Almost a year ago, I shaved my head.
Over spring break, I lived in an abandoned elementary school, working for an anarchist group that was gutting homes in New Orleans. On the top level of the school, Katrina refugees had written messages to God on the chalkboard as the waters rose. They were airlifted out, but the chalkboard still read, “We trust in You, let us live, Jesus.” and in a child’s scrawl in pink chalk, “I love you, Lord.”
We slept in the downstairs classrooms, on green cots, lined with plastic to prevent us from catching lice. Around the school, we all wore bandanas and caps, hiding our natural hair, just in case. We looked like converts to a new religion, with our similar headscarves, our muddy, reeking clothes, and our tired bodies. We only took off our bandanas at night, when we went to the French Quarter and pretended to be a normal spring break.
But bandanas notwithstanding, I got lice on my last full day. Before dinner, the nurse filed through my hair, her gloved fingers tugging and pulling. She looked apologetic when she handed me a bottle of chemical shampoo, pointing me towards a private shower in the gym. I stood in the gym shower for over an hour, washing, combing, and picking through my hair, pulling tufts of hair onto the wet tile floor. I felt infirm. My scalp was cold. There was so much hair on the ground.
On the 17 hour ride home, wearing two hats and feeling like a leper, I debated shaving it all off. At home, that would be unthinkable. No woman shaved her head. Girls in my high school straightened, toasted, toasted and drowned their hair into a lovely chemical shine. Hair took time. Extreme, artificial care was the definition of beauty.
I want people to like and trust me, and I was afraid that shaving off my hair would make people mistrust and think less of me. Strangers would think that I was a skinhead. My boyfriend would dump me. No one would dance with me until I looked like a woman again.
Then, when I came back to college, I realized how much college wasn’t home. No one would make fun of me here. My boyfriend had long hair, and given our close contact, it would be hard not to contaminate him or something he owned. Shorthaired women weren’t rejected: here, they played rugby.
Despite my use of the nit-killing shampoo, I still felt the lice burrowing into my scalp when I showered. Worse, my hair felt dead. Battered and abused, it hung limply past my ears, thinned on top. It was a strange mop of fiber, not another limb of my body, the way it used to feel. For most of my life, I had long hair, falling down past my butt, a dark brown color. It was one of my very few sources of pride, as I’ve never been a very pretty girl. My hair stood out, it was old-fashioned and ungainly, but somehow lovable. I could be a damsel.
The night before spring break officially ended, I decided to shave it all. After setting down a plastic bag tarp, I started chopping with construction scissors as my boyfriend took photos. After I only had odd tufts of hair poking up, my boyfriend shaved the rest. It felt amazing. I felt as though each inch of scalp was laden with millions of nerves that the razor was delicately tickling. And it stayed like that.
When the hair grew back, it was silky soft, impossible not to stroke. The hair grew fast, thick, and darker than before. Each morning, I looked like a different person. I felt more open, I felt more alive. The windows were opened and the ceiling was peeled away. I was myself, in ways I can never describe.
(March, 2007)
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
My first Bohemian
On Saturday, I went to the Bohemian in Cleveland, to get mah swing dance on with Ms. Brandi, Mr. Burrows and Mr. Spenser. Had a fantastic time -- I'd no idea what to expect. I pictured a nightclub in the sleazy part of Cleveland with large cocktails in frosted cups. In reality: Bohemian National Hall was a ballroom of Sokol's Czech Cultural Center in "Little Bohemia." Apparently, "the not-so-great side of Cleveland" has a lot of Czech culture.
It was a sweet venue. The downstairs was filled with Czech goods and the ballroom itself was enormous. The Demetrius Steinmetz Band was good, their featured vocalist, Eileen Burns, was great. They played the classics, and though their slow songs lacked the sauce, they did a solid "T'ain't What'cha Do" and a great cover of Nature Boy. Apparently, Nature Boy is a pop-jazz standard, not just a David Bowie song on the Moulin Rouge soundtrack. Regardless, the song made me feel 14 again, belting out my feelings in my living room. Singing along is something new. I like it.
Pro:
- The posse! Brandi, Stephen and Danny are all brilliant humans. We had 4 singalongs on the way back. It was fantastic. I don’t know Danny as well, and getting to dance with him a lot was swell. Having Brandi more prevalent in my life has made Winter Term better. And Stephen has been an excellent work-to-life companion.
- Wooster kids! They were super-cute. A lot of them did basic steps that were syncopated differently, or just moved differently. Lots of big arm motions. Very interesting style.
Cons:
Surprisingly-Touchy Guy. Tall dude in his 40's. Kinda stiff, and strange to dance to. Didn't make much eye contact. We danced twice, which was a poor move on my part. I'm a fan of closeness-- slipping into bluesy-forms is awesome. But I don't want your hand on my butt on a swing floor. Cupping my ass is not where your hand should be. Also, trying to kiss me twice in one song is not good. Yes, swing does bring out the preposterous love-monkey in me, but only in my age-demographic. If you're able to run for president, than I'm far less interested.
Fascinating late-night:
Especially after swing dancing for hours and feeling my endorphins percolate my body, I kinda want to cuddle. And keep dancing. Blues enables this.
Much like swing, I feel nervous with it, as I’m still not technically proficient, but I love it. Technical blues dancers are lovely, but frustrating: at the end of the night, I’m tired. Absurd moves not ingrained in my muscle memory are difficult. Following is hard when your leg has been twitching for the last hour. Given the close nature of it, I feel more wretched when I botch blues than swing.
But non-technical blues? Sexy-blues? When we’re one writhing mass on the floor? That, my friends, is IT. Feeling a stranger move my hips with theirs is the most sensual way to say hello.
The late-night started as tech-blues. It ended with sexy-blues. There were these four awesome leads with great chill attitudes, wry wit, and about 10 tons of eroticism. They were openly emotionally affectionate. They were comfortable with their bodies. It felt like being with circus people. Or like family.
It was a sweet venue. The downstairs was filled with Czech goods and the ballroom itself was enormous. The Demetrius Steinmetz Band was good, their featured vocalist, Eileen Burns, was great. They played the classics, and though their slow songs lacked the sauce, they did a solid "T'ain't What'cha Do" and a great cover of Nature Boy. Apparently, Nature Boy is a pop-jazz standard, not just a David Bowie song on the Moulin Rouge soundtrack. Regardless, the song made me feel 14 again, belting out my feelings in my living room. Singing along is something new. I like it.
Pro:
- The posse! Brandi, Stephen and Danny are all brilliant humans. We had 4 singalongs on the way back. It was fantastic. I don’t know Danny as well, and getting to dance with him a lot was swell. Having Brandi more prevalent in my life has made Winter Term better. And Stephen has been an excellent work-to-life companion.
- Wooster kids! They were super-cute. A lot of them did basic steps that were syncopated differently, or just moved differently. Lots of big arm motions. Very interesting style.
