Warm Breezes, Cool City Vibes

Warm Breezes, Cool City Vibes

By Mike Lauterborn

© 2010. All Rights Reserved.

6/6/10

New York, NY – The advantage of living in one of the suburban areas surrounding New York City is the opportunity to shoot down to the Big Apple on a moment’s whim and take in any number of cultural experiences, sights and/or sounds. And even to see an old friend, one of over 1.6 million people that call Manhattan home and have stubbornly chosen to keep rooted in this often tough but always amazing place.

One early June Saturday was such a day. After browning myself at a nearby beach close to home along Connecticut’s southwestern shore, I motored in. The very southern tip of Manhattan is only 57 miles from my home, so at an average clip of 60 miles an hour, it takes less time to reach the city’s limits than it does to watch a morning news program. The air was heavy this day so my car windows were up, the A/C max’ed and the radio ticking off a summertime playlist.

I followed the mostly North-South running Interstate 95 from Connecticut into New York State, down through Westchester and into the Bronx, where 95 is briefly called the Cross Bronx Expressway. Robert Moses conceived of this stretch back in the 1940s and bulldozed a swath right through the middle of Manhattan’s sister borough and all the way over to the Hudson River.

Before the George Washington Bridge crossing, one has to hop off onto Route 9, which is the westernmost approach into New York. It was a beautiful – and fast – drive along this shore crest and boating traffic dotted the Hudson. The pace slowed up a bit at 59^th Street, which is where the traffic lights begin as well as all the piers that encircle Manhattan, which are home to tour boats and cruise lines and the floating museum U.S.S. Intrepid aircraft carrier.

This same area had been jammed with sailors, Marines and Coast Guardsmen a week before, during a period known annually as Fleet Week, when navy men and women have shore leave. They fill all the clubs and restaurants and streets with their mostly white uniforms and are usually full tilt in their gregariousness blowing off steam pent up at sea. But this day, it was just tourists milling about.

In its sporadic wisdom, city planners had built a long-stretching bike/pedestrian path along the length of this route, which was enjoying much activity from joggers, walkers, cyclists, rollerbladers, moms with strollers and other wheeled and non-wheeled outdoor enthusiasts.

Approaching the Financial District and the northwest corner of the former World Trade Towers site, I noticed quite a bit of progress had been made installing 1 World Trade (formerly called the “Freedom Tower”). This $3.1 billion skyscraper will rise 1,776 feet into the sky, feature an illuminated mast and taper into eight tall isosceles triangles, forming an octagon at its center. There will be an observation deck at 1,362, the height of the original Towers. Builders predict the structure to open in late 2013. Like the tripod-like aliens from the sci-fi thriller “War of the Worlds”, several massive cranes busily operated at the site, moving rebar and beams from one area to another.

Being careful not to get accidentally channeled into the Holland Tunnel, which would deposit me in Brooklyn, I curled right into the heart of the District and around to the other side of the site headed back northwards. Here, the site was not visible like the other side and surrounded by plywood mounted on fences. There was, however, an oversized photo showing an aerial view and a solid, virtually impenetrable concrete and steel core.

At West Houston Street, I hung a left to access one of my favorite neighborhoods in the city and popular Bleecker Street. After a number of minutes circling for a parking spot, I found one on Washington Place and docked my land cruising sedan. It was late afternoon at this point and things were really hopping. At the center of the hive, there was a street fair, running for several blocks west of 7^th Avenue South. Here, both sides of the road were clustered with vendors, of everything from food and jewelry to clothing and artwork.

“Two fo’ five dollah!” was the first cry I heard as I wandered over, from an Asian woman hawking smoothies. Directly across from her was an organic pizza vendor, and he was squawking, “Slices! One dollar! Ice cold water! All one dollar!” I liked the latter offer and for two dollars and eighteen cents, I was off and running with a bottle stuffed in a shorts pocket and a tasty slice curled up in and slightly sticking out of a paper plate. In this way, I started combing the wares on display.

