Show Time

This past winter I had the pleasure of seeing three performances: the Shanghai Circus, a delightful display of feats of strength, balance and derring-do; Savion Glover, a delightful exploration of percussive tap dancing to live flamenco music; and the Queen of Spades, a delightful slog through a four-hour Pushkin opera at the Met.

In all three cases, I had to surrender. The shows had no heady dialogue to follow in order to occupy my mind. I had to take off my coat and stay a while, acknowledging to myself that in order to get the full effect of the entertainment experience, I had to completely immerse myself and let it wash over me. It meant turning off the cell phone, turning off my brain and giving over the controls to someone else until further notice. It meant begging off the scheduling nymphs and list fairies and allowing awe and wonder to scramble up from where they’d been bound and gagged, waiting patiently to see the light of day again. In all three cases it worked, and as I relaxed and let go, I was dazzled.

Pushkin was up to his same old melodramatic tricks at the Met but with a compelling avant-garde flair. The depth and scope of the vast stage’s starkly compelling sets elicited gasps from the opera-goers around me each time the curtain was raised, and the costumes’ design and palette thrilled the fashionistas in the audience with their modern take on an age-old winter wardrobe. I read the summary in the program and then decided to leave the LED narration off and float through. The story line was simple enough to explain to a stranger in one subway stop and because this was Pushkin I just assumed that everyone would either die of consumption or a broken heart, but that they were sure to suffer madness on their way there. I was right, and since the opera clocked in at about the same length as a flight to Phoenix, I cozied-in and, once again, surrendered.

The Shanghai Circus was mind blowing. It’s performers showed such nimble control, such deft coordination, that my son and I found our selves unable to decide which act impressed us most. Was it the strongest man I’m likely ever to see; able to support and balance his own body weight in impossible, one-armed ways? Was it the mad, multi-ball hand juggler or the whimsical foot jugglers; passing balls to each other in Dr. Seuss fashion? Naturally I was attracted to the plate spinners, whose ability to multi-task-- spinning twelve plates on twelve sticks with each hand while moving and grooving-- spoke to the mother in me, and the eerie, science-fictiony, high-pitched hum they gave off was mesmerizing.

Savion Glover was mesmerizing, too. Having discovered the percussive seduction of flamenco, he teamed up with the equally mesmerizing Carmen Estevez of Spain. The daughter of a jazz drummer father and a flamenco singing mother, she drummed and sang with the cool, detached rasp of an aloof femme fatale while Savion-- two feet away on a tap platform—listened and let her music soak into his every pore until his head was so wrapped up deep inside the music that and only his tapping feet remained free. My mom and I watched—along with the flamenco guitarist nearby-- like voyeurs to a flirtation. Carmen played and sang as Savion hoofed and tapped and together they wound and weaved not so much a story but an experiential journey, like when you felt your way through the woods with your eyes closed, on a dare, when you were young.

During intermission, my mom told me about a Tap Happening she went to with Dad back in the 1960s at the Dixie Hotel on W.43rd (now the Hotel Carter, named
the dirtiest hotel in the US for 4 years in a row). Metal folding chairs were set up down in the basement and a record player sat in the corner. As my parents sat in awe, Howard "Sandman" Sims, Charles "Honi" Cole, Jimmy Slyde and Chuck Green tried to best each other; walking to the record player one at a time to put the needle down on the song that would take them to that place where body and imagination paired up and left the head in the dust. Mom said that tap had gone out of style at the time, but these guys just wanted to get together to keep it alive, to see old friends and to work their craft with nothing but camaraderie and fun as their goal. Having grown up seeing these greats on the big screen, Mom and Dad were blown away.

During the second half of the show, I thought about the plate spinners and opera singers and wondered if they’ll ever get together someday in a basement, just to catch up with old friends and show each other what they’ve still got. I thought about how much fun they would have without the pressure of a theater crowd and itchy costumes and marveled at the sight of them smiling and laughing it off as plates and notes were dropped. A lifetime of hard work and show times behind them, I pictured the plate spinners teaching the opera singers that it’s all in the wrist, and the opera singers giving voice to the muted acrobats.

