First Shots Fired

First Shots Fired

By Mike Lauterborn

© 2010. All Rights Reserved

6/13/10

New York, NY – The Colonies vs. the Mother Country. The Stars and Stripes vs. the Union Jack. The Brits vs. The Yanks. Two countries divided by a common language.

Of what do I speak? The much-hyped, opening round Group C World Cup soccer match between England and the United States. The viewing spot? Johnny Utah’s at 51 W. 51^st Street between 5^th and 6^th Avenues. Event features? The game shown on two giant 15-foot HDTV screens. $3 Coors Light specials throughout game time. A mechanical bull (Manhattan’s first) in a circular padded pit. The Coors Light girls and their various hat, keychain and t-shirt giveaways plus a raffle to win an official soccer jersey. A Western-themed menu with dishes that include sandwiches like “The Buffalo Bill”, salads like the appropriately named “Red, White and Blue” and slow-cooked baby back ribs. The site had all the key elements for this brilliant showdown.

“Join Us At 2:30 For the World Cup Games” invited the colorful handwritten message scrawled on the poster board sign right outside the entry to this Big Apple anchor. Like miners, visitors step down a level through a shaft-like stairwell to emerge into a 6,000 sq. ft, comfortably furnished room. At one time a vault for an Italian bank, the space features a horseshoe-shaped bar to the left, the aforementioned giant screens straight ahead and various tables and seating enclaves throughout the room. At the center is the bull pit (the bully pulpit?!).

Right off the bat (the foot? the head?), the leggy Coors Light girls provided a big welcome, some refreshing pints and free headwear. Also shuffling in at that moment to create an immediate anchor were six youthful lads, obvious USA fans decked out in red, white and blue hats, flags and wristlets. They were a hearty bunch and ready for action, with a reserved table directly in front of one of the big screens.

There was truly a buzz in the air, as well there should be given the history of this classic match-up. For the first time since 1950 and only the second time in any World Cup, these two teams were facing each other. The last time they met, the U.S. recorded a 1-0 victory in a match played in Brazil, a game arguably considered one of soccer’s greatest upsets. The location of today’s game was Royal Bafokeng Stadium in Rustenburg, South Africa.

The action commenced after the playing of Britain’s national anthem “God Save the Queen” then our own “Star-Spangled Banner”. The latter received the louder cheers from the room given that a good three quarters of fans gathered here were behind the U.S.

No sooner had the first foot connected with the ball than England registered the first score. In fact, if you blinked, you missed the goal, which came only four minutes into the first half when England’s captain Steven Gerrard put one past U.S. goalkeeper Tim Howard. A group of England fans down in front of one screen erupted in cheers and fist pumps.

“Go back to England!” was the good-natured cry from a U.S. fan at the back of the room upon hearing these cheers.

In this subdued moment, the Coors Light girls pulled a winning raffle ticket and awarded the official U.S. jersey they had been touting. The receiver was Mike Malafronte, 22, from Oakdale, NY, who was onsite with girlfriend Amanda Mueller, 21, from Dix Hills, NY. The latter had a U.S. flag imprinted on her cheek. Asked how they happened to be at Johnny Utah’s, Mike said, “We heard about the 15-foot screens, the bull and no cover… and this is close to where our friends live. All my friends are at the bar.” Amanda added, “And my cousin and her friends are here, too!” nodding toward a table of nine along the back wall, from which the “Go back to England” shout had emanated.

On the field of battle, America’s men in blue and all the Queen’s men in white resumed their fierce fight, driving the ball up and down, accompanied by a constant drone of horns and shouts from rabid fans. A shot, a miss, another shot, a miss. An English player’s foot rammed into Howard’s chest. (Howard would ultimately be responsible for six saves)

The crowd here mirrored the fan excitement at the stadium, with irreverent cries and taunts, claps, yells, “USA” anthems and other related jeers and cheers.