I marveled at some sepia-toned photos. Listened to some old jazz tunes. Saw a woman strip down to a purple thong right there on the street to try on a skirt. The latter’s name was Angela, a cocoa-brown lass who said she was prepping to leave for Italy for a three-month visit.

One popular vendor had a display of Silly Bands. These are the very trendy bands that look like regular rubber bands when they’re stretched around your wrist but, when you take them off, they retain the outline of an animal or an insect or some other themed item. Kids love them, but so do adults. A woman visiting from Louisiana was selecting several packets – each containing 10 bands – which were being offered at $2/packet or three packets for $5. “Can we give this lady a Southern discount?!” I said to the vendor on this visitor’s behalf. She laughed, held up a couple packets and asked me, “Which would you go with – dinosaurs or zoo animals?”

I just had to buy a packet myself and chose sea life. The packet included seahorses, sharks, penguins, sea lions and dolphins, two of each. Stuffing the package into my pocket, I u-turned to follow my path back and my nose to a nearby grill, which was bedecked with chicken and beef kabobs. I got a beef kabob and a chunk of bread to go for the bargain price of $2.50.

Starting to near the six o’clock hour, vendors began dismantling their booths and stowing things in boxes, containers, suitcases and bags. The vendors that had operated grills were dousing water on the coals, sending steam up into the air.

A foursome hovered near a barricade, maps out, I LOVE NY t-shirts on. “You’re lost aren’t you?” I jokingly said. “How could you tell?” came the reply, as joking. “Where are you trying to go?” I inquired. “We’re trying to get to our bus… here,” this woman said, pointing to a spot marked “10”. I shared the route that I would take to get there and they seemed satisfied with that and thanked me.

Tugging with my teeth the kabob cubes off the wooden skewer, I kept walking, and eventually crossed back over 7^th Avenue South. I was now on a cocktail hunt and it was a toss-up between Caliente Cab Company and Sushi Samba. The latter, open to the air, pumping out samba tunes and featuring two scantily clad samba dancer hostesses in front, got my vote. I settled onto a long, cushion-covered bench seat and, soon, Alice the Asian waitress with her translucent eyes was taking my drink order. I would try a 22-ounce Asahi, which would both refresh me and keep me out of trouble for a little while. And it seemed appropriately priced and a good value at $11. The Asahi came ice cold and looked golden as Alice poured it into a tall, slender glass.

Beside me to the right, there was an Indian guy, Rob, who was part of a group of six just having cocktails before being seated for dinner. He and a female friend were visiting from San Francisco. He passed off a business card identifying himself as a product marketing manager for a silicone company and said he regularly hires freelance writers for technical writing projects and there might be an opportunity for me. Our heads swiveled for a moment as a very long-legged hostess passed through. “I’m very single!” he called, not quite after her, but perhaps loud enough so she might hear.

As Rob and his group were summoned to dine, an Indian couple, Pete and Jan, settled in. I decided to have some fun with them and had them close their eyes, pick from my hand an Animal Band at random and then pose for a photo. They were amused by this creation and slipped the bands onto their wrists.

Another trio dropped in, this group directly across from me, led by Zed, yet another Indian guy and visiting from Boston. “I like an American who knows good beer!” he called across to me, noticing the bottle of Asahi. He and his girl pals seemed like good sports so I had them do the Silly Bands selecting, too. They were delighted with their choices, and held them up and compared them.

Alice suddenly appeared with a large bottle of Duvel Belgian beer, which Zed had treated me to, unbeknownst to me. It was a big-hearted and thoroughly unexpected gesture and I shared the contents with him, refusing to drink alone. We toasted and wished each other luck, with promises of getting in touch through Facebook.

An excellent breeze that had kept things cool kicked up outside, pitching back and forth a paper lantern that hung from an awning out front and glowed orange. Above it was a Brazilian flag, which flapped and rustled.