Cons:
Surprisingly-Touchy Guy. Tall dude in his 40's. Kinda stiff, and strange to dance to. Didn't make much eye contact. We danced twice, which was a poor move on my part. I'm a fan of closeness-- slipping into bluesy-forms is awesome. But I don't want your hand on my butt on a swing floor. Cupping my ass is not where your hand should be. Also, trying to kiss me twice in one song is not good. Yes, swing does bring out the preposterous love-monkey in me, but only in my age-demographic. If you're able to run for president, than I'm far less interested.
Fascinating late-night:
Especially after swing dancing for hours and feeling my endorphins percolate my body, I kinda want to cuddle. And keep dancing. Blues enables this.
Much like swing, I feel nervous with it, as I’m still not technically proficient, but I love it. Technical blues dancers are lovely, but frustrating: at the end of the night, I’m tired. Absurd moves not ingrained in my muscle memory are difficult. Following is hard when your leg has been twitching for the last hour. Given the close nature of it, I feel more wretched when I botch blues than swing.
But non-technical blues? Sexy-blues? When we’re one writhing mass on the floor? That, my friends, is IT. Feeling a stranger move my hips with theirs is the most sensual way to say hello.
The late-night started as tech-blues. It ended with sexy-blues. There were these four awesome leads with great chill attitudes, wry wit, and about 10 tons of eroticism. They were openly emotionally affectionate. They were comfortable with their bodies. It felt like being with circus people. Or like family.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Where do I go?
In a few months, I'll be moving. I need a job. But where? And what? I begin to ponder. All comments beloved.
I Dream About:
NOrleans
Seattle
Austin
Portland
SF
Big Cities in Europe
That Could Be Cool:
DC
Boston
Philly
Pittsburgh
Ann Arbor
Northampton
Cities in the SW
Cities in CA
College towns
NYC
MOST CITIES OUTSIDE THE STATES.
I like warm cities that are weirdo friendly. Points for a music community, low-cost of living, less terrible unemployment, and hella dancers. Small cities are cool too. Got a clue?
I Dream About:
NOrleans
Seattle
Austin
Portland
SF
Big Cities in Europe
That Could Be Cool:
DC
Boston
Philly
Pittsburgh
Ann Arbor
Northampton
Cities in the SW
Cities in CA
College towns
NYC
MOST CITIES OUTSIDE THE STATES.
I like warm cities that are weirdo friendly. Points for a music community, low-cost of living, less terrible unemployment, and hella dancers. Small cities are cool too. Got a clue?
Saturday, January 23, 2010
That Alumni Interview
For some reason, I've never described my own Oberlin interview. This strikes me as peculiar, as I wrote this snazzy entry on things to do when you interview. But never about mine.
The Interns Prepare: Natalie and I, clinking coffee mugs and water bottles before a day of interviews.
On my college tour, I had a slew of unpleasant interviews. One alum wrote down what I said word for word, in a way creepily similar to Rita Skeeter. One student interviewer told me not to apply to her school; another only asked bizarre questions. One interviewer, an admissions officer, pulled up my file and started going through my academics, quizzing me about grades and classes.
But my worst was the weekend before my Oberlin interview. I'd had a terrible interview for Illustrious College*. My interviewer, a criminal lawyer, was deeply unpleasant. For an hour, he talked about the difficulties of his life, then quizzed me on the Iraq War.
He mispronounced my last name in three different ways: Indebam / Inderberg / Aydeenboom. In. Den. Baum. In, like Inn. Den, rhymes with hen. Baum, meaning tree, as in "O Tannenbaum" or L. Frank Baum.
It annoyed me a bit.
Worse, his office was boiling. Even before he started talking about Iraq, the sweat oozed off my forehead. Somehow, he was still wearing a blazer. I'd long-since slipped mine off, and was debating taking off my overshirt, but I didn't want to look tacky. Was the time for clothing removal over? Would he assume that I was making some cheap pass at him?
While we discussed elections, bombings and his quest for admission to Illustrious College's Well-Renown Law School, I wondered if I should subtly start talking about my interests. Should I mention to a lawyer that I did Mock Trial? Should I somehow tie this topic to academics and my great AP Government class? Should I ask pointed, hopeful questions about Illustrious College? Was I going to drown in my own sweat?
He asked me, "But what do you think about the relevance of the electoral process in third-world nations? I don't think it's possible. It's just not a part of their culture."
In the car ride home, I sunk into the seat.
Aries: That was awful.
Mom: Did you say something stupid?
Aries: No, it just... I don't really want to go to Illustrious College now.
Mom: You can't judge a whole school on one person. They can't all be jerks.
Aries: But he was supposed to be a representative! And he was a self-centered [several very obscene expletives deleted] jerk!
Mom: He's also been out of school for a while. It's probably not the college, it's him.
Two days later, I was scheduled to interview for Oberlin. Given the last experience, I was worried. The interview was at the Friends Seminary, a Quaker school in NYC.
The Friends Seminary! 222 East 16th Street, for all you New York types.
The day was bitterly cold. On the way over, my mother and I stopped at two different pharmacies to warm up. To give context: my mother is from Norway *. They invited Vikings, Svalbard, and endless winter. Even my mother, with her Viking-blood, thought the New York City wind was a bit nippy.
Svalbard, one of the only places Norway colonized. Note the closeness to the North Pole.
Once I entered the Friend's Seminary, every muscle relaxed. The space was warm and cozy, with canary yellow walls dotted with childrens art. Big signs that said OBERLIN! lead the way to a lounge, filled with anxious students, parents, and a few admissions folks.
Even after a few minutes to thaw, I still couldn't feel my feet. Gingerly, I asked one of the admissions folks, "How cold is it in Ohio?"
"Well," she said, "It's not worse than this."
"Oh," I sighed. 'Svalbard,' my toes whispered.
"Would you like some coffee?" she asked.
"Yes." I replied. Cream. Splenda. Stir.
When the official alum talked to someone else, I scoped out the waiting room. As I'd dressed for the cold, I hadn't really thought to dress shmancy. I was wearing a nice tee-shirt, but also my normal goth pants. And green military boots. Happily, most of the other applicants didn't look too fancy: nice and casual, without being very preppy.
Generally, the college waiting rooms unnerved me. Like an actor at a casting call, I would look around, wondering how good my competition was, continuously aware that said competition might become castmates. Must be friendly, but not too friendly.
But this time, I felt more relaxed. The boy next to me was reading Zadie Smith. The girl across from me was studying for AP Chem-- I recognized the textbook.
"What unit are you on?" I asked.
She grinned ruefully, "Everything, technically. We're doing a practice AP on Tuesday."
"Shit," the boy said, looking up from his book. "That's awful."
We all started talking and didn't stop until we each got called for our respective interviews.
My interviewer was Peter, an alum who worked in the restaurant business. He smiled easily.
For the first time, after about 12 interviews, this was actually a conversation. For the first twenty minutes, we talked about cooking. And dining. And music. And why people do foolish thing. He was a fascinating guy -- completely self-effacing, funny and snarky. Strangely enough, he actually seemed to think that I was interesting too.