Then the lights came on and the show was over. It was time to put my coat on and head back.

Hate Your Socks

When we’re entangled, wrapped up
In our cocoon of denial
Blind men and deaf ladies
Neighbors, focused, wander by

They don’t see us dancing, dreaming
They can’t hear us laughing, screaming
Stroll below with perma grins
Oblivious to the bliss we’re in

Then your phone alarm goes off
And you get up and out of bed
The cone of warmth is broken, darn
It’s time to let the world back in

You start to think about the time
And what is next on your to do list
You’ve already disengaged
I’m getting cold, then mad, enraged

I hate the world, I hate the clock
I hate your phone, I hate your socks
Don’t put them on, just leave them there
Let’s live our lives, in here bare naked

We can order take out, we can
Make this room our hide out, we can
take our courses all on line
And skype and work remotely

Not a soul would miss us,
Okay, just our moms but they would
understand once we had told them
That we love each other madly

I know society would fail
If everybody did the same
Bridges wouldn’t build themselves
Gnomes wouldn’t stock grocery shelves

But can’t you just leave us alone
For we’re so insignificant
Don’t matter in the grandest scheme
Please carry on and let us dream

I hate the world, I hate the clock
I hate your phone, I hate your socks
Don’t put them on, just leave them there
Let’s live our lives, in here bare naked

Snow Days

The snow is finally melting-- at least this batch is-- and as with anyone who’s muddled though this past winter, I’m thrilled about spring’s debut, but I’m also a little sad. “What?!” you say? Before you hack at your computer screen with scissors, please hear me out. I actually enjoyed all the snow. Not because I’m a big cold-weather snow-person. To the contrary, I loathe being cold. But there were some very cool things about this past winter that I want to gingerly bring up before you pack it in, label it “The Worst Winter In Recent Memory” then shove it away in a shoe box under your bed.

Living out here as we do in the burbs, the snow stayed pristine and lovely for ages as opposed to you-know-where where it turns sooty, grubby and grey within 48 hours. Our snow gave us a bonus landscape that really was quite magnificent and remained visually awe inspiring for so long that every last one of us had to succumb to it’s beauty. We had no choice.

I loved that for a while—okay, a looong while—we lived not in our familiar town, but in an alternate version of our town. Dark green grass and brown mud took a hike for a while and we were left living in a stunning black and white portrait; stark yet beautiful. It was as if a surreptitious roving band of midnight art directors descended upon us, blanketed our world with soap flakes and glued cotton batting to every branch, and then took off, leaving a version of what we knew to be our town in it’s place for free. How lucky were we to be lifted out of the visually mundane with the added peace of mind that it would definitely end; that this is a limited run, and this snow will melt for certain.

I loved that we had to completely rethink our relationship with snow. It became more nuanced and complex as the weeks passed and the snow continued to pile up. In the past, we could chalk snow up to a brief dalliance or mad tryst, but this time we were forced into a more mature relationship with snow and had to learn to live with it and accept its shortcomings. Collectively, we all became more mindful of its demands and I for one learned a ton. I learned when to shovel after the snowfall and how not to wait too long-- the hard way. I became intimate with the turning radius of my car and appreciative of the design that goes into a good shovel. I learned that a six inch snowfall is nuthin.’ I learned to watch for the days that the air would rise above 32 degrees and what that square edged shovel in the back of the garage was perfect for. Like gardening, the snow had to be cultivated, cut back and groomed. It had to be cared for; nurtured and nudged.

For those of you in a long distance love affair with a beguiling Inuit Eskimo lass or on the fence about whether or not to move north, we got the chance to see what it would be like to live in Fargo, Anchorage or the Ukraine without actually having to move there to check it out. “No, thank you!” I can now answer with gusto should someone ever ask me if I might like to live there. “I had a brief taste back in 2011, and yes, I’m sure the answer is no. But thanks for asking.” How lucky we are to remove all doubt.