A private party, that had been going on upstairs, concluded and the party guests – the ladies in their short skirts and high heels – stepped down a curling open stairway into the main room. Some stayed on but most exited as the place continued to fill up and the wait for tables grew lengthier. At the back of the room, the wall holding all the bottle displays glowed red and a pattern of circles on the ceiling above the area where the food prep was occurring glowed pale yellow.

More guests rolled in, including leggy Misty, her cohort Doshia and Doshia’s brother Carl. The three said they were “on rotation”, going from place to place without a real plan. Misty, an attractive black woman with very long legs, said she was visiting from Dallas. She spoke about the new stadium there, even showed me a few photos and remarked about the famous Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. “Boots should be brown or black, not white,” she opined. Fair enough, but who was looking at the boots?!

They became receivers of Silly Bands, as did the lovely Mariana, who had spent much of the day apartment hunting with a roommate to be. The part Chinese/part Hispanic woman had seen 10 places and was preferring the Upper West Side. I put her on the horn with my friend Nikki, who was up in that area and whom I thought could help provide guidance.

Nikki was actually an old high school friend who, believe it or not, I hadn’t seen in over 25 years. We had reconnected through Facebook and would be meeting shortly up in her neighborhood. As it was about time to start heading up there,

I bid adieu to my new collection of friends and stepped out into the night air – tropically warm, long tan legs everywhere, bright lights, a cacophony of sound and hustle of traffic.

Just around the corner, two women were perched on a stoop, sharing a square of cake. I bent close, they looked up and the nearest one said, “Would you like some?” And some say New Yorkers are not friendly. I gladly accepted a pod of the sweet confection, bid them a good night and hopped in my sedan for the cruise uptown.

Again, like any busy summer Saturday night in New York, parking was an issue. After circling for a time, I pulled up in front of Soldier McGee’s, walked in and, though it had been eons, immediately spotted and summoned Nikki. It seemed as if we’d seen each other yesterday the way the encounter went down. She was elegant in her long black summer knit dress, which contrasted the pool stick she had firmly in hand as she ran a nearby table.

I explained that I was double parked and she called over to a firefighter friend, “Danny! This is my friend Mike. He needs a place to park. Can you help him out?”

Danny sprang into action, I followed him out, we shuttled in my car to his own just up the block, he grabbed a firefighters’ parking placard and we took a spin around the corner to the firehouse where he’s employed. “Here, pull up here and put this on your dash.” It was the second big-hearted gesture of the evening and I was greatly appreciative, rewarding the act with a beer as we stepped back into the lively tavern.

Nikki introduced me to her boyfriend Keith, then friend Christy as well as Marion, Christy (who was sporting a finger cast and told an amusing story of catching the digit in a shirt), the bartender, assorted staff and even security. “Put Mike on our tab,” said Nikki to the beautiful, dark-haired Israeli-born bartender. “She’s married but we’re the only ones that know. Everyone thinks she’s single. She gets better tips!”

Soon, a quesadilla appeared, which I sliced up into squares and offered around. I also watched the pool play, and Nikki’s accidental but effective skills. She took down player after player as we caught up on the span of years that had passed since our tender days at Scarsdale’s Edgemont High School.

Folks streamed in and out at a regular clip in this high-ceilinged establishment, which had a large flatscreen mounted at one end that was marked “Barfly TV”. One visitor that stood out was Yani, a Dominican-born woman from Washington Heights who was out with a friend. We both knew enough of each other’s language to communicate, though the friend would step in periodically to help with a translation. She had a long stemmed rose in front of her, which a vendor that had visited the bar had passed off.

Midnight then one o’clock ticked by and I was starting to feel the length of the day. It was going time, I bid my goodbyes to all, shuffled to the firehouse to collect my steed and made the speedy trek back to my oceanside Connecticut home. It had been a fine day in “The City” and I would hold closely the images and snippets of chat that I had experienced. 

Bottoms in Pits and Bolts from Above

Bottoms in Pits and Bolts from Above

By Mike Lauterborn

© 2010. All Rights Reserved.

