Nights of bonding and nostalgia

As I creep toward golden years, more and more do I find myself betrothed to nostalgia. My old Russian friend Nabokov, Vladimir, who taught himself to write exceedingly well in a second language, said it pithily and best in a book: Speak, Memory.

It may have something to do with the desultoriness of the present. Then there’s the notion that the deep past is so much sweeter, because it’s been made kinder, gentler, else condensed into an attar of moments already filtered by distance and selective recall. The gist of what we remember is never far from Wordsworth, William‘s "splendor in the grass, glory in the flower."

Yet there could also be some truth to the baby boomers’ claim that since we had Elvis, Jimmy Dean and the Beatles, not to mention Marlon Brando and Muhammad Ali in their prime – vis-à-vis today’s Spears, Aguilera and a dime-a-dozen random boy bands – then indeed we should grieve not, rather find strength in the luck of generational draw.

I have also been fortunate with close company through the years. Many friends, and many associations, sustain me past the darkest humors. All I have to do is look back, and dogfaces like those of most of our politicians recede into the farthest kennels.

A couple of these group associations came back to mind a couple of Saturdays ago when I stumbled into Penguin, that bar with a number for a new name that nobody uses, out there in Malate off Remedios Circle. The bar and the circle themselves have been founts of institutional memory, of course. But I might get to that later. Let’s focus on flashbacks to particular kinships that stood out, if only for the continuing sense that our confreres at those times all seem to have made something of themselves, so that we look back with fondness and pride at having been part of select company.

One occurred nearly 40 years ago, in the mid-’60s when, returning to UP Diliman from a brief stint at neighboring Ateneo, I fell in with a Humanities majors class under the svelte premier poet Virginia R. Moreno. That extra-special class had Felicitas "Citas" Arellano, Ruben Defeo, Dexter Doria, Felipe "Jun" de Leon, Adelaida "Laida" Lim, Iskho "Francisco" Lopez, and Santiago "Jack" Pilar.

Citas had been an early desideratum, flame, soul sister. Gang nights with the Arellano cousins at what was then Tuberias, since renamed Otilio Arellano St. after Citas’ father, right across the Ejercito manse in San Juan, could only lead to teen-age capers that included impossible infatuation. That Citas sang as one of the legendary Twin Echoes, with younger sister Agnes, only moistened the whetstone of our swooning, keening blade. And before we knew it, years later we were classmates. Oh no. An intelligent lady we had to compete with, too.

But you see how special that company was. Citas shone academically and became a PopCom honcho before she perished very young in a terrible fire. Dexter joined the movies, and still plays her guts out onscreen, big and TV. Jun de Leon is one of the finest cultural experts we have; he is an exemplary professor, too. Laida sometimes accompanies Jun on cultural research forays from her home base in Baguio, where she helped jumpstart Café By The Ruins by creating its unique cuisine. Iskho, Jack and Ruben all turned into world-class aesthetes, journalists and art critics. La Moreno’s influence may be said to have made precious stalwarts of us all.

A second grouping formed some years later when I bonded with a small company of Ateneans: Eman Lacaba, Freddie Salanga, Linggoy Alcuaz and Tikoy Aguiluz. We were in our early 20s, fresh out of or still struggling through college. We’d spend overnight at the Aguiluz residence on Panay Ave., discussing literature, philosophy, film. Actually it was Tikoy’s older brother King, the Fifth to Tikoy’s Sixth, who had first been my buddy. But I must have sensed early enough that Amable M. Aguiluz V would race ahead up the taipan route, while Amable VI would be a rival for fata morgana’s hand, and elect to remain a lean and hungry artist.

Looking at both of us now, of course, you’d dispute the leanness, laughing. And yet Tikoy stays hungry, as a cinema artist and indomitable impresario. And he still laughs a storm.

Anyway, on Saturday the 23rd of August, well into the Sun in Virgo, another Atenean, Luis "Luigi" Francia, New York-based poet and journalist, texted an invite to join him at Penguin for a despedida for his Vestiges of War co-editor Angel Shaw, who was returning to NY earlier than he would. I remembered another texted invite, from actor Ronnie Lazaro, for the same night and place. He was opening a show of photographs.

Motivations converge and pull us off home work; it happens all the time. Albeit of late I’d been resisting all sorts of temptation to lighten up and loaf off, this was one night I had to go to Penguin.

One of the new titles in the UP Press Jubilee Student Edition series is Last Order sa Penguin by Chris Martinez. It’s a Palanca-winning play in Taglish that memorializes the situations and dialogue often found in that artists’ haunt since it first attracted the likes of Pepito Bosch in the early ’80s. I point this out to affirm the kind of status that Penguin has earned through a couple of decades. Thanks to photographer Ami Misciano’s den-mother more than proprietary instincts, nightly do her café walls thicken with the patina of bonding.

My last order at Penguin had been December last, on one of those farewell rituals for Santi Bose. But I knew it was a fated escape from the PowerBook in Pasig as soon as I deplaned on Remedios.

The first astonishingly handsome face I saw off the street was that of – talk about lean – Joey "Pepe" Smith, our very own rock idol for decades. Anthem maker. Indestructible symbol of the ties that bind. Still rockin’. Well, that night just hanging out by the sewer, a meter from the corner of Penguin’s extender of a patio. He had a beer bottle to his nose. When he grimaced, it became a smile. When he spoke it was with the rasp of ages.