We joked about building a time machine... to create time. Just more and more of it. In little sugar packets you could drop into tea or coffee, so your day would stretch out more and more, until all the time-sugar was gone. Also, a music-language scrambler, so that all pop music would sound like Cirque du Soleil soundtracks.
Though I still minded my p's and q's, I didn't feel like he was judging me. He didn't take notes. He didn't ask for my GPA. We were just chatting. Even though we sat in tiny plastic desk-chairs, made for 7 year olds, I felt incredibly at ease. When Peter described Oberlin, it sounded like a painter talking about his favorite work. While it wasn't the most precise photo, the spirit was there exactly.
He even pronounced my last name correctly.
"Was that everything you wanted it to be?" he said, mostly seriously.
"Yeah," I said. "I didn't realize I had a say."
When I got back to the waiting room, I high-fived my mom, who was talking to Chemistry Girl's father. When we left, it felt a lot warmer out.
Notes:
* As mushy as this is, my parents were huge forces in my college search. If my Mom loathed a school, I probably didn't want to go. If my Dad was hopeful, then I was hopeful. As Mom's an immigrant, the whole process was literally foreign to her. Dad never finished college, so picking a good school seemed even more important. We all learned about the crazy process together.
Also, I'm an only child. If I didn't succeed, who would?
* Illustrious College is a liberal arts college located in Genosha. Its graduates win Watson, Fullbright and Rhodes Scholarships, they have an excellent Politics department and a history of winning armed conflicts. Sadly, I was waitlisted at Genosha.
The Interns Prepare: Natalie and I, clinking coffee mugs and water bottles before a day of interviews.
On my college tour, I had a slew of unpleasant interviews. One alum wrote down what I said word for word, in a way creepily similar to Rita Skeeter. One student interviewer told me not to apply to her school; another only asked bizarre questions. One interviewer, an admissions officer, pulled up my file and started going through my academics, quizzing me about grades and classes.
But my worst was the weekend before my Oberlin interview. I'd had a terrible interview for Illustrious College*. My interviewer, a criminal lawyer, was deeply unpleasant. For an hour, he talked about the difficulties of his life, then quizzed me on the Iraq War.
He mispronounced my last name in three different ways: Indebam / Inderberg / Aydeenboom. In. Den. Baum. In, like Inn. Den, rhymes with hen. Baum, meaning tree, as in "O Tannenbaum" or L. Frank Baum.
It annoyed me a bit.
Worse, his office was boiling. Even before he started talking about Iraq, the sweat oozed off my forehead. Somehow, he was still wearing a blazer. I'd long-since slipped mine off, and was debating taking off my overshirt, but I didn't want to look tacky. Was the time for clothing removal over? Would he assume that I was making some cheap pass at him?
While we discussed elections, bombings and his quest for admission to Illustrious College's Well-Renown Law School, I wondered if I should subtly start talking about my interests. Should I mention to a lawyer that I did Mock Trial? Should I somehow tie this topic to academics and my great AP Government class? Should I ask pointed, hopeful questions about Illustrious College? Was I going to drown in my own sweat?
He asked me, "But what do you think about the relevance of the electoral process in third-world nations? I don't think it's possible. It's just not a part of their culture."
In the car ride home, I sunk into the seat.
Aries: That was awful.
Mom: Did you say something stupid?
Aries: No, it just... I don't really want to go to Illustrious College now.
Mom: You can't judge a whole school on one person. They can't all be jerks.
Aries: But he was supposed to be a representative! And he was a self-centered [several very obscene expletives deleted] jerk!
Mom: He's also been out of school for a while. It's probably not the college, it's him.
Two days later, I was scheduled to interview for Oberlin. Given the last experience, I was worried. The interview was at the Friends Seminary, a Quaker school in NYC.
The Friends Seminary! 222 East 16th Street, for all you New York types.
The day was bitterly cold. On the way over, my mother and I stopped at two different pharmacies to warm up. To give context: my mother is from Norway *. They invited Vikings, Svalbard, and endless winter. Even my mother, with her Viking-blood, thought the New York City wind was a bit nippy.
Svalbard, one of the only places Norway colonized. Note the closeness to the North Pole.
Once I entered the Friend's Seminary, every muscle relaxed. The space was warm and cozy, with canary yellow walls dotted with childrens art. Big signs that said OBERLIN! lead the way to a lounge, filled with anxious students, parents, and a few admissions folks.
Even after a few minutes to thaw, I still couldn't feel my feet. Gingerly, I asked one of the admissions folks, "How cold is it in Ohio?"
"Well," she said, "It's not worse than this."
"Oh," I sighed. 'Svalbard,' my toes whispered.
"Would you like some coffee?" she asked.
"Yes." I replied. Cream. Splenda. Stir.
When the official alum talked to someone else, I scoped out the waiting room. As I'd dressed for the cold, I hadn't really thought to dress shmancy. I was wearing a nice tee-shirt, but also my normal goth pants. And green military boots. Happily, most of the other applicants didn't look too fancy: nice and casual, without being very preppy.
Generally, the college waiting rooms unnerved me. Like an actor at a casting call, I would look around, wondering how good my competition was, continuously aware that said competition might become castmates. Must be friendly, but not too friendly.
But this time, I felt more relaxed. The boy next to me was reading Zadie Smith. The girl across from me was studying for AP Chem-- I recognized the textbook.
"What unit are you on?" I asked.
She grinned ruefully, "Everything, technically. We're doing a practice AP on Tuesday."
"Shit," the boy said, looking up from his book. "That's awful."
We all started talking and didn't stop until we each got called for our respective interviews.
My interviewer was Peter, an alum who worked in the restaurant business. He smiled easily.
For the first time, after about 12 interviews, this was actually a conversation. For the first twenty minutes, we talked about cooking. And dining. And music. And why people do foolish thing. He was a fascinating guy -- completely self-effacing, funny and snarky. Strangely enough, he actually seemed to think that I was interesting too.
We joked about building a time machine... to create time. Just more and more of it. In little sugar packets you could drop into tea or coffee, so your day would stretch out more and more, until all the time-sugar was gone. Also, a music-language scrambler, so that all pop music would sound like Cirque du Soleil soundtracks.
Though I still minded my p's and q's, I didn't feel like he was judging me. He didn't take notes. He didn't ask for my GPA. We were just chatting. Even though we sat in tiny plastic desk-chairs, made for 7 year olds, I felt incredibly at ease. When Peter described Oberlin, it sounded like a painter talking about his favorite work. While it wasn't the most precise photo, the spirit was there exactly.
He even pronounced my last name correctly.
"Was that everything you wanted it to be?" he said, mostly seriously.
"Yeah," I said. "I didn't realize I had a say."
When I got back to the waiting room, I high-fived my mom, who was talking to Chemistry Girl's father. When we left, it felt a lot warmer out.
