Half my life ago, when I started dating The Congero, I was baptized in a heaviness of brilliant music; jazz, salsa, complex and earth-moving drumming both secular and religious. This music was The Congero's entire world professionally and personally, and he lived his life in the fray of all things African-Caribbean while I, before him, lived in the fringes, tiptoeing with mixed blood and an uncertainty of my belonging within those things. The Congero called me into this world. As a dancer I gladly plunged -- arched in with a swan dive -- because I knew this much: Rhythm was the catalyst to movement.
The people we hung out with regularly were musicians of legendary proportions. They had played for Miles Davis, Hector Lavoe, Herbie Hancock, Eddie Palmieri, Tito Puente, Celia Cruz, Dizzy Gillespie, Mongo Santamaría and a million more. Jam sessions spontaneously erupted in The Congero's tiny living room back then, and I would watch or listen as I cooked or puttered while trying to wrap my mind around what they were creating. It was often a controlled freefall of genius.
My favorite sessions were when batá drums were played. Batás are double-headed religious drums. They are played in a trio, one large, one medium, one small, and drummers rest them across their lap, playing both sides. Each size has a distinct sound, the large being bassy; the smallest producing a cracking sound, but the remarkable thing is that each drum plays a different rhythm concurrently. The rhythms then converge together at the most surprising and harmonious places. Bells that lace the largest rim of the big drum chime as beats clock out. The rotation of the different rhythms creates one that is three-dimensional and heart-bursting. And with this complexity, the batás develop a voice. They are able to call down the gods.
To write about these things knots my stomach I'm realizing. I'm writing about things that I believe in private shadows. Things that get easily ridiculed and misportrayed in movies and conversation. The things of the orishas or santos shouldn't pass casually across the threshold of one's mouth. I know this because I feel it. I've mentioned on the blog before that I am watched over by the mother/ocean deity, Yemayá, and by the lovely Oshún, but that's all I'll say about that.
Though I think frequently about the orishas, I hadn't talked about them at all in years, until Saturday. A local theater was showcasing an African-Caribbean performance. I knew I had to go. I knew I had to take the girls too.
There were no other children present when we arrived at the intimate theater. In the casualness of general seating, we sat in the first row of six, at the same level as the stage. On a large screen in front of us played a DVD from Cuba of orisha dances performed in a forest. Eight dark dancers were smeared in white clay. They were barefoot and naked shrouded in a sheer white sheet. I whispered to the girls, "I want no comments about nakedness. Take this in as art. These are dances to honor nature and god. I'll answer any questions you have." They watched with eyes wide and backs erect. Then the veiled forest deities disappeared from the screen and in their place was a chorus of singers in white clothing standing behind three seated batá players. The drums began and a lead female sang in Yoruba. The chorus responded to her. She and the drums were calling out Elegguá, who is always called out first because he opens the door that stands between humans and deities. When honored first, he'll let prayers be heard. He appeared from the forest wearing red and black, smoking a cigar, slinking out playfully. I whispered details to Maya and Mina.
One by one, the singers and drummers called out the line of orishas. When Oshún revealed herself by a river, the girls gasped. She wore a yellow head wrap, a flowing yellow dress and a tall crown of gold. She fanned herself and smiled brilliantly. At this point the girls were whispering things to me. "Oh, she's beautiful!" Mina said, "I like Oshún." The batás then played a song for Yemayá. The screen showed the calm sea by the shore and when the singer began, Yemayá rose up out of the water wearing a similar dress and head wrap but in blue. My skin rose up and I teared a bit. When she danced on the beach, Maya said, "Her skirt looks like waves." And I knew they got it. They were engaged and flying solo on their intrigue, hooked in by the drum's call and the beauty and power of it all.
Later in the show, live dancers performed dressed in white and backed by a tiny chorus and three batás. They didn't have the same impact as the film in the forest. The amateur batá players lacked a touch of god, it seemed, but the girls loved every second, and so did I. Wow, really I did.