But the biggest reason I’ll miss the snow is the general kindness we were forced to hang on to long after we’d dismantled our holiday lights. Over and over again I danced with the stranger in the oncoming car, slowing down to navigate our single lane together. Many times a day I accepted the offer of “You first,” and as many times extended it outward. These gestures were often acknowledged with a quick flash of the headlights, or a small wave. But each time-- as with every conversation I had with my weary neighbors while out shoveling or breaking up the ice—I was reminded that we were in it together. That we were a team. Sure, chit-chat turned to grumbling early on for most, but it didn’t bother me. I listened politely and nodded in agreement as I looked around at the magnificent wonderland that had transformed our mini-mall parking lot or simple, little street and thought—wow, spectacular. How lucky are we.

Pleasing/Gone

Last night as I was sinking down
Floating into new sleep
I wrote the loveliest, richest poem
That none shall ever peep

I didn’t reach for paper
Nor for pencil, what’s the point?
My thoughts lingered like vapor
Which my pillow would anoint

It was a pleasing poem
And I smiled my inside smile
Knowing it would please you
As I wrote it without guile

But like the day, I let it go
They’re not all for preserving
Like when I’ve left my camera
Though the moment seems deserving

Sometimes a week can pass this way
Unworthy of remark
No news is good news as they say
From curled up in the dark

And so I’ll strive to make peace with
The poem that is gone,
As hours and friends who’ve flit and fled
Like fireflies on the lawn

Was it enough to know them?
Some things just aren’t meant for keeps
I hunger for desire
But want is thin and aching seeps

Some friendships aren’t conducive and
Like poems and steam dissolve
Wee hours can be elusive
Not the time for staunch resolve

Noble Crusade

Years ago when I was living on New York City's exquisitely blemished Lower East Side, I went to a colorful panoply of parties all year round. There were basement parties and rooftop parties, parties in gardens and on stoops. There were parties held in the back rooms of bars and restaurants because the hosts' apartments were too small to house more than four revelers at a time, and parties that spilled into hallways and staircases because the hosts didn't care that there was no room. The crowd I went with tended to live in cramped and occasionally squalid quarters. They had roommates-- sometimes two and three-- and slept on pull out couches, murphy beds, loft beds and in railroad apartment "middle rooms." Together we balanced plates on our laps and navigated common spaces the size of department store elevators. Not unlike the stateroom scene in "Night at the Opera," life was cozy, comical and we were used to it.

I lived on 9th Street between Avenues B & C, long before anyone ventured east of A. I moved in with a cartoonist whose ad I answered in the Village Voice newspaper. I never laid eyes on him and knew nothing about him before the day I saw the apartment, and even though my room had no closet and was too small to fit a twin bed-- 5' x 5'-- I took it. The kitchen had exactly enough room for a sink, bathtub and fridge, a hot plate, tiny table and two chairs. The toilet was located outside the apartment and half way down the hall. It was shared by other strangers living on my floor whom I never met or ever saw and I wisely chose never to imagine them; out of sight, out of mind.

When every so often I found myself at a party in a spacious apartment, it was a huge thrill. Walking into a giant apartment was like walking into a fairyland and I gasped as I marveled at the ability to walk more than two paces without bumping into furniture.

One chilly winter night towards the end of February, I recall ending up at a party on 14th Street in an enormous loft apartment with 18' ceilings. There was so much space with so many rooms-- 2 living rooms, 4 bedrooms, and a large, eat in kitchen!-- that I immediately suggested a game of Hide and Seek to anyone within earshot. I re-introduced the rules to ten or so eager campers and we scurried about laughing and squealing, giddy like children finally playing outdoors on the first day of Spring as we reveled in our ability to move around freely without hobbling layers of outerwear-- or walls-- to oppress us. Many of us hadn't played Hide and Seek for twenty years and I was thanked at the end for thinking of and organizing the game.