Notes:
* As mushy as this is, my parents were huge forces in my college search. If my Mom loathed a school, I probably didn't want to go. If my Dad was hopeful, then I was hopeful. As Mom's an immigrant, the whole process was literally foreign to her. Dad never finished college, so picking a good school seemed even more important. We all learned about the crazy process together.
Also, I'm an only child. If I didn't succeed, who would?
* Illustrious College is a liberal arts college located in Genosha. Its graduates win Watson, Fullbright and Rhodes Scholarships, they have an excellent Politics department and a history of winning armed conflicts. Sadly, I was waitlisted at Genosha.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Dancing in NYC
From Christmas until New Years, I went out nearly every night dancing. These are my notes.
Brazen Fox
A classy sports bar in White Plains. Good for fans of football, Jersey Shore or Armani Exchange. Also, having long talks about friendship and relationships with one's best friend (and an awesome friend of hers).
Calico Jack's Cantina
Club-bar. Patrons take myspace-pictures of themselves, sipping enormous neon-colored cocktails through giant staws. Pop music. Girls in tight jeans, boys coated in hair gel. I was glad I brought earplugs. Not too classy, but not too sketchy. Not really my place, but I liked the company.
The Players Club for New Years Eve's Eve
The Player’s Club was ridiculous: a historic building on Gramercy Park. Old world classy, portraits on the walls. One large dance hall with sticky floors, always filled with dancers. Intimidating. Matching their surroundings, the crowd was very glamorous. The men wore suspenders, and sharp hats.
But the ladies were a class above. Tiny flowers woven into their hair, their dresses showed just enough flesh to entice. Their make-up was flawless: eyelashes extravagant, brows shaped, lips lined and glossed. In their fancy shoes, they all hung within the acceptable rage of 5’4” to 5’9.” And worst of all, they exuded class, grace, and femininity.
While I have good points, refinement is not one of them.
I wore my black tennis dress from the previous night. My bangs were poking upwards. In my yellow converse sneakers, I stood over six feet. I only applied a bit of make-up. Even before dancing a step, I felt a bit warm, the sweat collecting.
I saw Shawn. As gorgeous as ever, if not more so. Suddenly, I realized how much I missed her. We hugged and spoke. She introduced me to her friends, whom I enjoyed and danced with. One of them was a total tease, the kinda guy I become bros with.
After dancing with me, he said, “God, I’m sweatier than a Ukrainian!”
“So true!” I said, “I’m Ukrainian!”
“Ah, I’m so sorry,” he panicked. “I’ve never actually met one before.”
“It’s cool— we really are that sweaty.”
The dance floor was packed, bodies flying everywhere to George Gee's tunes. Though there were more of the younger set, the older folks were the large majority. I danced with some good folks and saw some terrible burlesque.
Well, not terrible. But I’m spoiled. A tap dancing girl in a skimpy outfit is charming, but Catherine had more skill and fantastic showmanship. This girl just didn’t sell it. I miss you, Catherine. And not just when you’re Shirley Temple and I’m the zombie after your heart.
The other one sold it, but I didn’t want what she had to buy. She was on the older side, doing feather fans, with a rather unfortunate outfit.
I was very, very happy when George Gee started playing again.
Connolly's
Stupidly, I didn’t write down the cross-streets, just the address, leaving me wandering around midtown on one of the coldest days of the year. Fortunately, with the assistance of two boys working at a bodega and three of their customers, I found my way. When I finally saw the venue, it was obvious. Connolly's was huge, with a bar on the main floor and the dance floor on the third floor. It was strategically placed near a number of Broadway theaters, so if one needed some liquid encouragement before, after or during a show, it was close.
The dance floor at Connolly’s was big, but packed. While it wasn’t as stuffed with bodies as Banjo Jim’s, dancers absorbed every space. I’ve never really danced in crowded quarters before, so I started to be more aware of where my body was in space. The band was fantastic, dressed in colorful vintage wears. There were three leads around my age; everyone else was much older. One of them was pretty good: when I closed my eyes during a swing out, I could pretend it was John. Almost.
Amanda and I share a deep love for older gents, mostly due to contra. Though younger dudes treat me with polite disinterest, but older gents think I’m the queen of France. Complimentary as this is, I do miss the speed of younger dudes. Older folks jacked style from other types of dance: tango spins, salsa holds, ballroom attitude. Only the younger ones felt like swing dancers, really feeling the music for what it was.
Swing 46
Not really what I expected, both in showing and style. Boilermaker Jazz Band is one of the few swing bands I’ve hear of, so I was expected a big showing of younger folks. Not so much. Like Sophia’s, there were lots of tables, making it hard to see who was really there to dance, and who was to listen. Over the past few months, I’ve gotten over any fears of rejection. While I struck out a few times, I managed to keep dancing for most of it.
Only one sketchball. Vastly outweighed by dancing with the Boilermaker’s drummer during set breaks.
And again, I saw Shawn, which made everything lovely. Seeing her was the highlight of the night.
Club 412
Club 412 convinced me to go dancing from now until forever. There were three dance studios, two live bands, lots of great dancers. Many were older and liked dancing with younger ladies. Slidey floors.
An equal number of follows and leads, and as most ladies were not aggressive, and dudes were shy, I could dance with whomever I wanted. Everyone there was very friendly.
An ancient, tiny Venezuelan guy, Andres, looked at me, and said, “Do you salsa?” I gave my head a wiggle. Kinda. He replied, “Well, then I’ll teach you.” We went to one of the other studios, and he lead me around.
Later on, Carlos, a younger guy, taught me how to cha-cha. Though the basic was different than the cha-cha Nora taught me, it wasn’t too difficult, until he started adding turns. “Thanks for being so nice!” I said, catching my breath when the dance was over. “Well, I like dancing with you,” he said, “and I wanted to cha-cha. Figured this was the easiest way.”
I left coated with sweat, my hair spiked and slick, as if I’d just gotten out of the shower.
Cache at Sofia's
I heard that Vince Giordano, who made the soundtrack for Ghost World, was playing here. The venue was huge, but the term “club” seemed false. The space was covered in tables. The crowd was old, mostly seated. The music, while good, was very… period. Not very funky. I didn't want to pay the cover and left.
Banjo Jim's
Check it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jD9nD8ltRNs&feature=related
This was the band I saw last night, Cangelosi Cards, at Banjo Jim's. The video does not do it justice -- their singer is sick, they all play three instruments. They did everything from old-school jazz, to gospel, and blues. Lucy's recommendation was very successful. Tara and Lucy met me there. There's something wonderful about friends who you can clown with.
It was crazy crowded in there. Though it was only 20º outside, it felt a 120º in there. I felt a wee tad claustrophobic and started talking to the dude next to me (Richard), who was really charming.
Aries: Is it generally this packed?
Richard: It varies. Last week? Empty. Week before that? Full.
Aries: Aw, man, there's no space to dance.
Richard: Wait, you dance?