6/1/10

Post Memorial Day Weekend, Penfield Beach, Fairfield. The debris and bric-a-brac from frolicking families has been tractored away and trash cans and recycling bins emptied of their contents. Still, I watch as a black bird hops from trash vessel to trash vessel hunting for scraps.

The air is quite heavy and humid, foretelling a forecasted thunderstorm. For now, the skies are cloudless and blue. There are only a handful of sunbathers here today… a black-haired single woman in a bright yellow bikini, browning herself. An English woman with leathery skin who may hold the record for never having missed a beach day. A mom with a couple of elementary schoolers.

Off to the right of a tall, pilotless lifeguard chair, with “Keep Off” sprayed on it in red stenciled letters, is a happy trio. The lead of the triad is a young woman with crystal blue eyes and black hair tied back in a ponytail. Her light blue bikini loosely covers her female bits, but only just barely hides a small tattoo just below her bikini line on one hip. She, too, is evenly browned, apparently having enjoyed the sun (or a tanning bed) consistently.

“Kay” is a nanny and in her charge are two children, Clara, a curly-topped tot in a pink polka-dotted one piece, and Jack, a busy lad of 4 ½. Kay is a Norwalk Community College student and working towards a degree in Child Care --- appropriately enough. She has supervised these children for two years now.

“Where is everyone?” I ask, setting up my low-sitting, colorfully striped beach chair. Kay shrugs and smiles. At first, I’m not sure if she speaks English, but then she responds to a question about the kids.

“Hi!” says Clara, all of two and toddling over to look at me wide-eyed. She’s still an unmolded piece of clay, unjaded and curious about the world.

“Are you going to go in the water?” asks Jack, taking a break from building what he tells me is a castle at first, then, after more thought, “A Batcave.”

Jack asks where I live and I tell him walking distance from the beach. He says he can walk to his house from the beach, too (Compo Beach in Wesport).

“Hi!” Clara says again, appearing for a moment beside us then taking interest in a shell.

“You want to build something?” asks Jack.

“Let’s dig a hole that you can sit in,” I suggest. He likes this idea, fetches a bright green toy shovel for himself and a light green toy garden hoe for me. We start to dig, with me using my hoe like a crane and effecting crane sounds.

We make good progress and Clara takes interest, coming to stand at the lip of the expanding pit, sending a waterfall of sand into the hole with her toes.

“I’m getting in,” says Jack suddenly, and plops in, clearly thrilled. Kay ambles over at that moment and asks, “Do you want us to bury you?”

“You can put some sand on my belly,” says Jack, compromising. I take a small handful of sand and drop it onto his stomach, making a ptthth sound as I do it. He giggles.

I do it twice more before Kay squats near and, with a sweep of her arm, shifts a pile of sand from the side of the hole into the hole and around Jack’s right side.

“We’re going to bury you then you can go and wash off, ok?” she says.

Jack’s in for the challenge and, together, Kay and I pile the sand around and on top of him. I fill in right around Jack’s shoulders while she covers his middle and legs.

“Do you want your feet covered too?” Kay asks Jack.

“OK,” Jack concedes. Kay leaves all but his toes sticking out. Clara helps as well, contributing a small handful or two of sand.

“OK, now you have to get yourself out,” announces Kay, after snapping a quick photo with her camera phone.

Jack grins as his arms and legs pop out of the sand cast, but he’s not so quick at freeing his middle.

“C’mon, where are those super-human powers?!” jokes Kay. He laughs and tries harder. Then he finally frees himself.

“Sand monster!” I cry as Jack gets to his feet, showing his sandy body.

“OK, go wash off!” Kay tells him, and down to and into the water he goes.

Kay wades in with Clara as well, and I follow suit.

“See any horseshoe crabs?” I say to Jack, looking down into the murky greenish water.

“Uh-uh,” replies Jack. Then, “It’s cold.” Jack retreats up onto the sand, Kay tows Clara, and I follow behind.