A four-man band played at the far end of the patio. Someone was having good sax. Long-haired fellow, late 40s. I mean, his age. Why, he looks familiar. Could it be, no, yes it is – Pete Canson! Shoot. Last I saw Pepe, he was a wraith. Last I saw Pete, mirage was hardly in vogue. Was it at My Place on Shaw, Mandaluyong, early ’80s, when he was dishing out "It’s either sadness or euphoria" with Jaime Fabregas and Carlitos Calaguian? I could see it was going to be one of those MacArthur’s Park kind of nights.

Inside, the celebrator Ronnie Lazaro (Oro, Plata, Mata, Boatman) looked like Balagtas in Ilonggo, a sampaguita cum ylang-ylang strand round his temples, in lieu of laurel leaf. Ronnie too brought back associations, of the ’80s (a Jun Juban co-prod, Peque Gallaga, Isang Urra, Kokoy Jimenez, Dwight Gaston…). On Penguin’s walls, arresting were Ronnie’s black-and white photos, most of them large and printed on tarpaulin.

Couldn’t find a table after all the mid-high fives. Joined Marissa Ileto and son Lawin, who had taken a Doy Laurel leaf from his Dad Santi by often torturing me in chess. The boy said he had grown even tougher. I shuddered. I looked out the large glass pane and saw that Pepe Smith had joined Pete Canson; of course the band took up the first strains of Ang Himig Natin. Pepe delivered, while Pete blew with fervor on his glistening reed. Sucked in by nostalgia, I pressed my nose on the glass to keep it from running, until Pete went eyes wide shut. But marveling, to a big round O, hey it’s you, ol’ buddy.

Nunelucio Alvarado approached with a smile and an invite to a group exhibit (with himself, Emma Navarro, Rene Robles and Teza Cornes) starting at 4 p.m. on Sept. 14 at Syano Artlink at 19 Shanghai St., Better Living Subdivision in Parañaque.

Saw some space, sat down to relieve my bag of its heavy flask, nodded at cinema’s cult hero Raymond Red. Sheila Red asked about the Ateneo high school; couldn’t help but roll my eyes and take a first swig of whisky. She said perhaps they should keep their boy where he was. Yep, I replied, reaching out for a glass to relieve the flask. But our juniors are leading the pack, and our seniors are on an eight-win streak (oops, before the Mars efek pulled a stunt out of NU’s hat), so we’re likely to bag a double in the UAAP.

The once and usual habitués were around. In fact the place was jumping, not like a disco or Temple Bar at Greenbelt, but for the range of demographic variety, jumping rather merrily. Old friends kept coming. A reunion. A collective meditation on mutiny. My lord, is that Joonee Gamboa, our mentor during our thespic, Paulinian days? A sage, he refuses to age. Of course, as Xoce Garcia Villa used to say of himself, he, Joonee of our PETA nights at Intramuros, was born evolved.

Revolving were the doors of Penguin down the ages that night. Generational was the flow of loaves and fishes when multiplied upon the tables. I joined music critic and impresario Pablo Tariman in one, and we laughed the way of all flesh and wonder, razzing dancer-choreographer Denisa Reyes on how slipping Darna tickets to her old friends could slip her mind, until I thought I saw Marc Gary pick up a bato. Su Llamado of all cafés said Boyu the Seer was presently into silence. The bravura sculptor Agnes Arellano walked in with jazz singer Mishka Arellano Adams. Billy Bonnevie reported that Pinikpikan’s third CD, "Kaamulan," should be out soon.

And that’s what we were having, kaamulan, a gathering, of kindred spirits of the music and dance of the universe. Hooray for Mars, we agreed.

Grace Nono came with her look-alike daughter Tao. Bob Aves nodded in our direction. Deo Arellano said Crowded Places at UP might yet reopen. Lean people who looked like European film directors also walked in, the young Thai writer and SeaWrite Award winner Prabda Yoon in their company. And who else but Tikoy, our man of the hour, our fifth-year hero of CineManila filmfests in smokeless Makati.

And finally Luis Francia shows up with Angel Shaw. I hand him some books, for himself and friends Eric Gamalinda and Eileen Tabios whom he’ll be reading poetry with on Sept. 11 at the Big Apple. Paulynn Paredes Sicam sits with us to trade updates with Luigi.

Karla Delgado and Leon Araneta also join our table. All aglow is the funky-mama lady who’s just back from the Dominican Republic. Maybe it has to do with her imminent National Book Award from the Manila Critics Circle for Forest, published by Centro Escolar University.

It’s that kind of night, unraveling glowing webs of association by the whisky minute. When I look at Karla I also see her mom, dear Peachy Prieto, and recall her in Sagada with Briccio Santos. (Oh, and I regret failing to show up for Briccio’s recent art opening at Mag:Net+ on Paseo de Roxas.) When I look at Leon I see Gemma Cruz and recall her felicitous prose in Sentimento and Other Stories.

When I see Tikoy I’m proud and happy for him, for his continuing successes as a visionary artist. And I think back too on the times spent with his macho bros Sonny and Bob and Teto and King and Ricky and Bingbong – Amables all, II to VII – and bunso sis Marianne. When I look at Agnes and Deo I remember Citas, and Chuckie and George and Boong Arellano, plus George "Kabayo" Estregan of ye olde Tuberias in San Juan.

And when I see Tao and Mishka and Lawin I am grateful for the company I’ve had with their mothers and fathers, and am assured that the torch is passing unimpeded, and our children will be carrying on with the chess and poetry and music and all the brethren rites of Kaamulan, kapatiran, katipunan.

And when I stand to take leave Ami asks if I’d run out of booze and can she offer bourbon, which she does in a large glass that I spirit home with me so I can continue relishing the nostalgia night on the long drive back. Oh, it’ll be returned to Penguin some other night when the last orders lead to more arrivals and returnees, and we’ll all know the place for the first time.