Aries: Yeah! Do you?
Richard: Yeah! Lindy hop.
Aries: Sweet! That's so great!
Richard: How long have you been dancing for?
Aries: About three months. And you?
Richard: Um. Nine years. ...Don't worry, I'll go easy on you.
Aries: But how do we dance in here?
Richard: Here's the codeword: floorcraft. Unless you know bal.
And then, we danced.
Brazen Fox
A classy sports bar in White Plains. Good for fans of football, Jersey Shore or Armani Exchange. Also, having long talks about friendship and relationships with one's best friend (and an awesome friend of hers).
Calico Jack's Cantina
Club-bar. Patrons take myspace-pictures of themselves, sipping enormous neon-colored cocktails through giant staws. Pop music. Girls in tight jeans, boys coated in hair gel. I was glad I brought earplugs. Not too classy, but not too sketchy. Not really my place, but I liked the company.
The Players Club for New Years Eve's Eve
The Player’s Club was ridiculous: a historic building on Gramercy Park. Old world classy, portraits on the walls. One large dance hall with sticky floors, always filled with dancers. Intimidating. Matching their surroundings, the crowd was very glamorous. The men wore suspenders, and sharp hats.
But the ladies were a class above. Tiny flowers woven into their hair, their dresses showed just enough flesh to entice. Their make-up was flawless: eyelashes extravagant, brows shaped, lips lined and glossed. In their fancy shoes, they all hung within the acceptable rage of 5’4” to 5’9.” And worst of all, they exuded class, grace, and femininity.
While I have good points, refinement is not one of them.
I wore my black tennis dress from the previous night. My bangs were poking upwards. In my yellow converse sneakers, I stood over six feet. I only applied a bit of make-up. Even before dancing a step, I felt a bit warm, the sweat collecting.
I saw Shawn. As gorgeous as ever, if not more so. Suddenly, I realized how much I missed her. We hugged and spoke. She introduced me to her friends, whom I enjoyed and danced with. One of them was a total tease, the kinda guy I become bros with.
After dancing with me, he said, “God, I’m sweatier than a Ukrainian!”
“So true!” I said, “I’m Ukrainian!”
“Ah, I’m so sorry,” he panicked. “I’ve never actually met one before.”
“It’s cool— we really are that sweaty.”
The dance floor was packed, bodies flying everywhere to George Gee's tunes. Though there were more of the younger set, the older folks were the large majority. I danced with some good folks and saw some terrible burlesque.
Well, not terrible. But I’m spoiled. A tap dancing girl in a skimpy outfit is charming, but Catherine had more skill and fantastic showmanship. This girl just didn’t sell it. I miss you, Catherine. And not just when you’re Shirley Temple and I’m the zombie after your heart.
The other one sold it, but I didn’t want what she had to buy. She was on the older side, doing feather fans, with a rather unfortunate outfit.
I was very, very happy when George Gee started playing again.
Connolly's
Stupidly, I didn’t write down the cross-streets, just the address, leaving me wandering around midtown on one of the coldest days of the year. Fortunately, with the assistance of two boys working at a bodega and three of their customers, I found my way. When I finally saw the venue, it was obvious. Connolly's was huge, with a bar on the main floor and the dance floor on the third floor. It was strategically placed near a number of Broadway theaters, so if one needed some liquid encouragement before, after or during a show, it was close.
The dance floor at Connolly’s was big, but packed. While it wasn’t as stuffed with bodies as Banjo Jim’s, dancers absorbed every space. I’ve never really danced in crowded quarters before, so I started to be more aware of where my body was in space. The band was fantastic, dressed in colorful vintage wears. There were three leads around my age; everyone else was much older. One of them was pretty good: when I closed my eyes during a swing out, I could pretend it was John. Almost.
Amanda and I share a deep love for older gents, mostly due to contra. Though younger dudes treat me with polite disinterest, but older gents think I’m the queen of France. Complimentary as this is, I do miss the speed of younger dudes. Older folks jacked style from other types of dance: tango spins, salsa holds, ballroom attitude. Only the younger ones felt like swing dancers, really feeling the music for what it was.
Swing 46
Not really what I expected, both in showing and style. Boilermaker Jazz Band is one of the few swing bands I’ve hear of, so I was expected a big showing of younger folks. Not so much. Like Sophia’s, there were lots of tables, making it hard to see who was really there to dance, and who was to listen. Over the past few months, I’ve gotten over any fears of rejection. While I struck out a few times, I managed to keep dancing for most of it.
Only one sketchball. Vastly outweighed by dancing with the Boilermaker’s drummer during set breaks.
And again, I saw Shawn, which made everything lovely. Seeing her was the highlight of the night.
Club 412
Club 412 convinced me to go dancing from now until forever. There were three dance studios, two live bands, lots of great dancers. Many were older and liked dancing with younger ladies. Slidey floors.
An equal number of follows and leads, and as most ladies were not aggressive, and dudes were shy, I could dance with whomever I wanted. Everyone there was very friendly.
An ancient, tiny Venezuelan guy, Andres, looked at me, and said, “Do you salsa?” I gave my head a wiggle. Kinda. He replied, “Well, then I’ll teach you.” We went to one of the other studios, and he lead me around.
Later on, Carlos, a younger guy, taught me how to cha-cha. Though the basic was different than the cha-cha Nora taught me, it wasn’t too difficult, until he started adding turns. “Thanks for being so nice!” I said, catching my breath when the dance was over. “Well, I like dancing with you,” he said, “and I wanted to cha-cha. Figured this was the easiest way.”
I left coated with sweat, my hair spiked and slick, as if I’d just gotten out of the shower.
Cache at Sofia's
I heard that Vince Giordano, who made the soundtrack for Ghost World, was playing here. The venue was huge, but the term “club” seemed false. The space was covered in tables. The crowd was old, mostly seated. The music, while good, was very… period. Not very funky. I didn't want to pay the cover and left.
Banjo Jim's
Check it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jD9nD8ltRNs&feature=related
This was the band I saw last night, Cangelosi Cards, at Banjo Jim's. The video does not do it justice -- their singer is sick, they all play three instruments. They did everything from old-school jazz, to gospel, and blues. Lucy's recommendation was very successful. Tara and Lucy met me there. There's something wonderful about friends who you can clown with.
It was crazy crowded in there. Though it was only 20º outside, it felt a 120º in there. I felt a wee tad claustrophobic and started talking to the dude next to me (Richard), who was really charming.
Aries: Is it generally this packed?
Richard: It varies. Last week? Empty. Week before that? Full.
Aries: Aw, man, there's no space to dance.
Richard: Wait, you dance?
Aries: Yeah! Do you?
Richard: Yeah! Lindy hop.
Aries: Sweet! That's so great!
Richard: How long have you been dancing for?
Aries: About three months. And you?
Richard: Um. Nine years. ...Don't worry, I'll go easy on you.
Aries: But how do we dance in here?