Johnny Utah’s Event Director Cheryl Goff, fresh from a conference call and running around with a mobile device, made an appearance. She had expected a good midtown crowd hungry for some mid-afternoon entertainment. Her hopes were realized as more and more people flowed into the space and took up any and all available seats.

In the 40^th minute of the game, Team USA leveled the playing field with a shot punted in by Clint Dempsey, making him only the second American ever to score in two World Cups, joining Brian McBride. The shot actually bounced off U.K. goalkeeper Robert Green and rolled into the net behind him.

“That was a sh** goal!” commented Alex, the restaurant’s tech director and mechanical bull operator. Though not impressed by Team USA’s performance, he was impressed by the size of the crowd. We agreed that the team match-up was the draw. We also agreed that, while the last goal was a cheapie, “It’s not how you get there, just that you get there.”

The aforementioned table of nine at the back of the room didn’t have a problem with the goal and were glad America had been able to tie the sides. The group hailed from Chicago, IL; White Plains, NY; Philadelphia, PA; New Jersey; and Manhattan. “We’re all American and that’s what matters!” said the group’s most boisterous member, Spenser Shumaker, 22, representing from Philly. “We’re the greatest nation in the world!” added the outspoken USA fan.

Upon closer investigation, I learned that half the group had studied abroad in Galway, Ireland, while the other half went to Penn State. It was group member Drew Batton, 23, from Manhattan that pulled them all back together for this event. “I researched game sites… Johnny Utah’s seemed very American.” Shumaker weighed in again to add, “I like the big screens, loud people and the mechanical bull!”

With the sides tied 1-1 at the half and calm reigning for the moment, I went and visited with the initial group of “youthful lads” that I had encountered upon first arriving. They had been joined by five beautiful ladies from Miami, who had apparently flown in on a private jet provided by one of the ladies, Sophia Alvarez. The ladies, with the exception of one from Israel, were all Hispanic, representing Panama, Columbia, Venezuela and Portugal. At the same token, the guys were all New Yorkers, with the exception of one guy from Miami. Perhaps the funniest part was that the ladies were all U.K. fans while the guys were all USA fans – a true Battle of the Sexes taking place!

How did they all know one another? “We’ve all had sex with each other!” said the most outspoken member of the group, though all were over the top, having lots of fun, with testosterone and estrogen levels pushed to max settings.

I checked back in with Spenser from Philly to get his perspective on the game thus far. “Are we going to make it through this?” I asked him, with reference to Team USA. “We’ll be fine, we’ll make it through,” he said, the flag tattoo on his cheek and Uncle Sam hat on his headed glinting under a pinspot.

When Nature calls, as it often does (particularly when the Coors Lights are coming fast and furious), Johnny Utah’s provides a facility called the Outhouse – communal, wood-walled stalls. On the way, you can eyeball a secluded space called The Vault, which is a private party room accommodating 12-20 people at a banquet table with a chandelier above it. At the far end of this room, portraits hang of the provocative Josephine Sarah Marcus, second wife of Wyatt Earp, and Jean McCormick, claiming to be Calamity Jane’s daughter. Safety deposit boxes line each wall. “People leave notes in here,” said tech director Alex.

The earlier referenced group of U.K. fans, numbering 10 – I should say 10 in the group, but nine U.K. fans and one USA fan – Katie, 24, from New York. “We all work together (except Katie) in Stamford [CT] for GE (IT and Finance). We came down for the match… and the bull,” said Imran, 27, a big lad born and bred in Manchester, England. “He’s going to break the bull!” piped in co-worker June, 26. Here, again, was a group international in composition with representation from the U.K., Mexico, Italy, Poland, Korea, Guatemala and Hungary. The broad spectrum of countries begged the question, ‘Why the U.K.?’  “European origins,” was the best that Imran could suggest.

From the back of the room, from Spenser’s group, a chant arose, “USA! USA! USA! USA!” There was a great rivalry here, but it was clear there was U.S. favoritism. Even the towelettes (moist wipes) had American flag designs on the exterior!

