Ninja Man

You came out of nowhere___ landed on my roof

Soundless in your crepe soled shoes___ attitude aloof

Shimmied down the drain pipe,__ balanced on the ledge__

Dark as the night sky__ keeping me on edge

(Chorus) 

You can be my ninja man, but don’t you steal my heart

I’ll need it to get over you; your vigilante follow through

You can be my ninja man, but don’t you steal my heart

Eviscerate me with your eyes,

Disembowel my laissez-faire guise

But let me have my silent nights

And__ sword fights with youuuuuu (guitar stops) My love, my ninja

You slipped in through the window, ___ me in my penoir set

Lounging on my__chaise lounge,___ I’ll never forget

You came upon me stealthily, ___ all spider arms and legs

I asked if you were hungry,___ said, “Would you like some eggs?”

You nodded through your face mask,___ and said, yes please.

I made you an omelet, ___with extra grated cheese

Made you toast and bacon, __then peeled back your hood,

I said, “Hey, wanna spend the night?”  You said, (in low voice)_“I would if I could.”

(Spoken like Johnny Cash)

“But I got some ninja doins’; ninja issues to work through__

Gotta throw me some ‘a them ninja stars, got ninja things to do___

Gotta settle some ninja business__ on the other side of town,____

But if you’re ever makin’ eggs again, I just may__ come around.”__

I said (Chorus)

(Bridge) 

A few weeks later, I got the worrrrrrrd

wasn’t told directly, I overheard

You limped up to me like a champ___

___knocked over a table lamp

Bled all over my Pucci night gown

Seems there’d been a ninja scuffle

on the wrong side of towwwn (the wrong side of tow-ow-own)

You let me clean your wounds that night

We didn’t eat eggs__ and didn’t sword fight

I rocked you gently,__ until you slept

I loved you gently,___ (guitar stops) my love my ninja

Then I whispered (chorus)

(repeat to end “My love my ninja” 2x)

Partied Like it was 1984

            Studio B, in their tireless efforts to bring our community together through good-clean-fun, hilarity and entertainment, held another town dance recently.  The theme was 'Eighties Night' and it was wicked excellent.

           As in most dress up occasions, the brainstorming, acquiring of outfits and getting ready for the event was nearly as fun as the event itself.  Not that coming in costume was a requirement, but because it’s Maplewood/South Orange it just become a dress-up event.  Because we’re a silly people sometimes and don’t care what people think-- and that’s a good thing.

Folks Googled Commodores and Culture Club videos to see what the extras were wearing then either went to Forever 21 or borrowed from Border-Hoarder friends who never throw anything away.  I loaned out my Pat Benetar concert T-shirt that I bought with my own babysitting money at the concert as well as my Journey concert tee—both with baseball sleeves; both excellent.  I also loaned out the faded mom jeans with the overlapping patches that were a staple of my wardrobe for years.  We didn’t call them “Mom Jeans” then.  They were just the style.  Seven inches of zipper rising high to hug the waist, they were an abysmal cut, which we then pegged at the ankle—sometimes with suede boots, sometimes with tube socks.  Yes, I had saved some leg warmers and a few particularly wide, boxy tops.  A typical medium sized shirt back then was 3 ½ feet wide and stopped right at the belt line in order to show off your happenin’ shiny belt.

I had a belt epiphany the night of the dance while getting ready.  I remembered the blue eye shadow and frosty blue eye-liner.  I had spent hours following the eye-shadow contouring instructions in the pages of Seventeen Magazine and it all came back to me as soon as I saw the shimmery robin’s egg color.  I remembered to fluff up my hair so that it was Jennifer Beales big then tie a scarf in it in a bow at an angle.  That was a no brainer as were the striped socks that I wore with pointy ballet flats.  But certain things came back to me in waves of recognition.  My ah-ha moment hit me a few days earlier when I remembered the 4 or 5 watches I used to wear simultaneously.  I was particularly proud of that nugget as I strapped them on to overlap each other, one Swatch at a time.

As I was finishing up, I grabbed a belt to buckle around the waist of my mini- skirt and then, as if prodded by ghosts of Prince videos past, I reached for another belt.  “Right!” I thought, “Two belts; one lower at a diagonal!” It was there in my brain’s deep storage the whole time, the muscle memory of putting on two belts to go into the city to sneak into Limelight; to dance the night away.

The Eighties Night dance was lit like a prom back then, or more aptly, someone’s basement rec room party on homecoming weekend—super dark.  The Women’s Club dance floor itself was vast downstairs giving the hundred or so folks that paid the modest admission of $10 plenty of room to move.  The light show was killer, giving dancers just enough light to nod respectfully to the brilliant array of outfits dancing nearby, but still keep them safely cloistered in the dark so that they could really go crazy.  There were rubber bracelets, shoulder pads and a hats worn at the very back of the head.  There were horizontal stripes and spandex pants and a dead ringer for Joan Jett resplendent in black leather.  There was a big guy in a football letter jacket with a rattail about 10 inches down his back—his nanny had sewn a pinchful of hair cut from a wig right into his own—and there were loads of guys in alligator shirts with their collars up—sometimes sporting two shirts at once.  Alex P. Keaton would have been proud.  There was one guy who found a “Top Gun” zip-up-the-front flight suit on the internet.  Due for a haircut anyway, he asked for a close one that morning, and together with the dark aviator sunglasses made the night complete.

I hadn’t danced that hard since Studio B’s Disco Night.  We threw our bodies around the room to the music so hard that everyone I saw the next morning dropping their kids off at school was sore.  We giggled over stiff necks and sore hamstrings and my ribs hurt for some bizarre reason.  But at the time it was as if I couldn’t help myself; I was possessed.  I remembered my parents pushing the dining room table out of the way after dinner parties and dancing to 45s of Rock Around the Clock and how insanely sweaty and happy they all looked—laughing and shouting all the lyrics.  That was us—silly, sweaty and insanely happy.  We shouted every word—every syllable hit squarely and long note held for the exact right length—to every song for three hours.  Transported back in time, we were our vague selves but from so long ago.  I wouldn’t know how to even talk to that person now, were I to meet her in some sort of time-rift sci-fi amusement park ride.  But I loved to dance then and I love to dance now.  That much we still have in common.  That and an enduring love of dressing up, not caring if I look silly, and a deep abiding love of the music of my youth and the crazy fun folks in this town.