspired my own style back in the day: a preppy hipster who enjoys a glass of whiskey (and I admit, I still am).

The French Kicks
In a similar vein to The Walkmen. I remember seeing this video late one night in undergrad, when I should have been writing an English paper. After graduation, I saw them perform at Schuba’s Tavern in Chicago.

Asobi Seksu
They introduced me to the shoegaze sound. The video for “Thursday” inspired some stop-motion work from me, and each time I hear this song, I get nostalgic — as if running through the city. I saw them live at the Highland in Urbana-Champaign with The Appleseed Cast, and after their set I gave lead singer Yuki Chikudate a cigarette.

stellastarr*
When they debuted this video, I went to Postal Service to pick up their album. Their New Wave-y sound introduced me to actual New Wave. As far as I can tell they never amounted to much after their first album, but “My Coco” and “Jenny” were on repeat while walking on campus.

Elefant
Another garage rock band from NYC. It was such an underrated album in comparison to The Strokes or The Bravery. Even today, when I hear “Misfit” or “Now That I Miss Her,” I’m reminded of those dumb aspirations to become a famous artist/designer in NYC.

The Secret Machines
Their music always pumped me up before going out in Urbana-Champaign or Chicago. “First Wave Intact” had an energy, the kind that prepared me for something — something ambitious.

School of Seven Bells
Another project by the late Benjamin Curtis of Secret Machine fame, their dreamy music always made me feel good. After watching this video as a kid in Chicago, there was this magical yearning of riding in a cab throughout New York City. And now I’ve ridden in a cab throughout NYC; it’s not as magical anymore.

The Rapture
I remember seeing this video on MTV2 and absolutely loving it. The post-punk visuals and catchy sounds were what made me think what it’s like to live in Brooklyn. And it’s true, circa 2009.

LCD Soundsystem
Like The Strokes, Interpol, TVOTR, and the YYYs, LCD Soundsystem is the definition of the New York music scene in the mid to late 2000’s. His song, “All My Friends,” was my anthem as a young adult, and the music video for “Someone Great” is what I envisioned living in Brooklyn was like: bodegas, comfortable squalor, and rooftop parties (and yeah, I threw my share of rooftop parties when I first moved to New York). His album, Sound of Silver, is everything I had hoped for and had lived through when I came to NYC. If anything, listening to James Murphy definitely prepared me to live in this city and molded my love of electronic and electroclash music.

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Happy Birthday, Nico.

I’ve lived in New York for over a decade, and that entire time my dog Nico has been with me. She would have been 14 today.

Here’s my tribute to her and the city I love. After she had her tumor removed and was declared cancer-free, I knew we were still together on borrowed time. Throughout the course of her remaining year, I wanted to take Nico to some of her favorite spots: Williamsburg, Prospect Park, and all the old places she used to know for the 10 years we’ve been in New York. I also wanted to take her to places she’s never been before: Coney Island, Washington Square Park, etc. I’d bring my camera with me, and so this video was made.

The polaroid scenes were obviously taken post her passing; I truly wished we had more time to visit these places.

The significance of the white bandana is important: I gave it to her when she was first adopted in Urbana-Champaign, and she wore a white bandana when I let her go in arms, in the confines of my apartment in Brooklyn. A white bandana was Nico’s signature look (well, aside from the husky aspects or the heterochromatic eyes). I carried a spare each time we went out to shoot, just to swap whatever fashionable bandana I initially put on her with a white one. Consistency, folks!

This video also serves as my eventual love letter to New York. When I leave, I want to remember this city with the dog I loved so much. Being with Nico definitely helped shape who I am today.

Happy Birthday, Nico. Always and forever.