Kay notices Jack’s back is a little red. We wonder if it was the roughness of the sand or if he’s gotten a little too much sun. Kay’s maternal instincts kick in. “We should go.”

I suggest Kay just put his shirt on him, which she does but also begins packing up. By this point, the foretold storm clouds have begun creeping in, so perhaps her timing is good anyhow. Still, I’ve enjoyed their company and will miss their interaction.

When they are all set, we say our goodbyes. These continue as they shuffle off across the sand, with the kids waving and calling back “Bye!” and “See you later alligator!”

“In a while crocodile!” I respond, waving back.

As they disappear down a stone stairway behind a seawall to the parking lot beyond, there’s a rumble and single flash and crack of lightning that shoots down from the now-swirling dark gray/blue crowds.

The spike encourages others to pack up and, soon, I do the same, retreating, however, up under the overhang of an adjacent pavilion. My new location at a blue metal picnic table affords a view of Long Island Sound, which had been quite tranquil but is now choppy as the storm kicks up.

The grayness crept up over the pavilion like an ominous force and then the pit, pit, pit of raindrops could be heard spatting on the roof overhead.

I watch the mass move over the ocean and, curiously, around the little lighthouse about a mile off shore. Just a small patch of white sky remains around the beacon, like a halo almost, a safe haven defending itself from this devilish stalker.

I had seen both Mother Nature and human nature at work here today, and looked forward to my next beach excursion.

Dancin' in the Street

Dancin’ in the Street:

Broadway’s Dance Parade Spectacular

© 2010. All Rights Reserved.

5/31/10

Stamford, CT – It was a recent Saturday and I was bound from Fairfield to New York’s Grand Central on a 10am Express train. The rocking motion sloshed the bacon, egg and cheese sandwich in the pit of my stomach that I had gobbled down in the wee hours of the a.m. I hoped it would sustain me for a while given that I would be padding about quite a bit in a short while taking in all the sights and sounds of Dance Parade, a parade down Broadway featuring over 6,600 dancers of all different styles and backgrounds.

In the quad of seats with me were three Turkish ladies – Esra, Zeynep and Ece. Two of the three, Esra and Ece, sisters, were dressed in light linen pants and tops with colorful headscarves. Esra’s scarf had a colorful floral print with sky blue and orange hues; Ece’s was more subdued but with a world map on it.

Noticing the common first letter “E” in the sisters’ names, I asked if they had other siblings with names that also began with the same letter, but, alas, no. Their scarves signaled their Muslim affiliation. Zeynep was also Muslim, but did not wear the traditional garb, just simple cotton pants and a v-neck sleeveless tee.

They were happy and chatty and looking forward to shopping and eating Turkish food. I told them about my destination, and that it would initiate at 21^st Street and conclude at 8^th. They were intrigued and thought they might include the event in their plans.

In the group of seats to my left on this very crowded a.m. train was another chatty bunch – “The Magnificent Seven”. These young ladies – Peggy, Marilyn, Mary Anne, Jackie and Carolyn – had been friends for 42 years, growing up and raising their families together in Rocky Hill, CT. Today, they were headed for the Highline on Manhattan’s West Side. Running from Gansevoort Street in the Meatpacking District to 34^th Street, this elevated railway has been morphed into a park with natural flora.

The ladies were busy programming each other’s phone numbers into their cells, in case of separation. After the park visit, they planned lunch at the Park Restaurant at 10^th and 18^th Street and to take in an opera, “H.M.S. Pinafore.”

Coming as news to the group, Peggy announced that she’d never been to an opera. “There’s a first time for everything,” I noted, mentioning that my own father had recently learned to surf in Hawaii. “I’ve been to Hawaii seven times,” said Carolyn at the mention of our 50^th state. “Next year will be my eighth.”

The train pulled into Grand Central, doors slid open and passengers tumbled out. I joined the stream and inched along, streaked through the main terminal and found my way to the Shuttle. The Metrocard machine wasn’t giving change and there was no attendant to help, so a few of us in the same dilemma breached the turnstile to access the train. It was packed to the gills like classic sardines in a can, but there was one seat open and I slid in.