Guests continued to arrive in droves-- unwrapping themselves like presents-- and soon the party was amiably boisterous and bulging. I wandered from room to room thinking about how I would paint the walls and re-arrange the furniture if given the chance, when I spotted a guy holding a gallon sized zip-lock bag of something near the stove. He was of average height and build with one of those barrel chests like a pudgy William Holden except that his hair was shaggy, greasy, covered his ears and was a dull, tinny blonde without sun. His chin was weak and his nose, non-committal, and his skin appeared oily to the touch. I couldn't make out his eyes behind his thick, beige plastic aviator glasses that he wore without irony and with misfortune years before MTV's cabdriver character would plant the look in its viewers' gestalt. Sporting a slightly dingy, white v-neck t-shirt and baggy, olive green army pants, he was a sad sack in every way, and I watched him as he set the bag down and started rifling though the kitchen cabinets.

After a moment I moved closer and after a few more cabinet doors opened and shut, asked him, "Do you live here?" even though I was fairly certain I knew the answer.
"No," he said without looking at me, still focused on the task at hand.
"What are you looking for?" I pressed.
"Baking sheets," he said.
"Why?"
"I'm going to make cookies."

And with that he uncovered two baking sheets, pre-heated the oven, and handed me the zip-lock bag that was heavy with chocolate chip cookie dough.

"You're going to bake cookies?" I asked incredulously. The party was in full, deafening, cacophonic swing; there were beer bottles on every surface and it was after midnight.
"Yes," he said.
He was all business, no smiles.
"Right now at this party?"
"Yes."
I was flummoxed.
"Does the host know of your plan?" I asked.
"Nope." I thought for a moment. There must be something I was missing. Then it occurred to me, "Are there drugs in the cookie dough?" I asked.
"No," he said.
"So, you're just baking cookies for fun?" I asked.
"No. I'm baking cookies to meet women," he said.

Of course you are. Brilliant. I should have known. And I walked right into it. I laughed at myself as he spooned the dough onto the baking sheets, 2" apart as one does.

I said, "Because who doesn't want to talk to the guy baking fresh, homemade cookies at a party?"
"Exactly," he said.
"And does it work?"
"You tell me," he said and finally looked directly at me for the first time. He had either tried to shave or sort of quasi- didn't have to and his glasses lenses were smudged. I wanted so much for there to be something in his face, some visual hook that might make me want to kiss him, this cookie baking party man, but there was nothing there for me. I kept looking.

"Do you do this often?" I asked.
"Yes," he said and I believed him. He had clearly mastered the task at hand and as he single-mindedly went to work on the second sheet of dough, the mesmerizing smell of homemade chocolate chip cookies freshly baking began to waft out of context and out of the kitchen and through the cavernous apartment's labyrinth, reaching every corner and every nose; making everyone undeniably happier. The party's host finally wandered into the kitchen, appraised the situation and asked, "You making cookies?" To which the baker replied, "Yeah. I hope it's okay." "Cool," was the host’s blessing and then each man carried on as before.

People started to pop their heads into the kitchen and I could sense a show of sorts was about to begin. I hoisted myself up onto the deep counter, cozied up against the back splash and watched as girl after girl-- guys, too-- sauntered in to enquire about the incredible smell intoxicating everyone with thoughts of mother, home, and lazy, snowy days from childhood. He answered their questions, as he had mine, with the perfunctory duty of a busy research scientist being visited by a Girl Scout troop. He never touched a beer. And when the cookies were done, he scraped each one off the greased pan and onto a plate with purpose and finesse. Some guys wanted their freshly baked, right-out-of-the-oven cookies placed directly into their palms and ate them with reverence like over sized communion wafers. One girl found a thick wad of napkins and passed them out to the other ladies who made a big show of blowing on the cookies before coyly biting into them. Everyone thanked him and yes, the women talked to him. They reached towards him for more cookies and made alluring yummy sounds as they chewed. I watched him watch them and even saw him smile, but only once.