I've thought about the show ever since. Salsa and latin jazz fill a void, for sure, on a top level, but hearing the batás and the orisha names in the rhythms again has weighted me, like sustenance would.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Friday, September 07, 2007
NY Was Fly - *Updated with a Couple More Photos*
During the year, Husband and I maintain a whicked schedule. It's too much, really, but it's the way it is. But when we go on vacation, we are great relaxers. We feel no pain.
NY was great. The weather was perfect, pleasant and warm. We took it easy spending three nights at Husband's parents' house then just he and I escaped to Manhattan for two nights, leaving the kids behind. And we did get to the U.S. Open. My original hook up never did come through but my good friend Kim exercised her ticket connection and gave Husband and I killer passes to opening day for our birthdays. Great!
If you are a US Open fan, Flushing Meadows is much more intimate in person. And my appreciation for the event deepened for sure. As I watch the rest on TV, I feel I can see it in 3D.
Here are some highlights:
The entrance. I call him Old Man Husband:
Best match we saw was with my new favorite up-and-comer, 18 year old Donald Young. He is exciting to watch and he struts the court with an all-round athlete's swagger.
Instead of boring you with the million Henin and Federer photos, here we are watching them, cockeyed sunglasses and all!
At lunch time, we went to one of the restaurants tucked in the guts of Arthur Ashe stadium. We were prepared to pay a zillion dollars for a salad, possibly a sandwich. The restaurant was pretty, but we could hear that the service was falling apart all around us. "Where's the cheese?" "I asked for chicken." And on, all echoing around us. When the waiter came to us, Husband ordered a cheeseburger (whatever) and announced, "I want no lettuce or tomato. I don't want any lettuce or tomato even touching the bread or burger. If you accidentally forget back there in the kitchen and you take it off the bread before you bring it to me, I'll know. If you bring me a burger that has touched a tomato, I will totally flip out. I will make such a huge scene up in the restaurant. You do not even know." My hand was shading my eyes at this point, though he was making me laugh, but I could see the motion of the waiter's pencil frantcially against his pad: NO TOMATO. NO LETTUCE. He probably wrote some other things too, but I'm not certain. Twenty minutes later, a server brought a bacon cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato and onion. Husband looked at me. The waiter saw the plate and I said, "I don't think that's our order" and the guy's face glowed bright pink. "No, no, that's not his!" Husband just stared at me the entire time and I giggled as the plate was swept away. Husband cracked a smile. "See?" He said. The rest of the lunch and the Open went off perfectly.
On the way into the city, we stopped at Babycakes Vegan Bakery. It was an adorable spot though more dingy than the online photo captures. I ordered a vanilla cupcake, a slice of corn-apple bread, a slice of cinnamon bread and a few mini corn muffins filled with a dot of "cream" and topped with strawberry jam. The cupcakes were pretty good, kinda greasy and grainy, but the breads and those mini corn jammy jam things were FANTASTIC!
This is the view directly across the street from the bakery. These are my favorite type of views of any city, alive with expression and grind.
One night out, we made it to Candle 79, one of the most well-know, high-end vegan restaurants in the NYC. 
My husband is a fan of my cooking, but he is not a fan of most restaurant vegan food. He does not like Real Food Daily at all. When I told him I wanted to eat at Candle 79 as one of our dinners out in the city -- we only had two! -- he said, (Silence) "Okay." If he says ok, he means ok. We don't waste time with "are you sures" and all that bullshit.
The food was great, even by Husband's admission. I took pictures of our meals, but my camera does not perform well with a flash. All the food looked the same through the lens, and that's not fair. I'll tell you instead: I started with a watermelon saketini (hello!) and the live heirloom tomato-avocado tartare with quinoa crackers and jalapeño dressing. SO Good! Husband ordered the smoked hummus appetizer and went bananas over the parata bread. For the main course, I had the moroccan spiced chickpea cake and Husband had the porcini-crusted tofu with mashed potatoes and caramelized onion-wild mushroom sauce. I gotta say that Husband's dish spanked mine, but mine was still pretty damn good. We ended by sharing a strawberry pie slice topped with dulce de leche ice cream. Fantastic.