The second half had commenced, time was now rapidly ticking down, the U.K. was pouring on the offense and fans from both sides were getting antsy. The cries of “USA! USA!” grew more pleading, feverish. All heads were turned toward the big screens, with fans anticipating, hoping, and crossing themselves. The crowd in the arena was in the same state: clutching themselves, hoping that their respective team would hang in there.

Ultimately, the score would hold at 1-1 and a polite, almost anti-climactic, clap from the crowd here was heard. It was a sober, not triumphant, finish, though hopeful, too, in that both teams would advance to a second round.

“I’m not happy, just content. The beginning was sloppy, and the second half was flat,” summed up Spenser. “But I think we showed we can hang. America is here to stay, that’s what I’m saying,” he added.

“Both [teams] were equally mediocre. It was like a purgatory game. It wasn’t good or bad. I wanted the U.K. to kick,” said jet-setter Sophia, representing the opposite perspective.

So, to sum up in lands-across-the-pond terms, the sides met, scurried around behind bushes, fired a couple shots at each other and, mission accomplished for now, went and got some grog. “Fair play!” as the Brits might say. We’ll meet another day.

Johnny Utah’s will show all 2pm games for the World Cup. For group bookings, email events@johnnyutahs.com or call 212-265-8824. For all upcoming events, visit http://johnnyutahs.com/upcoming

Erasing Borders and Transporting Minds

Erasing Borders and Transporting Minds

By Mike Lauterborn

© 2010. All Rights Reserved.

6/8/10

New York, NY – “Erasing Borders: Festival of Indian Dance – Spring 2010” was the header of the colorful green and red postcard that Prachi Dalal handed me. The Dance Director of the Indo-American Arts Council (IAAC) was combing through unusual jewelry at a city street fair that particular late May afternoon. We struck up a brief chat and when the conversation turned to dance, she passed off the card encouraging me to attend.

Ultimately, I was connected to publicist Jitin Hingorani of Jingo Media and, on the second Sunday of June, found myself strolling into the expansive lobby of Asia Society and Museum at 725 Park Avenue near 70^th Street. On the slate was an informal performance titled “Kutcheri-Mehfil: Cushion Conversations.” This was the closing performance of a three-day weekend festival held June 4-6 that had featured traditional and experimental, classical and post-modern Indian dance. With some of the work performed by American dance company members, the fest truly aimed to make connections between India, America and a globalizing world. In addition to performances, the fest also offered panels, workshops and demonstrations of Indian and Indian-inspired dance.

Stepping off the elevator into a visually pleasing, stone-tiled waiting area on the eighth floor, I noticed fellow patrons slipping off their shoes and placing them in a row along the wall of a narrow hallway. I couldn’t recall a time wherein I’d removed my footwear for an event but recognized the custom and gladly (and enthusiastically) abided. I was also relieved I had recently trimmed my toenails and that my feet were looking acceptably presentable!

The performance attracted a full house and we attendees stood by around a small water feature, with flower petals and small circular candles floating on the surface, in the middle of the room. The gathering reflected the unification -- the erasing of borders not only between art forms but also between peoples – that the event was trying to promote. Beautiful brown, black and white faces, neat attire and a pleasant, congenial and anticipatory vibe reigned.

Tall, heavy doors suddenly swung open and access was provided to a high-ceilinged “theater” (actually the Rose Conference Hall), which featured a low stage at the opposite end, an area for musicians to the left and, set in rows on the immediate floor space, cushions and fabric seatbacks. At the very back of the room sat chairs for elders and those preferring a less makeshift seat. 

These would be tight, warm quarters for sure and quite conducive to getting to know your immediate neighbors. Perhaps this was the intent I thought, given the theme of world unity and amity.

After some shuffling about by us audience members as we jigsaw puzzled ourselves into our sitting spaces – carefully placing a foot here, an elbow there, a seatback here – Ms. Dalal, dressed in a bright yellow salwar kameez with gold trim, introduced dancer and choreographer Chitra Sundaram. A standout in India, Britain and other dance circles abroad, the sunny-faced woman, in a flowing red-patterned sari, focused her talk on Abhinaya.