This guy was crafty; this guy was smart. He was self aware enough to know that he wasn't a looker and that he'd need some pretty good game to compensate if he ever wanted to get laid and that even his top game probably wouldn't cut it, so he came up with a plan worthy of an evil genius in a Saturday morning cartoon. I admired his pluck and I imagined the kind of life we could create together: Cookie Guy and Hide and Seek Girl. Yes, we met at a party and spent the rest of our lives in domestic, whimsical splendor, but I couldn't get past the aviator glasses with the double bar over the nose and the odd, patchy whiskers. Even as I gave him a shampoo, haircut and shave in my mind, then took him to get new frames, a clean T-shirt, and better fitting jeans, I knew it wouldn't work. He probably knew it, too. I wanted so much to be attracted to this guy, this ingenious baker with a heart of gold, and as I sat and ate a parade of warm cookies, I watched the women thank him and then wander away and out of the room, probably coming to the same conclusion I had and I wondered if that was why he didn’t smile more.

At 2am, the party was morphing into a different kind of beast and I was starting to feel sleepy and done. I slid off the counter and headed over to say goodbye. I told him that it was a pleasure to meet him and he told me his name was Wade. I said, “Well then, good luck, Wade,” and smiled but didn’t linger as I was less than noble. But I loved that he was committed to his gimmick and his boundless optimism made me root for him like the noblest of underdogs. I had high hopes that his crusade would yield fruitful results and that at least one of the women at the party would warm up to him. The night was still young to some, and Wade still had what looked like a batch and a half left.

Drunk Octopus

This is why I know we're all going to be okay. This very thing is evidence to me that we're going to weather whatever comes our way-- Armageddon, big brother, or slow and sloppy self-induced decay-- we are going to make it though to the other side. Why am I so sure? Because a drunk octopus wants to fight me.

The way I look at it, this kid didn't just look at a coat hook and see an octopus, she saw an octopus with his dukes up. (I'm deciding the mind in this case belongs to a female because it's something I would have done had I thought of it-- were I a steely-minded genius-- alas.) And she didn't just see an octopus itching for a fight, she saw nuance. She saw that the octopus isn't just hopping mad with crossed out eyes, but is also wasted, which anyone can plainly see because his eyeballs are askew.

That is what I find so extraordinary. We didn't see it plainly and she did. I've been looking at coat hooks my entire life and never saw what she did. I'm sure there are scads of industrial designers, architects, scientists and comedy writers who've been looking at coat hooks their entire lives, too, and never for a moment saw what she saw. But she did. And then she did something about it. Did she tell a friend? Did she write a note? No she bucked authority and proclaimed it in sharpie, there for all the world to see. She had a brilliant thought then made a mark and stood her ground. I want to kiss her. I want to hire her. I want her to rule my world.

She's got the combination of what I revere most in any person; imagination, a sense of humor and moxie. One's of little use without the other and to have all three will get you far. Well, maybe not far in our society, but far in her heart, I hope, and far in mine. Yes, she's a little impertinent to be sure, but so were Einstein, Julia Child and Joan Jett. As long as minds such as hers keep seeing things that no one else can see and inventing creepy vacuum cleaners that vaporize dirt into nothingness and hum-a-little-tune apps for cameras that are phones, hilarious websites like “Regretsy” and goofy noses on the sides of paper cups, we will have the necessary tools to get by and perhaps, yes, even thrive.

Because of all the joy that keeps coming my way like an IV drip—just enough to keep me going-- in bits and pieces and tiny morsels, I can’t fight you Drunk Octopus, even though I see that you’re hopping mad and at any given moment could surely come up with plenty of reasons to take you on. But I won’t, because I see your pain and in yours I recognize mine. Plus, I don’t want you throwing up on me. So, sleep it off, Drunk Octopus, and in the morning I’ll make you some eggs.

Sip & Stroll

The thing about buying a house is it's a crap shoot. You can look up the taxes and ask the realtor about the schools, you can eyeball the neighborhood-- scouting for bicycles and basketball hoops-- and make note of the grocery stores. (Sidenote: I once met a couple who said they chose Maplewood by taking the train out to various towns within a certain radius of Manhattan and the counted how many SUVs were in the parking lot.) So people choose Maplewood/South Orange for particular reasons and then cross their fingers, hoping for the best. We did that, too, my ex and I.