After dinner we visited a friend that lived near by and then around midnight we started walking along 2nd Ave back towards the hotel. Husband ducked into a bakery and bought some old school east coast butter cookies while I enjoyed the city night. Two men were talking near the curb, one straddling a bicycle. The guy on the bike was Ilan, the winner of Top Chef last year. I embarrassingly did a double or triple take, which caused him to look at me and slow his conversation with his buddy. I thought, Uh oh, does he think I'm checking him out? I felt a urge to say something and quickly, wisely, squashed it. Big ups, Ilan!
Our other night doing up Manhattan was spent with Titi Jen and her boyfriend. We met in the Meat Packing District near SoHo that is no longer about packing some meat. The last time I was in that neighborhood was about 15 years ago when the streets smelled like a shit-garbage cocktail. My friends and I braved the stench at three in the morning to get the best bagels in town. Only bagel buyers and tranny hookers shared the streets that night. While we stopped at a light in my friend's car, an 8-foot tall hooker turned from his group and looked at me sitting in the passenger seat; his wig was red and high. We stared at each other. He and his co-workers looked brightly and colorfully illuminated on the dark, dead corner. He then blew me a kiss as his friends laughed. I meant to wave back, but didn't. Now, the Meat Packing District is giz-entrified, ladies and gentlemen. It has been transformed into what looked like a movie lot. Sassy restaurants every few yards, crusty bagel shops gone, fantastic designer stores in their stead. It was gorgeous, but it made me feel like I always do when I see the lava-like creep of gentrification: Where the poor people at? Where did they get pushed to? It was hard to like the new look entirely.
We went to a brand-new, beautiful and dark-wooded spot for dinner called The Spice Market.
Before we were seated, I drank a cherry mojito at the bar and watched candle-lit patrons as Husband and I tried to guess where they were from. The drink was sparkly and delicious. I dug out infused fruit. The actual food served at The Spice Market was not note worthy, though the surroundings were divine. Our table stood against ceiling-to-floor windows that were pushed open letting a summer breeze cross through the floor. Long curtains billowed a bit. I kept looking out to the newly glossied street. I noticed a boy of thirteen selling chocolates from a cardboard box at the restaurant's entrance.
After dinner, we headed to a dance spot called Link Lounge that features salsa on Tuesday nights. Husband was ready to test his newly-aquired skills and I was ready to see what the NY salsa scene was into, especially since the iconic Copa sadly closed early this summer. Before we got to the club, Titi Jen leaned over and said to me, "These dancers at Link dance on the Two." She meant they pretty much start dancing, or break, on the second beat of the rhythmic measure. It's a more syncopated way to dance and I remember it been associated with very early Mambo. I've never been a big fan of the Two and it wasn't ever as popular in the West. I've always hot stepped it on the One. Entering Link was like jamming ourselves into a crowded gym steam room. I felt sticky before even seeing the dance floor. We squeezed our way through to the edge of the floor, and what I saw made my jaw slack. I was thrilled by the action. These young dancers were not dancing what I remember as Mambo on the Two. They were revolutionizing salsa into something new and hot even though it clearly stemmed from an older style. They were dancing on the Two for sure, but it was spiced with a hiphop flare yet based in the very origins of African-Carribbean salsa; it was grounded to the earth, completely in sync with the drum-and-base brilliance of a salsa from 30 years ago. That's what the DJ played too, old music that kicks off with a base line, follows with the clave, gaps filled with congas, punctuated by horns! It makes you want to lower your head and let it impale you. Titi Jen and her boyfriend, trained in all their Arthur Murray ballroomness, turned their noses up to the perfect evolution that was happening before us, but I turned to Husband and said, "See these kids? THIS is salsa, Papi. This is the feeling you want in your dancing; grounded, gritty, real." I don't know if I would've been able to get out there and hang. I would've needed some time to adjust to the style. Oh man I wanted the time, but the dancers were so honed and muy cliquey. I was dejected that I haven't seen anything like this on the West Coast. Husband said, "Go ask someone to dance," but I pulled his hands to me and said, "No, you practice with me." And we went to the corner of the bar, away from the high-level twirling and gettin down, and we danced together on the One, laughing and basically getting down ourselves.