Quite literally mime, this method lies at the heart of Indian dance and consists of a dancer conveying poetic, philosophic and imagistic meanings suggested by accompanying lyrics. “The dancers are not going to just jump around the stage,” Sundaram explained. “They will be performing text-based rhythms and need you to be very close to them.” The intimate performance area and cushion-based seating certainly allowed for this.

“Abhinaya is not just expressive dance… it’s an incorporation of the whole universe… all sound… the moon, heavenly bodies… with the body, from the body, on the body… conveying emotional feelings,” the dancer/choreographer added with regard to the all-encompassing nature of the format.

“The primal purpose is to generate rasa,” Sundaram continued, drawing a comparison between the performer’s objective and the complexities of rasam, a thin soup from South India. While the ingredients are few and simple, getting the perfect flavor is elusive. Similarly, in Abhinaya, transmitting that aesthetic experience and evoking rasa is elusive and every performer seeks to experience and share rasa with the audience. “To generate the flavor of a particular emotion and release it into the space… to generate emotion outside the dancer. The performance presumes someone is watching. Literally translated, Abhinaya is ‘taking the meaning to words’… reading certain signals… it has an emotional impact on you.”

At its base, Dalal said, “Abhinaya is interpreting poetry… and it takes on a magical form when if unfolds spontaneously in front of an audience in an intimate space.”

Joining Dalal and Sundaram was Purnima Shah, Associate Professor of the Practice of Dance at Duke University and a Ph.D. in Performance Studies and Ethnography from the Department of Theatre and Drama, University of Wisconsin-Madison. An accomplished dancer, Shah has given performances on three continents.

Simply yet elegantly dressed in a black top and tan slacks, with her long black hair tied back with a red ribbon and gold hoop earrings glinting in the stage lights, Shah pointed out, “A mark of artistry is how well you interpret and present Abhinaya. The songs have very few words and are very poetic, but they don’t describe everything.”

Shah also commented on the typical performers of Abhinaya, saying, “In Indian dance, a mature dancer is past his/her 40s, which is unlike most worldwide dance wherein a ballerina reaches her prime at 28! Maturity comes with age and life experience.”

At that moment, Dalal summoned the musicians, which included Deepti Navaratna, a Carnatic vocalist from Cambridge, MA, and Srinidhi Mathur, a Carnatic violinist from India. Dalal also introduced the first performer, Anuradha Nehru. A Kuchipudi dancer and choreographer, Nehru has been critically acclaimed for her performances around the world, has taught for over 20 years in the United States and leads a dance company called Kalanidhi Dance.

Attired in a colorful red sari accented by a gold belt, golden bangles and a gold necklace, Nehru described the background of the poem she was going to perform. She noted that it would be a “light-hearted Javali” and describe a woman who comes upon her beloved, notices that he is not his usual self and suspects that he’s been affected by someone. “Your face seems so crestfallen, why are you so upset?” she translates. The woman assumes it is another woman that has created the change in her beloved and her imagination goes wild thinking about what could be the problem. “If you tell me first, you can feast on my lips,” the subject says.

With the musical accompaniment, Nehru began her performance. Closely watching her facial expressions and body movements, one could easily understand what was being conveyed even if one didn’t know the story itself or was unable to translate the accompanying lyrics. This was the sign of talent of which Shah had spoken. Indeed, the mood evoked by her gestures and the tinny music that emanated from tripod-mounted speakers was one of sadness and melancholy, as the frustration of the questioning lover became apparent.

Ramya Ramnarayan, a Bharatanatyam dancer and choreographer from New Jersey, followed. Dressed in a burnt-orange sari trimmed with gold and “masked” with dark heavy eyeliner, Ramnarayan performed a very dramatic spoken piece to begin, then a poem selection from Sangam literature. The Sangam period is defined as a time window between 600 BC and 300 AD during which approximately 475 Dravidian Tamil poets from various professions and classes of society created a collection of over 2,300 poems. This classic Tamil literature predominantly deals with emotional and material topics such as love, war, governance, trade and bereavement. Ramnarayan’s gestures were warlike with simulations of arrows being fired and warriors being killed in battle.