We bought the very first house we looked at, the only one we ever walked into. I fell in love with the arched doorways and the breakfast nook so we put a bid on it and eight days later, owned it. Within weeks we were friendly with our neighbors and within months knew most of the folks on the block. A year later we were gathering on random Fridays for BYO cocktails to unwind together and let the kids run around. A different family spontaneously offered up their back yard to host each month and, tah-dah, Blocktails was born. An eloop was formalized, a sign-up schedule was set and before long all the kids on the block were familiar with each others' play sets and sandboxes, basements and bathrooms. We were borrowing hedge clippers, recommending dentists and unintentionally creating a neighborhood vibe usually only dreamed of, or contrived for television sit-coms. But ours was authentic-- and as it turns out pretty common for Maplewood/South Orange-- and we grew to appreciate it's value.

One year around the holidays, we laughed with neighbors about decorating our entire house with no one scheduled to see it. We weren't hosting and neither were they so we decided to have a little dinner-crawl one night-- with a different course at each of our homes-- so that we could gaze at each other’s trees and validate all the exhaustive trimming. It was a rousing success, and before we knew it, other families wanted in on the action so the Holiday Sip & Stroll was born.

Eight years later, we've tweaked and finessed the Sip & Stroll to what it is today: an adults-only tour-de-force of punch bowls and hors d'eouvres-- we decided that dinner was for sissies and that heavy hors d’oeuvres would suffice-- culminating in an orgy of desserts and kitchen dancing. It kicks off the holiday season and sets the tone, or in some cases, the bar for other parties to come and for those of us not working in a company milieu, it's the one holiday party we can count on to attend or host if we chose at less than outrageous expense.

Babysitters firmly in place, we meet at the first house at 6pm for 2-3 hors d'oeuvres, beer and wine, etc. and usually a specialty drink of the host's choosing. The lights have been dimmed and the dress code runs the gamut from sequins to blue jeans so that no one feels over or under dressed. We greet each other as we unwind, with genuine hugs and lipsticked kisses. We drink our cocktails and pop canapes in our mouths for forty-five minutes then an old hand bell is rung and we throw on our coats and head out the door, thirty five or so of us meandering to the next house in winter's beautiful, brisk night. We do this four times until we reach the fifth house, where dessert and coffee is served and if the party is going to devolve into a bacchanalian free-for-all, it's usually here and now that it happens. I'm not saying that every year someone attempts the running lift in the last scene of "Dirty Dancing," but I'm not guaranteeing it won't happen either. Suffice it to say, a merry time is there for the taking.

This year was very merry. Some say we may have needed more cheese and/or bread based fabulous fifties hors d'oeuvres. Others hypothesize that it may have been due to the gaily colored leis passed out at the first-ever Hawaiian themed stop. We had been so well behaved at the first two stops but when "Mele Kalikimaka" came on we carved out a dance floor next to the dining room. Some were nudged towards the chicken satay while others gravitated towards the umbrella'd Mai Tais which may have accounted for why the dancing continued at the fourth stop where someone hi-jacked the ipod dock and replaced refined Christmas music with The Pogues. We bounced around their living room like erstwhile ska enthusiasts as table lamps were clicked off and the music was turned up. When the bell finally rang, we danced out the door to the fifth and final stop, taking with us the punch bowl of Mai-Tai dregs that we had no-so-stealthily absconded with from the third stop.

Fully in party mode, we continued where we left off, barely noticing the change of venue or feeling the sobering effects of the evening's crisp, brittle air circulating through our lungs now weak with laughter. We continued to talk, eat, dance and laugh into the wee hours, putting any garden variety five-hour wedding reception to shame. We caught up with old neighbors and introduced ourselves to new, then considered what they might be thinking of our jolly band of revelers and if they would wonder later on if they'd made a huge mistake by buying their house or had happened upon their shangri-la. I slipped into bed full of gratitude that I landed on this block where some are willing to dance while others prefer to chat, but everyone's happy to be there and everyone's got your back.