NY was great. The weather was perfect, pleasant and warm. We took it easy spending three nights at Husband's parents' house then just he and I escaped to Manhattan for two nights, leaving the kids behind. And we did get to the U.S. Open. My original hook up never did come through but my good friend Kim exercised her ticket connection and gave Husband and I killer passes to opening day for our birthdays. Great!
If you are a US Open fan, Flushing Meadows is much more intimate in person. And my appreciation for the event deepened for sure. As I watch the rest on TV, I feel I can see it in 3D.
Here are some highlights:
The entrance. I call him Old Man Husband:
Best match we saw was with my new favorite up-and-comer, 18 year old Donald Young. He is exciting to watch and he struts the court with an all-round athlete's swagger.
Instead of boring you with the million Henin and Federer photos, here we are watching them, cockeyed sunglasses and all!
At lunch time, we went to one of the restaurants tucked in the guts of Arthur Ashe stadium. We were prepared to pay a zillion dollars for a salad, possibly a sandwich. The restaurant was pretty, but we could hear that the service was falling apart all around us. "Where's the cheese?" "I asked for chicken." And on, all echoing around us. When the waiter came to us, Husband ordered a cheeseburger (whatever) and announced, "I want no lettuce or tomato. I don't want any lettuce or tomato even touching the bread or burger. If you accidentally forget back there in the kitchen and you take it off the bread before you bring it to me, I'll know. If you bring me a burger that has touched a tomato, I will totally flip out. I will make such a huge scene up in the restaurant. You do not even know." My hand was shading my eyes at this point, though he was making me laugh, but I could see the motion of the waiter's pencil frantcially against his pad: NO TOMATO. NO LETTUCE. He probably wrote some other things too, but I'm not certain. Twenty minutes later, a server brought a bacon cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato and onion. Husband looked at me. The waiter saw the plate and I said, "I don't think that's our order" and the guy's face glowed bright pink. "No, no, that's not his!" Husband just stared at me the entire time and I giggled as the plate was swept away. Husband cracked a smile. "See?" He said. The rest of the lunch and the Open went off perfectly.On the way into the city, we stopped at Babycakes Vegan Bakery. It was an adorable spot though more dingy than the online photo captures. I ordered a vanilla cupcake, a slice of corn-apple bread, a slice of cinnamon bread and a few mini corn muffins filled with a dot of "cream" and topped with strawberry jam. The cupcakes were pretty good, kinda greasy and grainy, but the breads and those mini corn jammy jam things were FANTASTIC!
This is the view directly across the street from the bakery. These are my favorite type of views of any city, alive with expression and grind.
One night out, we made it to Candle 79, one of the most well-know, high-end vegan restaurants in the NYC. 
My husband is a fan of my cooking, but he is not a fan of most restaurant vegan food. He does not like Real Food Daily at all. When I told him I wanted to eat at Candle 79 as one of our dinners out in the city -- we only had two! -- he said, (Silence) "Okay." If he says ok, he means ok. We don't waste time with "are you sures" and all that bullshit.
The food was great, even by Husband's admission. I took pictures of our meals, but my camera does not perform well with a flash. All the food looked the same through the lens, and that's not fair. I'll tell you instead: I started with a watermelon saketini (hello!) and the live heirloom tomato-avocado tartare with quinoa crackers and jalapeño dressing. SO Good! Husband ordered the smoked hummus appetizer and went bananas over the parata bread. For the main course, I had the moroccan spiced chickpea cake and Husband had the porcini-crusted tofu with mashed potatoes and caramelized onion-wild mushroom sauce. I gotta say that Husband's dish spanked mine, but mine was still pretty damn good. We ended by sharing a strawberry pie slice topped with dulce de leche ice cream. Fantastic.After dinner we visited a friend that lived near by and then around midnight we started walking along 2nd Ave back towards the hotel. Husband ducked into a bakery and bought some old school east coast butter cookies while I enjoyed the city night. Two men were talking near the curb, one straddling a bicycle. The guy on the bike was Ilan, the winner of Top Chef last year. I embarrassingly did a double or triple take, which caused him to look at me and slow his conversation with his buddy. I thought, Uh oh, does he think I'm checking him out? I felt a urge to say something and quickly, wisely, squashed it. Big ups, Ilan!