Richard: Here's the codeword: floorcraft. Unless you know bal.
And then, we danced.
Monday, January 4, 2010
New Year's Eve: The Epic Adventures
My new year started with fire.
Sadly, my New Year’s Eve had no such luck. I started the eve in East Williamsburg, Brooklyn. In a warehouse.
For every previous New Year’s Eve, I chilled with my high school friends, whom I rarely see. While said parties are nice, that wasn't what I wanted this year. It’s the end of a decade, the decade of high school and college, when I (mostly) grew up. I wanted to go to a real, raging party. Fortunately, I heard of at least 60 options. Cross-listing by coolness and price range, my friends Desiree and Cal chose New Lost City.
The description of New Lost City reminded me of a Mucca Pazza party-- the venue featured three brass bands. Also gypsy funk, techno, "hobotech," crazy jazz, and circus. 9PM until 7AM.
I got incredibly excited, of course. Brass bands _and_ techno? Perfect.
When I got off the L train, my path intersected with a pack of circus folks, carrying hoops, poi, and staves. I grinned, thinking they’d be super-friendly, and tried to chat them up. They replied in monosyllables and monotones.
But no worries, I thought.
In my head, I imagined New Lost City as a giant open space with a large stage where the brass bands would be kicking ass. The crowd would be fun, tipsy and dancing. Not so.
After paying, I walked around the space, which was a set of warehouse units, separated by a block covered in slush. There were about six performances spaces most of which were on separate floors, connected only by the fire escape stairs. The first time I climbed the stairs, I felt elation, seeing over all the rooftops into the hazy distance. As the stairs became more crowded, the allure faded.
None of the bands were playing.
Some spaces had DJ’s rocking out, but the crowd seemed aversive to movement. They stood around, drinking, talking and texting. What were they waiting for?
In the second space, a block over, I checked my coat. Might as well get comfortable, I figured.
The coat check dude and I spoke for a few minutes, mostly about how much it sucks to work tonight, dealing with drunk impatient folks who don’t understand organization. He was sincere, charming and already a little bit tired, his eyebrows semi-permanently raised. I tipped heavily.
The band space was completely empty. The lobby of the second room had a wheel of fortune, with a barker wearing tight pleather pants, body glitter and goggles. I crowd-watched for a minute. It was an odd mix of normies, hipsters and the burner crowd.
I saw someone who looked like Basil, his face angular and confident. I felt an overwhelming urge to walk up to him, or one of the other dudes with facial piercings and hug them, screaming, “Ignore the pearls and the black dress! I’m one of you!”
There were circus people, but it seemed in poor form to ask one of them if I could spin their props to vent. And while they may have been circus people, they weren’t one of my beloved carnies.
I looked at the clock. 10:40. Cal and Des were arriving at 11:30. The worst kind of loneliness is when you're in public, totally surrounded by people, but still completely alone.
My mood tanked.
I called Yoshi, and spilled my thoughts. Yoshi, as ever, was deeply supportive and caring, despite my crazy insecurities. Alright. I would make the best of it.
On the line to get back in, a drunken couple stopped making out and started fighting, seemingly instantly. When I took a step back, the person in back of me pushed me back. I sighed and called John. No response. I left a cheerful message.
The rooms were filling fast, guests holding (and spilling) cans of PBR and Stella. A twee boy spilled his drink on my back as we crammed into the dance room. He glared at me, his pinched cheeks covered in glitter.
The DJ was good, I realized, though so loud that I plugged in my earplugs with more furious precision than ever. I started to groove. It was slightly salsa-flavored, and the light were all bright red, deepening the white walls. For a few minutes, the space seemed warmer.
The boy next to me moved frenetically, and we made eye contact after we kept accidentally kicking each other. He had blue eyes. At some points, we’d purposely kick each other’s feet, ska-style. Then, his girlfriend came back from the bar, passing him a can of Miller. Beer in hand, they started to grind.
The boys next to me were fairly drunk, screaming the words to the song buried beneath the techno. The dark-haired one moved against my back, which was somehow comforting until he grabbed my hips and pulled me closer. When I tried to spin around, he kept me firmly in place. He reeked of cigarettes, his fingers were fat, and he didn’t grind with the beat. At the end of the song, I pushed away from him, gesturing to the door, yelling, “It’s really hot! I need water! Bye!”
He followed me into the hallway, where I explained, “I have to go!” and “I think it’s too warm in here.” He didn’t really seem to get anything except the phrase, “Look, I have a boyfriend.” Then, he left in a hurry.
The hallway was jammed. “Maybe the bands are playing now,” I hoped, the last bits of optimism clamoring for attention. On the fire escape, I heard one of the party organizers say to a bouncer handling the congestion, “We need you by the elevator, immediately. I’ll take care of this area.” “Sure,” the bouncer said. Despite my best interests, I was curious, and took a minute to duck back in.
“Get him under control!” a man screamed. The crowd drew back and a muscular dude, flanked by two bouncers reached out, pushing and punching and kicking. About five feet from me, he dropped to the floor, spasming, and the bouncers picked him up, carrying him away.
I decided to get the hell out of there.
Jon Good. Standing, miraculously, on the second floor landing. I screamed and hugged him. You know that profound, exuberant relief you feel when you see your significant other after weeks apart? That sense of, “God, everything is okay now. A person I trust is here.” I nearly cried.
He had a posse with him: cool Obies who I like, but don’t know as well. I convinced him to bail with me to go to the other space, where I had my bag and coat. We crammed out and walking in the slush, I felt triumphant. A long, thick line wove around side of the warehouse and down the block. And waiting in front of the door, off the line, were Cal and Desiree. They looked fantastic: Cal like a steampunk David Bowie God of Rock, Desiree like an Old English Master of Grooviness. I hugged with furious thankfulness.
Cal and Des are my heroes.
At Oberlin, they produced “Over Her Dead Body,” an “independent, black and white, student-produced, -filmed, -edited, -acted, and -scored lesbian zombie-vampire silent horror film.”
As grads, they’re superheroes. By night, Des works for The Nature Conservancy; by night, she has crazy adventures, with costumes, dancing and shenanigans all across Gotham. Cal is probably the most badassed person to ever live. Since graduating, she’s worked across the rural Northeast, raising awareness for the environmental effects of coal mining, and played professional women’s football.
After joyous greetings, we said:
“I don’t want to stay.”
“This line is ridiculous.”
“It looks impossibly packed in there.”
“Great,” I said, “I’ll go get my coat and bag!”
I did not expect the coat check line from Hell. While earlier, we had cued up in a neat line. Now, a crowd bulged around the tiny doorway. As Kevin said, it was more packed than a clown car up Hitler’s ass. I thought about the coat check dude, who had looked nervous hours ago. It was 11:45.
Though I hate line-cutting, I squished in at the front, behind a super-tall impatient man, who was exerting 6’4’ of importance on the crowd. I was jammed beside a couple bitching about how spending this moment in line was an audacity. Since high school, I’d never had my person around for New Year’s. I wondered if having them around would’ve redeemed this shindig.
