Marbles

Found a marble__ in my pocket

Lost the marbles in my brain

Found the nerve to__ tell you bye

Now it’s drivin’ me insane

Lost the will to__ let you hurt me

Found the reasons in my heart

Now I’m free to__ love another

Lost the know how where to start

(Chorus)

I used to worry that I’d lost you, expecting you to leave

Now I feel much better—I can finally breathe

I used to worry that I’d lost you, panic that you’d gone

Now I feel much better--  I’ve kept calm carried on

(Instrumental)

Lost the need and desperation

Found my wayward self-respect

Now I’m sleeping much more soundly

Have more ti-ime to reflect

(Bridge)

Youuuuuu didn’t treat me very well

Made my life a living hell

But my desires I couldn’t quell

IIIIIIIIIII couldn’t seem to pull away

At least not until today

When I found the voice to sayyyyyyyyy

I have to leave you, I have to leave you

Found a marble__ in my pocket

Lost the marbles in my brain

Found the nerve to__ tell you bye

I must have been insane

Lie Here

(Intro- sung/spoken)

Sometimes when I first wake up, before I open my eyes

I have a little chat with myself

I glance at the alarm clock then slowly realize

I should get up-- or I could put this morning on the shelf

The guilt sets in as I-I ask my conscience for permission

I can’t seem to stop this pen-chant for self-admonition

This goes back and forth for minutes though it feels like hours

Should I get out of bed,

or remain in my head.  I really need to shower

Why wouldn’t I stay asleep when I could be dreaming of you?

Why wouldn’t I stay in bed when there’s so very much to do?

(Song)

Let me lie here__Quietly thinking of you

Let me lie here__With so much to do

My eyes have just opened__I’m still in my bed

But-I can’t still the mem’ries__Of you in my head

It’s time to get up__Get-this show on the road

But-I can’t move a muscle__My heart is too heavy--  a loaaaaaad.

Let me lie here__With you in my heart

Let me lie here__Knowing not where to start

My lists are all waiting__With hands on their hips

But I can think only__Of your tender lips

It’s time to get moving__I really will try

But I keep on replaying__The last time we said--  good-byyyye

(Instrumental)

(Bridge 1)

The morning has come__And you’re far away

I’m left to imagine__What you’ll do today

My day has begun __Yet I can’t move an inch

Without your arms wrapping me__ Up in a clinch

(Repeat first verse)

(Bridge 2)

Oh-oh-oh let me lie here__ with you in my heart

Wrapped up in blankets and yearning

Let me lie here__ so far apart

Alone in my bed but so crowded by burning… desires

Let me lie here__Quietly thinking of you… mm-mmmm

Derby Queens

I wore leather and brought ear-plugs.  I expected a dark, smoky room.  I expected adults sitting on sticky beer-spilled seats, elbow-to-elbow and tough.  I expected swearing and loud shouting, fist-pumping and screams, but I didn’t expect what I found.  The Morristown women’s roller derby scene was charming.

Smack in the middle of Morristown proper is a large, covered, cinderblock building one story high.  It houses a roller derby rink or flat track as it’s called because it’s skated on a gym-type floor without banked sides.  The course itself is delineated by a single ½ inch rope taped onto the floor in a large oval with an island in the center.  In the center island wander various judges with clip-boards and whistles.  On the night I was there one judge was wearing candy striped socks and an apron over her skirt; another wore a pink tutu.  Out of bounds, along both ends—in their own folding chairs— sat families!  Parents, grandparents and children of all ages!  The lighting was bright, the mood was jovial and the entertainment was fast moving and fascinating.

The Jerzey Derby Brigade is two divisions of competitive skaters—varsity and JV-- comprised of area women, some of whom you would be surprised to find derby skating; some you wouldn’t.  The night of the season opener—they play April through November with summers off—the two divisions played each other.  Eighteen women took on one another in what was an educational and delightful early evening’s entertainment.   Captains Doom Hilda and Easthell Getty led off the game at 7pm sharp with stars on their helmets, which meant they were the jammers.  As such, they were saddled with the mission of skating through the pack then lapping as often as possible without being bulied to the ground or nudged out of bounds.  They wore fishnets and knee-pads with satin shorts and tight tops.  The captains were supported by co-captains Baked Beanz and Bruta Lee and flanked by team members in braids and pig-tails with and names like Anita Chainsaw, Inna Propriate, Assault Shaker and River Slam.  One of the girls had a peplum of lime green feathers along her backside and tattoos were too numerous to count.