Our other night doing up Manhattan was spent with Titi Jen and her boyfriend. We met in the Meat Packing District near SoHo that is no longer about packing some meat. The last time I was in that neighborhood was about 15 years ago when the streets smelled like a shit-garbage cocktail. My friends and I braved the stench at three in the morning to get the best bagels in town. Only bagel buyers and tranny hookers shared the streets that night. While we stopped at a light in my friend's car, an 8-foot tall hooker turned from his group and looked at me sitting in the passenger seat; his wig was red and high. We stared at each other. He and his co-workers looked brightly and colorfully illuminated on the dark, dead corner. He then blew me a kiss as his friends laughed. I meant to wave back, but didn't. Now, the Meat Packing District is giz-entrified, ladies and gentlemen. It has been transformed into what looked like a movie lot. Sassy restaurants every few yards, crusty bagel shops gone, fantastic designer stores in their stead. It was gorgeous, but it made me feel like I always do when I see the lava-like creep of gentrification: Where the poor people at? Where did they get pushed to? It was hard to like the new look entirely.
We went to a brand-new, beautiful and dark-wooded spot for dinner called The Spice Market.
Before we were seated, I drank a cherry mojito at the bar and watched candle-lit patrons as Husband and I tried to guess where they were from. The drink was sparkly and delicious. I dug out infused fruit. The actual food served at The Spice Market was not note worthy, though the surroundings were divine. Our table stood against ceiling-to-floor windows that were pushed open letting a summer breeze cross through the floor. Long curtains billowed a bit. I kept looking out to the newly glossied street. I noticed a boy of thirteen selling chocolates from a cardboard box at the restaurant's entrance.After dinner, we headed to a dance spot called Link Lounge that features salsa on Tuesday nights. Husband was ready to test his newly-aquired skills and I was ready to see what the NY salsa scene was into, especially since the iconic Copa sadly closed early this summer. Before we got to the club, Titi Jen leaned over and said to me, "These dancers at Link dance on the Two." She meant they pretty much start dancing, or break, on the second beat of the rhythmic measure. It's a more syncopated way to dance and I remember it been associated with very early Mambo. I've never been a big fan of the Two and it wasn't ever as popular in the West. I've always hot stepped it on the One. Entering Link was like jamming ourselves into a crowded gym steam room. I felt sticky before even seeing the dance floor. We squeezed our way through to the edge of the floor, and what I saw made my jaw slack. I was thrilled by the action. These young dancers were not dancing what I remember as Mambo on the Two. They were revolutionizing salsa into something new and hot even though it clearly stemmed from an older style. They were dancing on the Two for sure, but it was spiced with a hiphop flare yet based in the very origins of African-Carribbean salsa; it was grounded to the earth, completely in sync with the drum-and-base brilliance of a salsa from 30 years ago. That's what the DJ played too, old music that kicks off with a base line, follows with the clave, gaps filled with congas, punctuated by horns! It makes you want to lower your head and let it impale you. Titi Jen and her boyfriend, trained in all their Arthur Murray ballroomness, turned their noses up to the perfect evolution that was happening before us, but I turned to Husband and said, "See these kids? THIS is salsa, Papi. This is the feeling you want in your dancing; grounded, gritty, real." I don't know if I would've been able to get out there and hang. I would've needed some time to adjust to the style. Oh man I wanted the time, but the dancers were so honed and muy cliquey. I was dejected that I haven't seen anything like this on the West Coast. Husband said, "Go ask someone to dance," but I pulled his hands to me and said, "No, you practice with me." And we went to the corner of the bar, away from the high-level twirling and gettin down, and we danced together on the One, laughing and basically getting down ourselves.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Let's Get This Party Started
We just got back from NY last night, but before I get all into that I wanted to post more pictures from the party. Mina is a great photographer and there are not a lot of things more fun than viewing her pictures at night's end after I've told her to have at it.