To support the next performer, another set of musicians, of a Hindustani (North Indian) tradition, strolled in and sat near the end of the stage, replacing the previous group. Providing vocals, Ms. Astha Shukla is trained in Hindustani classical, semi-classical and light music. On sitar, innovative musician Indrajit Roy-Chowdhury has performed at leading venues in New York, Washington D.C. and Kolkata, India. Manning the tabla, Dr. Amod Dandawate has accompanied many high-caliber Indian artists.

The featured performer was Prerana Deshpande, an internationally acclaimed Kathak dancer and dance teacher/choreographer. Attired in a muted brown sari with ovular shapes and simple bracelets, Deshpande described her piece as a poem about finding inner peace and a place called Vrindavan, the abode of Krishna -- a virtual Eden, very tranquil, with cows, birds, fertile soil, a river and a beautiful girl.

The next dancer/storyteller was Guru Rachna Sarang, a middle-aged woman dressed in a pale green salwar kameez. Sarang is a distinguished Kathak artist who has been performing, teaching and choreographing for the past 40 years. She chose to perform poetry from Mirabai, one of India’s most beloved poet-saints. The latter is known for the devotional nature of her poetry, directed toward Giridhara, a form of the God-man Krishna. In the selection, the subject is yearning for Krishna’s attention, a desire that borders on jealousy.

Teaming up to perform a piece by 15^th Century poet Annamacharya was Nehru and Ramnarayan. In this selection, a passionate lovemaking session between a celestial couple is described, with phrasing about a “voice sweet as honey”, “bared breasts”, “lotus-like eyes”, “body covered with beads of sweat” and an “exhausted look”, all related to the state the goddess is in. The audience here became particularly involved in this piece. They were rapt in fact, heads cocked to the side, grins spreading across faces, eyes twinkling and amused, almost feeling a guilty pleasure about enjoying the telling.

Also performing a duet was Sarang and Deshpande, about a woman, yearning for her lover, who becomes increasingly irritated and agonized by the sweet sounds of nature around her.

The latter was the last set of the regular performance period and the moderators thanked the performers, musicians and coordinators for their collaboration, effort and the many miles some had traveled to attend the event. It was clear, though, that the audience wanted to hear and see more. So it was suggested that a Ghazal be performed, something that “one doesn’t get to see very often” as one coordinator opined. A Ghazal, with Islamic origins dating back to the 6^th Century, is a poetic expression of both the pain of loss or separation and the beauty of love in spite of that pain.

“Do we have time?” said one moderator. “Two minutes!” another responded, which elicited a laugh from the audience, who recognized that the performers really wanted to provide this experience, no matter how much time remained. Jumping to the stage was Navtej Johar, joining Sarang. Johar is a leading Bharatanatyam dancer and respected choreographer from New Delhi, India, and has performed at prestigious venues the world over. The duet’s “act” was simultaneously amusing, transporting, expressive and heartfelt.

Johar characterized the latter as “an experiment” and said that this is how these performances should be conducted. “This is what Abhinaya really is about. What we do on stage is fake (i.e. choreographed and not spontaneous as it was meant to be). It’s a tragedy,” he expressed. “These are things that happened in intimacy. I see you eye to eye and then go beyond. I talk to you like my lover… and you are not my lover… How do I make my body available to the people in front of me? That’s what we are doing here.”

In the viewing audience’s opinion, this had certainly been achieved. These “cushion conversations” had truly been intimate, wherein a tangle of multi-cultural peoples in a lounge-like atmosphere responded to the personal works performed directly in front of them. 

For more information about upcoming events, visit www.iaac.us and www.asiasociety.org

If you are interested in submitting your choreography for “Erasing Borders: Festival of Indian Dance 2011”, please contact iaac.dance@gmail.com

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!