'Spirited' away
By: Matthew Rankin
Updated: June 7 at 02:21 PM CDT / Winnipeg Free Press
When I came to New York City for work six weeks ago, I thought I was leaving Winnipeg. But it turns out I was wrong. Winnipeg culture is sprouting up like tulip bulbs all over Manhattan.
Or so it would seem. In the past five years, some of Winnipeg's most familiar icons have set up shop in New York. Feeling homesick, I decided to check them out.
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My plan was to celebrate Manitoba Day by cramming as much Spirited Energy as possible into a single New York day. I would visit the new Peter Nygard Fashion Village in Times Square, I would invest in some Chip & Pepper Wet Wear in Soho, and attempt to buy a copy of Tim Higgins' earnest coffee-table book, The Bears on Broadway: A Love Affair in Concrete, at McNally Robinson's Manhattan location.
New York City seems like a fitting place to look for Spirited Energy. After all, wasn't it a New York-based advertising firm that devised our provincial slogan? I know I'll find some!
NYGARD
Monday, May 12. Manitoba Day.
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I set out at dawn. First stop, Nygard World Headquarters in Times Square.
I'm excited. Perhaps no Winnipegger is more Energetically Spirited than Peter Nygard. This flamboyant self-made millionaire moved his empire to New York in 2007, nestling his command centre into the bombastic glitter of Broadway.
I emerge from the subway with eyes peeled for a gigantic blue N, the kind that frame every Nygard Fashion Village in Winnipeg. Here in New York, I expect to find Ns so huge that they are visible from space. I want to see Spirited Energy at its most triumphant and hubristic! I want to see Nygard's chuckling face on every light board!
But there are no Ns in sight.
Eventually I come upon a very demure Nygard banner. The N can't be more than three feet tall, lost amid the twinkling lights of Broadway.
Upon investigation, I find that this is only a corporate office, not a Fashion Village. In fact, Nygard has no retail outlets in New York City, or anywhere in New York state.
Are those Tan-Jay Feathertouch sweatpants we Winnipeggers take for granted in fact an exclusive luxury that New Yorkers can only dream of?
This discovery gives me a thrill, but it has done nothing to alleviate my homesickness. I move on.
CHIP & PEPPER
When identical twins Chip and Pepper Foster started their line of surfer clothes in Winnipeg in 1987, they very quickly became pop culture titans.
I am no fashion-plate, but Chip & Pepper are sacred Winnipeg myths to me.
In my Grade 6 graduation photo, at least two thirds of my classmates, including myself, are wearing fluorescent tie-dyed T-shirts from the Chip & Pepper "Wet Wear" line. Our Walkmans buzzing with Crash Test Dummies, our bellies bloated with Old Dutch, we were the bright, jingoistic future of Winnipeg!
The rise of B.U.M. Equipment sent Chip & Pepper to a watery death midway through the 1990s, but they resurfaced in 2003 with a line of designer jeans. In 2005, they opened their doors in the heart of New York's fashion district.
I get caught in a rain storm; tracking puddles into the middle of this stylish shop, I can tell the salespeople have rarely seen anything more pathetic than this soggy-socked Winnipegger.
The rise of B.U.M. Equipment sent Chip & Pepper to a watery death midway through the 1990s, but they resurfaced in 2003 with a line of designer jeans. In 2005, they opened their doors in the heart of New York's fashion district.
I get caught in a rain storm and by the time I get to Chip & Pepper I am totally drenched. Tracking rain puddles into the middle of this stylish shop, I can tell the sales representatives have rarely seen anything more pathetic than this soggy-socked Winnipegger.
"Got any Wet Wear?" I ask.
"No," is the answer. "That line has been discontinued."
I look around for some little clue that belies the Winnipeg origins of Chip & Pepper, a knowing wink to Winnipeg nostalgiacs like myself.
I go to the jeans rack and grab one of the price tags. It reads, "Chip n' Pepper, Los Angeles, California, 1987." I flip it over and find an even more egregious betrayal: $169 for a pair of jeans. No Winnipegger would ever pay such an outrageous price!
Miffed, I leave immediately. Goodbye, Chip & Pepper! I don't know you anymore!