Seated to my right were two young ladies all dolled up. To my immediate right, Chelsea Newman, 19, a brunette in a peach top and jeans, had the most perfect French manicured toenails and fingernails and I remarked on that. There was purpose to their perfection: she and her statuesque friend Kaitlin Gould, 20, dressed all in black, were promotional models and headed to an art gallery to serve as hostesses. We were headed in the same direction so teamed up on the 1 Train downtown to our respective stops.

I hopped at 23^rd and, in moments, after taking a snapshot of an Indian woman’s feet (long story) who helped me with directions, I was in the company of new friends Veronica Vixen and Aaron Garoovy. They were my rendezvous contacts for the Dance Parade and waiting for me at Benvenuto Café on 23^rd and Broadway. With them were fellow dancers Amy Irish and Deanne Wood. We staged some collective photos in front of the salad bar then hit the streets.

En route, we encountered the flamboyant Jenna AKA “Motorboat” and “Rocket Girl”. They were from the Big Apple and part of a group called the Electric Bubble Bus. “We’re freestylin’ it!” they said. “Dangerous moves!”

In a pocket between Broadway and 5^th, we found a main herd of dancers and hoopers and stiltwalkers all warming up. Among them were the New York City Flaggers, with colorful silks; red, white and blue clad Cheer New York; Broadway Bodies (all levels dance studio); the just-christened pink flamingos led by pink-haired Yuko; Zouk Nation (Brazilian); the Cape Ann Center for Dance from Gloucester, MA – nine girls ages 13-17 in sparkly silver mini dresses; Samba New York; Samba Freak Dance and Fitness with two locations in Manhattan; Eidolon Ballet; Brooklyn’s Neville Dance Theatre contemporary ballet with a focus on ethnic and folk dance; Amy Marshall Dance Company (dressed in old-style bathing costumes); Martha Graham School of NYC (the oldest contemporary dance studio in America); and the Manhattan Tribal Belly Dancers.

There were so many colors, faces, sounds, styles, persuasions and influences here – a veritable explosion of culture and nationalities… internationalities more aptly, as dozens of countries were represented – China, Hawaii, Peru, India, Korea, Ecuador, Puerto Rico, Colombia, Africa, etc. Of course, one would be remiss without mentioning all the blends of peoples lining Broadway soaking everything in.

“Only in New York,” a Trinidadian fellow with a Caribbean lilt remarked. Too true.

Among all the organized dancers, there were others marching to their own tune, like a duet in NASA-like silver Mylar with a placard “Just Solar Powered”, jamming on a rock guitar and promoting the alien-like website “JustLanded.org”. Or the guy in the superhero costume with “United We Dance” written in marker on his belly. Or the duo staging an obvious protest against city government with signs like “Worst Mayor Ever.” Or the three ladies with green frizzy wigs, green-toned outfits and tambourines calling themselves the “Art Car Wash.” Or the real-life Tinkerbell with mesh wings on her back and a green tutu. Or even the senior citizen stiltwalker holding a tiny green seahorse and calling out, “My horse is too small!” In reply to this cry, a response from a member of the crowd, “Baby, where ya’ been all my life?!”

A group of swing dancers in 40s style get-ups swung each other about. On their heels, the Samba group, then some freestylers with feather dusters and rocks in striped socks, making for a bizarre cacophony of imagery and sound.

Argentine Tango dancers in slick nightlife outfits did an elegant number in front of Andy’s Deli at the corner of 18^th. They were chased by Latin dancers from Stepping Out Studios.

Of course, there were my hoops pals, with Veronica mid-pack hoopin’ her heart out. Did she know there was a 3-wheel bike behind her pulling a cart upon which was erected a stripper pole? And that adhered to the pole was a scantily-clad young lady doing some very impressive acrobatics? About the sight, a disapproving grumble from an elder woman in the crowd, who felt the need to declare, “That’s so not appropriate. There are young children in the crowd, and that woman’s half naked.” Hmm, I don’t remember this being billed as a family event… and if there are Samba dancers anywhere in the pack, you’ve got to expect some skin.