Here's the official corsage pinning ceremony pre party:
Here's the official corsage pinning ceremony pre party:
Hey, check out my three-tiered vegan cake from Manni's Bakery. This was Ma's birthday present to me, like organizing the party wasn't enough. It was chocolate with white frosting on the bottom, carrot cake in the middle and apple cake on top. The chocolate was ok. I've made better. I heard the carrot cake was really good, but I didn't have any. I took the whole top part home and ate apple cake for breakfast. It was great. I learned later that apple cake is Manni's specialty.
Flanked by beauties, Maya and Ma.
Here's a picture of my friend Barry the Photographer. Mina and he snapped pictures of each other at the same time, and some a little staggered, like dueling cameras. I love this one:
Here's how Barry's came out:
Irma, Me and Betsy. Can't go wrong with a boa.
Lovely Quaniesha:
I love this pic too. Mina capturing Barry at work, and a bit of the crowd conversation.
Here are a few pictures taken by Barry. Titi Jen giving the quick lesson:
There's no better picture than this one. I now have documentation that Husband has the salsa bug.
Mandy, Melissa and Mina. Mandy and Melissa were voted best dressed for prom night.
While cutting the cake, one of our wise ass friends yelled out, "Cougar!" which was hilarious. I had to strike the cougar pose since I am now officially a member, apparently
Ooo, but cougar got back:
Mina took this photo of her and Maya's TaeKwonDo coach cuttin' a rug with me. He's Brazilian and if he hears music -- even senses that it's playing somewhere, anywhere -- this man has to dance. Notice Mandy and I side-bar screaming at each other. This is why Mina's so good.
Maya's turn to dance with Master N. So sweet. By the way, Maya is turning into an excellent salserita.
Mina's great portrait of our neighbor John.
Mina packed it in an hour before the party ended. Pulled up some chairs and a pillow and slept through the rest.
There are many more photos, but Barry's working on them. Just wanted to throw you a little evidence that we did our finest jobs to having a good time.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Party Teazer from NY
I think what most impressed me about my party was that my friends showed up to have the best of times. That's how the mood felt: Electric with that intention. Friday night was a testament to how great and supportive and fun and interesting all my friends are. I had a complete blast. It's the best birthday party I've ever had.I'll have a ton of pictures to post when I'm back from NY. Barry, my friend of many years, has transformed himself into a great photographer and I can't wait to see what he comes up with. The above photo is a teaser. As you can see I went with a royal blue number and not the yellow dress. It was the right call. I felt like a million bucks.
Here's the other highlight of the evening: Since I've been a salsera for more years than not, and because I hired a salsa DJ for the party, I was very prepared to get my mambo swerve on. I was so prepared that I threatened bodily harm to my sister in law, Titi Jen, if she didn't come out from the east coast to dance too. She runs an Arthur Murray in NJ and I secretly hoped she would give a little salsa-step instruction to the party goers, which she totally did at her own suggestion. Ah man, she brought the party alive! I was so prepared that I took Titi Jen and another salsera to a club the Wednesday night before the party to recruit boy dancers to come to the party. I know more women that know how to dance and hardly any boys. This, as you could imagine, would pose a problem. Betsy showed up at the club too -- after driving all day from the Bay Area -- and she did a successful recruiting job too, not because she dances well but because she's so goddamn likable and charismatic. A handful of the boys we invited actually showed up. It was perfect.