‘Please don’t leave!’ I texted to Cal.
At 11:55, I got to the head of the line. The coat check dudes were going a mile-a-minute. The younger one, with the scared eyes, nodded his head when he saw me. “Miss,” he said to the girl next to me, “You’ll have to move back, there’s no space.” She shrieked, “They’re pushing! I can’t go anywhere!” The other one saw my number, and got me my clothes.
“This is crazy,” he said to me; I nodded furiously and said, “I have no idea how to get out of here.” He gestured me to follow him. We walked through the back of the coat check, past rows of scarves and heavy parkas. Each garment was packed tight, like a laundromat. I thanked him repeatedly.
In the back room, I saw the circus folks practicing, some soaking their props. If I hadn’t been so rushed, I’d have sneaked to see what system they were using. Can take the girl outta the circus, but can’t take the circus outta the girl.
As I left, I heard one of the circus folks yell, “Get the fuck out of the way! This shit is going to be on fire!”
And there was Cal, Des and Jon, waiting where they said they would, at the end of the sidewalk. “I didn’t think you’d stay,” I blathered. “I mean, it’s nearly…”
“Oh hey,” Cal said. “11:59…. and… Happy New Year!”
And it was. We sang Auld Lang Syne (Jon harmonized) and as I was breathing, feeling calmer. There was still a huge line behind us, snaked around the warehouse. In the open air, the party-goers seemed less threatening and obnoxious. Just silly for waiting.
Yelling behind us, and a rush of bodies running to the street, bearing poi and staves and torches. One of them poured a line of clear liquid across the street, dropped a match and ignited a trail of fire. The group lit up and started to spin, right in front of us.
Fire. The best way to start the year.
I cried. The happy tears. Everything was okay. The fire spinners weren’t very good, but they were honest, and they reminded me of home. Of friends and lovers, of performing and perfection. Of Yoshi, Liz, Izzie, Ma’ayan, Amanda, Basil and Jim. Of warm spring nights and crowd control. When I wiped the tears away, there were more.
The night blurred together in a happy montage: leaving with Cal and Des, dancing in a smoke-filled, gay-friendly goth club. Military Fashion Show. Mad World. My phone dying. Cal’s grin, Des’s sleepy smile. Creepy giant latex-covered man-devil approaching me. Me, having learned my lesson from the previous giant latex cat-boy, rebuffing him. All-night diner. The folks next to us asleep in their booth. Peach crepes. Company. Happiness.
The 5:30AM train. Sleep. A new year. It took a long time to come.
Sadly, my New Year’s Eve had no such luck. I started the eve in East Williamsburg, Brooklyn. In a warehouse.
For every previous New Year’s Eve, I chilled with my high school friends, whom I rarely see. While said parties are nice, that wasn't what I wanted this year. It’s the end of a decade, the decade of high school and college, when I (mostly) grew up. I wanted to go to a real, raging party. Fortunately, I heard of at least 60 options. Cross-listing by coolness and price range, my friends Desiree and Cal chose New Lost City.
The description of New Lost City reminded me of a Mucca Pazza party-- the venue featured three brass bands. Also gypsy funk, techno, "hobotech," crazy jazz, and circus. 9PM until 7AM.
I got incredibly excited, of course. Brass bands _and_ techno? Perfect.
When I got off the L train, my path intersected with a pack of circus folks, carrying hoops, poi, and staves. I grinned, thinking they’d be super-friendly, and tried to chat them up. They replied in monosyllables and monotones.
But no worries, I thought.
In my head, I imagined New Lost City as a giant open space with a large stage where the brass bands would be kicking ass. The crowd would be fun, tipsy and dancing. Not so.
After paying, I walked around the space, which was a set of warehouse units, separated by a block covered in slush. There were about six performances spaces most of which were on separate floors, connected only by the fire escape stairs. The first time I climbed the stairs, I felt elation, seeing over all the rooftops into the hazy distance. As the stairs became more crowded, the allure faded.
None of the bands were playing.
Some spaces had DJ’s rocking out, but the crowd seemed aversive to movement. They stood around, drinking, talking and texting. What were they waiting for?
In the second space, a block over, I checked my coat. Might as well get comfortable, I figured.
The coat check dude and I spoke for a few minutes, mostly about how much it sucks to work tonight, dealing with drunk impatient folks who don’t understand organization. He was sincere, charming and already a little bit tired, his eyebrows semi-permanently raised. I tipped heavily.
The band space was completely empty. The lobby of the second room had a wheel of fortune, with a barker wearing tight pleather pants, body glitter and goggles. I crowd-watched for a minute. It was an odd mix of normies, hipsters and the burner crowd.
I saw someone who looked like Basil, his face angular and confident. I felt an overwhelming urge to walk up to him, or one of the other dudes with facial piercings and hug them, screaming, “Ignore the pearls and the black dress! I’m one of you!”
There were circus people, but it seemed in poor form to ask one of them if I could spin their props to vent. And while they may have been circus people, they weren’t one of my beloved carnies.
I looked at the clock. 10:40. Cal and Des were arriving at 11:30. The worst kind of loneliness is when you're in public, totally surrounded by people, but still completely alone.
My mood tanked.
I called Yoshi, and spilled my thoughts. Yoshi, as ever, was deeply supportive and caring, despite my crazy insecurities. Alright. I would make the best of it.
On the line to get back in, a drunken couple stopped making out and started fighting, seemingly instantly. When I took a step back, the person in back of me pushed me back. I sighed and called John. No response. I left a cheerful message.
The rooms were filling fast, guests holding (and spilling) cans of PBR and Stella. A twee boy spilled his drink on my back as we crammed into the dance room. He glared at me, his pinched cheeks covered in glitter.
The DJ was good, I realized, though so loud that I plugged in my earplugs with more furious precision than ever. I started to groove. It was slightly salsa-flavored, and the light were all bright red, deepening the white walls. For a few minutes, the space seemed warmer.
The boy next to me moved frenetically, and we made eye contact after we kept accidentally kicking each other. He had blue eyes. At some points, we’d purposely kick each other’s feet, ska-style. Then, his girlfriend came back from the bar, passing him a can of Miller. Beer in hand, they started to grind.
The boys next to me were fairly drunk, screaming the words to the song buried beneath the techno. The dark-haired one moved against my back, which was somehow comforting until he grabbed my hips and pulled me closer. When I tried to spin around, he kept me firmly in place. He reeked of cigarettes, his fingers were fat, and he didn’t grind with the beat. At the end of the song, I pushed away from him, gesturing to the door, yelling, “It’s really hot! I need water! Bye!”
He followed me into the hallway, where I explained, “I have to go!” and “I think it’s too warm in here.” He didn’t really seem to get anything except the phrase, “Look, I have a boyfriend.” Then, he left in a hurry.