The crew calling themselves “Stage Stars” seemed pretty resourceful. A hand-scrawled sign on the side of the U-Haul pickup they were being led by said, “Our car broke down and this is all we could get.”

It wouldn’t be a real parade without drums, tubas, flutes and horns and a school group from Brooklyn filled in that gap – pursued by two toned black men in drag shaking their hot cross buns.

A very wild group of mismatched revelers billed as House Coalition wiggled through with Mardi Gras beads, dogs, a priest, naughty school girls and other “freelancers”.

Kat and Gabby, both 21, from Long Island, were catching the final leg of the parade. They had trained it into NY to support Pacha, a nightclub on the West Side, by the U.S.S. Intrepid. They claimed to be patrons – “not much, but we go there” – and called out to friends. At the same time, they cast a few critical barbs: “Put some clothes on, girl!”

Did I have to remind them that dance is about interpretation and, often, skin? There’d been a lot of beautiful skin to behold here. So, you think you can dance? If so, I’ll look for you next year!

Take That and Wind It Back

Take That and Wind It Back:

Stamford’s Battle of the Bands

© 2010. All Rights Reserved.

5/31/10

Stamford, CT --- Tigin’s Irish Pub, Stamford, a recent Friday night. A modest crowd warms up to the night with pints of Arrogant Bastard and Guinness, and clear cocktails with slivers of lime bobbing in them. Drum-accented tunes spill from an overhead speaker. Tattered copies of a regional weekly, “The Irish Emigrant”, lay carelessly on speckled bar counters. It was the calm before the storm – a brewing Battle of the Bands wherein a dozen musical acts would be competing at bars around the city for a coveted spot on the popular Alive @ Five summer concert roster.

The carrot-mopped bartender busily moves from tap to tap, like a drone gathering pollen from flower stalks. Chatter and laughter fill the air. Posters and flyers advertising world cup soccer, an international passion, adorn walls. Amongst these, a wooden placard: “Smoke Walnut Plug, made in Cork.” The suggestion makes me think of my dear departed grandmother Julia Marie O’Brien and I give a nod and raise a toast in her honor.

I’m joined by new friends Aaron and Veronica, who slip in beside me at my high perch. Recognizing V’s petite build in contrast to the ridiculously high counters that dwarf her, I place a stack of weeklies on a stool to give her a boost. She hops up and we decide the paper has never enjoyed a better audience!

They notice I’m scribbling my notes with a cheap hotel pen, about which I inform them: “The cheaper the pen, the rounder the point, and the happier I am.”

Eyeing a curious roulette wheel, which I dub the “Wheel of Forture” (Torture and Fortune merged), on the far side of the room, I give it a spin. Eons pass before it stops rotating and comes to rest on “$50 tab.” In the ideal world, I’ve won this offer, but am not sure how to collect.

Not surprisingly, V caught the immediate attention of the bartender and ordered a urine-colored concoction called Palm. It reflected its hue, smelling of wet carpet and tasting of lemon rinds. We cast it aside and checked on the show timing of the featured band, Tuna Fist, not to be confused with the deli sandwich of a similar name. Unfortunately, they weren’t going to be on until 10, which wasn’t aligning with our current scheduling.

So off we went on walkabout, power walking to Hula Hanks, which Aaron had dubbed “Hula Skanks”, certainly a home of short skirts, generous cleavage and 80s beats.

Tiffany Escobar was holding court at the bar and sipping a drink called a Fishbowl. She was unsure of its ingredients but we could say with confidence that it was in a fishbowl-shaped glass, blue (like antifreeze), full of ice and had three wedges of fruit affixed to its rim: an orange, a lemon and a lime. The latter reminded me of the images you’d see displayed in the window of a one-armed bandit in a casino. I remarked that it would have been better (and maybe there would have been a payout) if there were three oranges or three lemons instead! “A triple threat!” said Tiff, a doe-eyed beauty of Portuguese/Columbian stock in a low-dipping mini dress.