As wacky as their outfits were, these girls wanted to win.  I watched coaches Beast Witherspoon and Syd Deuce call plays from the sidelines and when players were occasionally fouled, the offenders skated over to a row of elementary school-sized chairs designated the penalty box.  Parents, friends, and the children of these rough and rowdy women called out “Go Mommy!” from laps.  When the pizza order arrived-- slices sold for two bucks, as well as soda, chips and Derby Brigade T-shirts. 

One of the guys on the sidelines was particularly vocal, supporting one of the more wily skaters as she circled gracefully, earning points for her team.

“Do you know her?” I asked.

“That’s my girlfriend,” he beamed.

“Awesome.  What does she do when she’s not skating?”

“She teaches fifth grade.”

Of course she does, I thought.  Talk about blowing off a little steam.  I learned that the women are mostly between 20 and 40 years old, but that the oldest skater is in her late fifties.  I learned that there is an attorney, a government worker and a librarian among other 9-5 working-women and that most of them are moms.  I learned that his girlfriend Maggy Kyllanfall loves the game, which was clear to me by her steely focus and enthusiasm on the track.  I would have awarded her the MVP award.  He was clearly proud. 

He taught me that there’s no elbowing in the game and no pushing from behind.  The blockers can’t trip, kick or grab-- all things the delightful color commentators had said as they bandied on mics over a background of energetic rock music.  They did a terrific job of explaining the game to the audience every step of the way.  Their banter was playful and informative and I learned more than I ever could have imagined.  Then, at halftime, referees William Skatespeare, Hannibal Hector and Stud Muffin blew their whistles, the skaters cleared the rink and we readied ourselves for the half-time show.

This show was cast by what appeared to be the entire roster of dancers enrolled at the Peter Smith School of Irish Dance, established in 1956.  Out they pranced, dancer after dancer, resplendent in parade-worthy sequins and the curliest, bounciest hair you ever did see.  They high-kicked and hot-stepped to the friendly trill of accordions and Irish pipes and the smile never left my face.  Each class dazzled us with their fancy footwork and pristine choreography.  Each dancer’s costume was more colorful than the last.  The audience was roused to clap along and we did so, happily transported to our own Brigadoon, nestled in the middle of Morristown, during a women’s roller derby match; only in New Jersey. 

The second half of the derby concluded with the winners taking a victory lap and receiving hugs and flowers from their families.  By 8:30pm they were pulling up the tape on the floor as folks folded up their chairs and took little ones by the hand.  I folded my programs for the Jerzey Derby Brigade and Irish dancing.  Both were recruiting new talent and both seemed like a lot of fun, though tons of hard work and a big time commitment.  I considered this then concluded: Why choose when I can have both?  You bet I’ll be back.  Oh, I will.

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.

Broken

I’m broken__ and you can’t fix me

But we can hang out__ and we can do stuff

Go to museums__ and foreign movies

And recount stories that we read in the New Yorker

I’m broken__ no one can fix me

I’ve tried self-help groups__ and twelve-step meetings

I have a therapist__ and yoga teacher

My a-ccu-punc-tur-ist has also done his best___

(Chorus)

Oh, oh, I’m broken__  (She’s broke!)  No one can fix me  (Nu-uh!) __

You can try but I would think that you’ve got bigger fish to fry__

Oh, I’m broken__  (She’s broke!)  No, you can’t fix me  (Fucked-up!) __

But something tells me that you’re broken, too.

(Bridge.1)

All of my flower vases are chipped__

The edges of my mixing bowls_ are a little nicked

The paint job on my bicycle__ has rusted off

But I still ride it__ because I love it__ ‘cause it’s like meeeee – (broken)

My friends are broken__ at least the funny ones

They’re basket cases__ or alchoholics

They’re usually laughing__ when they’re not crying

If they weren’t broken then they might not be so fun

(Bridge.2)

My shirts are missin’ buttons__ earrings missin’ stones__

My comfy queen-size bed__ is missin’ moans__

I’m trying to get my ducks__ in tidy little rows__

And I am better__ but I’m sill broken__ la, la-di-daaaaaaa (broken)

(She whispers)

I’m broken__ and you can’t fix me

But we can wonder__ what it would be like

To love each other__ and be forgiven

Like all those other healthy people out there do  -- Yee-hoo!