McNALLY ROBINSON
Only a few blocks from Chip & Pepper, New York's McNally Robinson is a very pleasant bookshop. Open since 2005, it's a little nicer than the ones in Winnipeg. The Tea Room isn't quaking with River Heights sycophants, queue-cutting for the last Imperial cookie. Rather, it is filled with calm, young New Yorkers, gazing industriously into their laptops. It's the middle of a weekday afternoon, but there is a lineup at the cash register. Literary events appear to be organized almost nightly. It has all the trappings of a very smart, successful bookstore.
But I search in vain for Spirited Energy. There are no pious images of Wiebe, Oberman and Birdsell hanging from the rafters. I look for Guy Maddin amid the film books and find only Rue McClanahan. I ask a clerk if the Bears on Broadway book is in their database and her computer begins to groan with non-comprehension.
I ask to speak with Sarah McNally, the Winnipeg-born owner of the New York operation.
McNally emerges from her office. She is friendly and gracious, but I manage to annoy her almost immediately by referring to her bookshop as a Manitoba business.
"I don't see myself as a Manitoba business," she says, "rather as a New York one."
She meticulously explains that the New York McNally Robinson is no branch plant. It has no formal connection to her mother's business in Winnipeg. In fact, Sarah McNally is putting a definitive end to the confusion this summer by changing the name of the store to McNally Jackson, after her husband Chris Jackson. McNally has been in New York since 1999. She's a New Yorker.
Fulminating with provincialism, I press McNally. Surely Winnipeg can steal a few Spirited Energy points out of her success!
"Isn't there anything?" I ask.
"The shelves," she says.
I look around. The shelving units appear to be identical to the ones in the Winnipeg McNally Robinson. McNally confirms that these shelves are exact replicas -- down to the slant, tilt and width -- built by the same mill worker with the same medium density fibreboard.
"It's an upscale particleboard," says McNally.
MANITOBA'S
I stroll through the East Village and I stumble upon Manitoba's. It's a dive bar owned by Richard "Handsome Dick" Manitoba, who once fronted The Dictators, a 1970s rock band.
I've heard of Handsome Dick Manitoba because he recently threatened to sue a Canadian indie rock outfit that was calling itself Manitoba. The Bronx-born Richard Blum, who legally changed his name Manitoba, warned the Canadians that he alone had the right to call himself Manitoba. The Canadians caved in, renaming themselves Caribou. I wonder if Dick has been giving the Spirited Energy people any trouble.
I go in. The bar is completely empty, except for the bartender.
I immediately take out my birth certificate and show it to him. "Look!" I say, "I'm from Manitoba!"
Without taking his eyes off a gigantic TV in the corner, the barkeep complains about all the 'Tobans who come into Manitoba's thinking it's a Canadian bar.
"They've never even heard of Handsome Dick!" he snaps.
I start to feel like a stupid, sniveling provincialist. I feel bad for pestering McNally to show her Winnipeg colours. Who the hell am I, Marcy Markusa? I should just feel proud to see my fellow Winnipeggers striding forth so brilliantly in this gigantic world capital. Isn't that good enough? I mean, what would end this quest for affirmation? Ray St.Germain at Carnegie Hall? An inflatable Kelekis float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade?
I guess I just want to feel some kind of connectedness to Winnipeg, kind of like the Mexicans who live in my neighbourhood have built a comradeship out of their common diaspora.
Suddenly, I hear a familiar song. On the TV, I see a commercial for Ore-Ida's extra-crispy french fries. The ad demonstrates how "other leading fries" go all soggy when drenched in ketchup. But the Extra-Crispy fry, it is alleged, will stand up to any onslaught of condiments, remaining firm and crunchy throughout. Accompanying this demonstration is none other than Burton Cummings, singing his 1976 motivational ballad Stand Tall.
I am suddenly filled with gratitude. Burton! The finest Winnipegger! Lending his angelic voice to the cause of tumescent American potatoes. My back arches, my eyes mist over and I am suddenly filled with Winnipeg pride, right in the middle of Manhattan.
"Did you know it's Manitoba Day today?" I ask the barkeep.
"I'll take your word for it," he says.
Matthew Rankin is a filmmaker from Winnipeg. Betraying the "stay-in-Manitoba" dictates of the Spirited Energy campaign, he went to New York City for work in April