Tiff was joined by her diminutive friend Noor. “Say goldfish!” I said, with reference to the fishbowl drink, as I snapped a picture of them.

Kelly and Laura (or Leslie or Stephanie – she was reluctant to reveal her true identity) were perched at a nearby table taking in the scene and not down with the featured band, The Rhodes. They preferred the usual pop house music. In contrast, Aaron, Veronica and I felt inclined to jump right onto the small dance floor in front of the band and dance like the free spirits we are. We shimmied and wiggled with abandon, enjoying the jamming tunes. This was our first band encounter and so far they had our vote.

It was Heading Out time and we had cowbells to smack, so we took a sharp left out of Hula Hanks and padded up to the Black Bear Saloon to enjoy the musical buffet of Psycho Magnet. We three literally dove right in, throwing inhibition on the tracks and engineering our dance floor locomotion, boogying to “My Own Worst Enemy.”

The suds were flowing at the bar but the drafts were pegged a little steep. Time to bargain. “Can I get a $5 draft for $3 if I write about Bear Grill?” I inquired of the bartender. The response: A chuckle, a point at a tap handle, a pour into a plastic cup – even a transfer into a pint glass… and top off… then another point and smile as I received my libation. Shoot, hit, score! The evening had gained true traction.

An Amaretto di Saronno slipped from a hand nearby and crashed to the floor in a spray of ice and liquore. “That’s alcohol abuse!” a bystander observed. The offender saw my notepaper scrawl and said, “You have excellent handwriting for a man!” She would know… she’s a handwriting teacher. Still, I said, “I never really learned to write script. I mostly write in block letters!”

A Hispanic quartet, headed up by Helen the Brazilian, strolled in at that moment “Boa Noite!” I said. “Now the party can get started!” I steered them to the dance floor.

Bradford’s up on Bedford became the next destination. Upstairs, the band Ten Feet Deep was entertaining the masses, who were, coincidentally, ten feet deep at the bar. The group’s licks were keeping the crowd calm.

In the pack at the bar was Ecuadorian beauty Gabby Valdez, surrounded by family and celebrating a cousin’s birthday. Sipping nonchalantly on a Bud Light, she was unaware of “The Battle”, but intrigued.

It was Moving On time again, first to feed the coin gobbler at the parking lot, then to wander to SBC to meet my misplaced two-thirds, V and A. They reported that a band called Consonance was playing there. I would bring the vowels. But not before a return to Tigin to catch Tuna Fist, which we’d missed earlier.

“Pretty good for a bunch of old guys, right?” the lead singer asked, launching into “Living on the Edge” before a now-full house of inebriated revelers. Lights flickered across them in the tight little space into which they’d been herded.

Again I set off for SBC but encountered en route the Brazilian quartet from the Black Bear, and was kidnapped to Butterfield 8 Restaurant & Lounge on Bedford St. Here, the band Cadillac 9 was jamming and suddenly the Coronas were flowing and limes were squirted and bodies were slamming…

Well, suffice it to say that I never did manage to reconnoiter with the other half of my team, nor make it to see the other half-dozen bands around the city, which would have been a tall order anyhow. Unfortunately, this included missing The Woulda Shoulda Couldas who performed at Bobby Valentine’s on Main Street and captured one of six semi-final spots awarded in this first-round bands battle.

I guess we will have to once again gather up the forces to stage another assault on this fair city and be more committed (and less distracted) next time in supporting these musical units. So adieu until the next skirmishes are staged.

Semi-final contests between six bands chosen by the Stamford-Downtown Battle of the Bands organizing committee will perform at street fairs on Bedford Street during three Saturdays in June; two will play each date and people will vote on their favorites. For more info, visit www.stamford-downtown.com