Before the party dancing really popped off, I noticed Husband was dancing with Titi Jen. Husband grew up listening to the music, but had always been more drawn to hip hop. Learning to salsa wasn't cool to him growing up. He has been to a salsa club once with me in ten years, which is a fine arrangement. He knows how much I love it. I know he's not too keen on dancing around like it's a cardio workout. I was a little baffled as I watched him in his white tux jacket lead his sister around. He waved me out to the dance floor. He said, "Do you want to dance?" We were the only ones on the floor. I said, "Of course, Papi." His forehead perspired. He said, "Ready?" And then he stopped. He said, "I've secretly been taking lessons. I've been going for the past few weeks so I could dance with you." I laughed and said, "Nu uh." It didn't register that he was being for real. It was more likely that he'd joke about that than really take lessons. He told me about how he had Titi Jen help set it up and despite his sick work hours he rushed to make lessons. He said he didn't just learn for my party, but so he could take me out to dance now and again. It then sank in what he had done. It made it hard to dance. We'd step-step and hug. Step-step and he'd stop, nervous and overjoyed that he'd touched me. How I feel about this still balloons heavily between my heart and stomach. I'm almost embarrassed by such a high level of romanticism. He is not a man that does things for show-off sake. He does nothing he doesn't want to do. Making great efforts to show me that what I love to do is important turned this into such an intimate gift; one so driven by love. It's the best present I ever got.
Monday, August 20, 2007
NY, I Forgot You!
Amidst the hubbub swirling 'round the impending birthday party/blowout/rager, I'd forgotten that we're all heading to New York on Sunday for the week. Had I kept forgetting, I imagine myself passed out in my crumpled and soiled party dress -- signs of a great time -- and at two in the morning jerking up soberly panicking that I have not packed a thing. This kind of last-minute disorganization gives me heart palpitations. BUT it's all coming back to me now, this trip, the god-awful-early-morning flight, and I’ve now started the appropriate laundry needed for four people traveling across the country for a week, just in the nick of time. My Virgo soul is soothed.
Husband misses his home state and his family. Also, his birthday is coming and my plan was to get him tickets for the first week of the U.S. Open. One of my good friends in the broker industry had the hook up, killer box seats, which is now looking like a shaky and uncertain hook up much to my embarrassment and colossal dismay. SUCH A BROKER MOVE to promise a great hook up that isn't solid. So, we may or may not go to the Open. This sinks my heart because Husband really deserves to go. I really wanted this to happen for him. I'll just stay positive.
Have I told you that Husband is a tremendous tennis player? Not a casual-let's-knock-the-ball around weekend warrior, but a legitimate bad ass with a racket? He took up the sport late, in his teens, and sprinted as fast as he could towards making something of it. Natural athleticism and intelligence can get you somewhere fast, but high-level sports is a cruel master. The window to climb the ranks shrinks with every month one ages. With every second that ticks off the clock an athlete is robbed of speed and strength. Husband did earn a ranking on the east coast tour and sprint he did to go pro, but the window closed just as he had arrived. With all that talent and no money to be made playing, he was left to teach lessons at ritzy country clubs and murder decent players on the court regularly. When we lived in Orange County he played in a league. There is a running joke in adult tennis leagues that everyone declares themselves well under their actual level until they are caught and bumped up. The majority of players play at the average level even the players that dominated their college teams and almost went pro. Our last year in Orange County, Husband and his team went to the Nationals in Hawaii (!), where, if you remember, the matches were one-upped by Mother Nature and her 6.6 earthquake. His team didn't win, but Husband was good enough to get attention and when we moved back to L.A., he was bumped to the next level, a level that is the Siberia of levels. There's no one left to play in the leagues at this level. If he went one higher (the highest amateur level), he'd be playing the 20 year olds that just missed their window and pros that just retired from the circuit. He's in league limbo, but he plays regularly for fun with a great group of good players. His tennis hole is filled.