The hallway was jammed. “Maybe the bands are playing now,” I hoped, the last bits of optimism clamoring for attention. On the fire escape, I heard one of the party organizers say to a bouncer handling the congestion, “We need you by the elevator, immediately. I’ll take care of this area.” “Sure,” the bouncer said. Despite my best interests, I was curious, and took a minute to duck back in.
“Get him under control!” a man screamed. The crowd drew back and a muscular dude, flanked by two bouncers reached out, pushing and punching and kicking. About five feet from me, he dropped to the floor, spasming, and the bouncers picked him up, carrying him away.
I decided to get the hell out of there.
Jon Good. Standing, miraculously, on the second floor landing. I screamed and hugged him. You know that profound, exuberant relief you feel when you see your significant other after weeks apart? That sense of, “God, everything is okay now. A person I trust is here.” I nearly cried.
He had a posse with him: cool Obies who I like, but don’t know as well. I convinced him to bail with me to go to the other space, where I had my bag and coat. We crammed out and walking in the slush, I felt triumphant. A long, thick line wove around side of the warehouse and down the block. And waiting in front of the door, off the line, were Cal and Desiree. They looked fantastic: Cal like a steampunk David Bowie God of Rock, Desiree like an Old English Master of Grooviness. I hugged with furious thankfulness.
Cal and Des are my heroes.
At Oberlin, they produced “Over Her Dead Body,” an “independent, black and white, student-produced, -filmed, -edited, -acted, and -scored lesbian zombie-vampire silent horror film.”
As grads, they’re superheroes. By night, Des works for The Nature Conservancy; by night, she has crazy adventures, with costumes, dancing and shenanigans all across Gotham. Cal is probably the most badassed person to ever live. Since graduating, she’s worked across the rural Northeast, raising awareness for the environmental effects of coal mining, and played professional women’s football.
After joyous greetings, we said:
“I don’t want to stay.”
“This line is ridiculous.”
“It looks impossibly packed in there.”
“Great,” I said, “I’ll go get my coat and bag!”
I did not expect the coat check line from Hell. While earlier, we had cued up in a neat line. Now, a crowd bulged around the tiny doorway. As Kevin said, it was more packed than a clown car up Hitler’s ass. I thought about the coat check dude, who had looked nervous hours ago. It was 11:45.
Though I hate line-cutting, I squished in at the front, behind a super-tall impatient man, who was exerting 6’4’ of importance on the crowd. I was jammed beside a couple bitching about how spending this moment in line was an audacity. Since high school, I’d never had my person around for New Year’s. I wondered if having them around would’ve redeemed this shindig.
‘Please don’t leave!’ I texted to Cal.
At 11:55, I got to the head of the line. The coat check dudes were going a mile-a-minute. The younger one, with the scared eyes, nodded his head when he saw me. “Miss,” he said to the girl next to me, “You’ll have to move back, there’s no space.” She shrieked, “They’re pushing! I can’t go anywhere!” The other one saw my number, and got me my clothes.
“This is crazy,” he said to me; I nodded furiously and said, “I have no idea how to get out of here.” He gestured me to follow him. We walked through the back of the coat check, past rows of scarves and heavy parkas. Each garment was packed tight, like a laundromat. I thanked him repeatedly.
In the back room, I saw the circus folks practicing, some soaking their props. If I hadn’t been so rushed, I’d have sneaked to see what system they were using. Can take the girl outta the circus, but can’t take the circus outta the girl.
As I left, I heard one of the circus folks yell, “Get the fuck out of the way! This shit is going to be on fire!”
And there was Cal, Des and Jon, waiting where they said they would, at the end of the sidewalk. “I didn’t think you’d stay,” I blathered. “I mean, it’s nearly…”
“Oh hey,” Cal said. “11:59…. and… Happy New Year!”
And it was. We sang Auld Lang Syne (Jon harmonized) and as I was breathing, feeling calmer. There was still a huge line behind us, snaked around the warehouse. In the open air, the party-goers seemed less threatening and obnoxious. Just silly for waiting.
Yelling behind us, and a rush of bodies running to the street, bearing poi and staves and torches. One of them poured a line of clear liquid across the street, dropped a match and ignited a trail of fire. The group lit up and started to spin, right in front of us.
Fire. The best way to start the year.
I cried. The happy tears. Everything was okay. The fire spinners weren’t very good, but they were honest, and they reminded me of home. Of friends and lovers, of performing and perfection. Of Yoshi, Liz, Izzie, Ma’ayan, Amanda, Basil and Jim. Of warm spring nights and crowd control. When I wiped the tears away, there were more.
The night blurred together in a happy montage: leaving with Cal and Des, dancing in a smoke-filled, gay-friendly goth club. Military Fashion Show. Mad World. My phone dying. Cal’s grin, Des’s sleepy smile. Creepy giant latex-covered man-devil approaching me. Me, having learned my lesson from the previous giant latex cat-boy, rebuffing him. All-night diner. The folks next to us asleep in their booth. Peach crepes. Company. Happiness.
The 5:30AM train. Sleep. A new year. It took a long time to come.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Squee Mix
Squee Mix
(for Amanda)
Note: Squee is the noise you make when your arteries clog with joy.
01 All I Want Is You [cover] - Vespers
02 Friday I'm in Love – The Cure
03 The Party's Crashing Me - Of Montreal
04 How Do You Sleep – Jesse McCartney
05 All For Swinging Around You – New Pornographers
06 Who Could You Get (To Love You) - The Dependables
07 Might Tell You Tonight – Scissor Sisters
08 Jolene - White Stripes
09 My Wicked Way – Ben Taylor
10 I Put A Spell On You – She + Him
11 Why Don't You Do Right - Amy Irving
12 I Fall in Love Too Easily - Chet Baker
13 West Coast - Coconut Records
14 Haven't Met You Yet - Michael Buble
15 From Here To Eternity – Brian Setzer
16 Sukie In The Graveyard – B+S
17 I Belong To You (+Mon Coeur S'ouvre A Toi) - Muse
Ask, and I'll make you a copy!
(for Amanda)
Note: Squee is the noise you make when your arteries clog with joy.
01 All I Want Is You [cover] - Vespers
02 Friday I'm in Love – The Cure
03 The Party's Crashing Me - Of Montreal
04 How Do You Sleep – Jesse McCartney
05 All For Swinging Around You – New Pornographers
06 Who Could You Get (To Love You) - The Dependables
07 Might Tell You Tonight – Scissor Sisters
08 Jolene - White Stripes
09 My Wicked Way – Ben Taylor
10 I Put A Spell On You – She + Him
11 Why Don't You Do Right - Amy Irving
12 I Fall in Love Too Easily - Chet Baker
13 West Coast - Coconut Records
14 Haven't Met You Yet - Michael Buble
15 From Here To Eternity – Brian Setzer
16 Sukie In The Graveyard – B+S
17 I Belong To You (+Mon Coeur S'ouvre A Toi) - Muse
Ask, and I'll make you a copy!
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