(Repeat Chorus- sing last line 2x)

Disney Dream Nightmare

I know there are two camps of Disney folks.  Well, actually, probably more like three.  There are the hard core Disney fans; acolytes who would defend the Disney ethos-- it’s parks, movies, lifestyle, and cultural branding hegemony—‘til their last breath.  There are the revulsionists.  I made up that word but I think it pretty much illustrates the other end of the Disney spectrum.  And then there are the folks in the middle; the folks who think, sure, what the heck.  It’s an experience like any other and I have a kid who’s probably been pecked by the, “Have you been to Disney?” question a fair amount by now, so, why not try it.  I’ll do almost anything once.

And so we went.  I figured that third grade was a safe height for all the rides but still young enough to enjoy the luster of Walt’s gestalt, so I caved back in November.  Back before I could know that it would be the most glorious and temperate winter on record.  The concept of escaping a bitter and slushy Northeast March for Florida’s balmier climes was lost on my son and I felt like a dope for being there when the weather was certain to be better here, but the tickets had been purchased.  All of them, that is, except for the park entrance tickets.  No need to buy them ahead, I’d been counseled, as there were ticket windows as far as the eye could see plus a bank of self-serve vending machines.  Six minutes tops was one magical estimate and I believed it, because I wanted to believe in magic.

We first heard word of the electrical outage at the transportation station—the Ellis Island of Disneyworld—where one must wait in line for a ferry or monorail ride to take you to the actual entrance to the Magic Kingdom.  “Will we be able to buy tickets?” I asked while snaking for thirty minutes.  “Of course,” came the cheerful reply from the Disney Cast Member—as they’re all called, not employee.  But when we finally arrived, the vending machines were all still covered and the battery of ticket windows were dark and vacant.  Cheerful cast members herded us into what would be our longest line of the day, inching up to one of the seven Guest Services windows that did have electricity.  And when I say us, I mean all twenty or thirty thousand of us who had waited to buy tickets at the park.  It wasn’t pretty.

Okay, I thought, this is a real teaching moment for my sullen, pouting son; a chance to reminisce over how fortunate we are.  I mentioned that we had full bellies and a knapsack bulging with sandwiches, snacks and water.  I reminded him of how lucky we were to be here at all and plied him with promises of ice cream and Space Mountain.  But it meant nothing as we wilted in the hot, cloying sun.  Naysayers we couldn’t escape in line spoke shrilly of doomsday scenarios.  I tried to counter with games of I Spy and the Serenity Prayer, but he was despondent; and hot.  I even broke out the travel backgammon set I’d squirreled away for just such an emergency—not expecting to need it on the morning of our first day.  “I just want to go home,” was all he uttered.  And I couldn’t blame him.  Where was Tigger?  Someone send in the clowns!  Why weren’t cast members swooping in to placate us with popsicles?  Or palm fronds for shade.  Why not just open up the floodgates and let us in?  Wasn’t one day’s revenue loss worth a generation of great PR?  How could they not have a contingency for this?  They had one for everything else.

They didn’t because they’re not perfect.  And as my son finally broke down after 90 minutes and no end in sight, I had to admit that I’d failed him as well.  Had I chosen the wrong line?  Why didn’t we try another park?  We could have been on our way to Legoland but had already invested so much time that our journey seemed irreversible at that point.  I couldn’t think on my feet any better that Disney could and so I crumbled as well. 

We finally got in.  As we grinded though the turnstile the angry mob behind us grew fainter in the distance.  We sauntered off into that shadeless wonderland of ersatz hopes and dreams; off to get that ice cream.  Off to stand in more soul-crushing lines amidst a sea of parents who’s only simple aim was to bring their kids some joy; FastPasses simmering elsewhere; dignity back at the hotel.  Off to find our own version of an eight-year-old’s supposed idea of magic.  And we did. 

And then it began to downpour.