He misses the U.S. Open profoundly which he attended every year once he became a tennis junkie. He worked Open matches as a ball boy. He even has a Ball Boy Shining Moment: During a muggy NY night match, the stadium was packed (pre-Ashe stadium days) to watch Lendl vs. Agassi. Husband was working behind Lendl's service line, his back was to the wall just below a row of fans who were jammed into their seats. Agassi, the hometown favorite and long-haired darling, and Lendl traded strokes in an intense point until Lendl lobbed the ball to Agassi who in turn rocketed the ball back with an overhead smash. The ball blistered by Lendl, skipped off the line and shot up towards the first row of faces in the crowd. Instinctively Husband bounded up, shot up his hand like an outfielder and caught the ball awkwardly just inches from an older lady's face. The crowd went berserk. They cheered long enough to cause Agassi to break focus to see what was going on cross court. Agassi applauded on his racket then turned the racket around offering Husband the handle to play. The crowd went nuts again. And Husband's best friends, who were in the audience, hollered and yelled and pointed at Husband who was then the hometown favorite for that five minutes.
So, I wanted to get him back to the Open this year. I'm even more disappointed in my withering, near flaccid hook up when Husband says things like, "No, it's ok. It's no big deal." Uh, drive the knife in harder with your understanding, why don't you?
Back to the party: The planning is on point thanks in huge part to my good friend Ma who has championed the party even when I was unsure it could happen. All aspects are pretty much in place. Just need people to show up and have a good time. I'm having a bit of dress drama though. I did not attend my real senior prom and according to many reports, Dress Drama is a very big part of going to a prom. I had chosen a straight-laced strapless in a spectacular color, bright yellow satin, but now I'm not sure. The dress is great, but I don't know if I can dance well in it. As far as I'm concerned salsa dancing is a rough-n-tumble contact sport and I am hyper sensitive to the thought of exposing myself. It wouldn't be the end of the world if I did. What’s a little boobie among friends, but I mainly don't want to feel hemmed up and hesitant because I think it might happen. I'll try on one more dress tonight and if I'm not feeling it, I'll go with the yellow dress, maybe apply some modeling duct tape tricks and let the chips -- or front of my dress -- fall where they may.
Husband misses his home state and his family. Also, his birthday is coming and my plan was to get him tickets for the first week of the U.S. Open. One of my good friends in the broker industry had the hook up, killer box seats, which is now looking like a shaky and uncertain hook up much to my embarrassment and colossal dismay. SUCH A BROKER MOVE to promise a great hook up that isn't solid. So, we may or may not go to the Open. This sinks my heart because Husband really deserves to go. I really wanted this to happen for him. I'll just stay positive.
Have I told you that Husband is a tremendous tennis player? Not a casual-let's-knock-the-ball around weekend warrior, but a legitimate bad ass with a racket? He took up the sport late, in his teens, and sprinted as fast as he could towards making something of it. Natural athleticism and intelligence can get you somewhere fast, but high-level sports is a cruel master. The window to climb the ranks shrinks with every month one ages. With every second that ticks off the clock an athlete is robbed of speed and strength. Husband did earn a ranking on the east coast tour and sprint he did to go pro, but the window closed just as he had arrived. With all that talent and no money to be made playing, he was left to teach lessons at ritzy country clubs and murder decent players on the court regularly. When we lived in Orange County he played in a league. There is a running joke in adult tennis leagues that everyone declares themselves well under their actual level until they are caught and bumped up. The majority of players play at the average level even the players that dominated their college teams and almost went pro. Our last year in Orange County, Husband and his team went to the Nationals in Hawaii (!), where, if you remember, the matches were one-upped by Mother Nature and her 6.6 earthquake. His team didn't win, but Husband was good enough to get attention and when we moved back to L.A., he was bumped to the next level, a level that is the Siberia of levels. There's no one left to play in the leagues at this level. If he went one higher (the highest amateur level), he'd be playing the 20 year olds that just missed their window and pros that just retired from the circuit. He's in league limbo, but he plays regularly for fun with a great group of good players. His tennis hole is filled.
He misses the U.S. Open profoundly which he attended every year once he became a tennis junkie. He worked Open matches as a ball boy. He even has a Ball Boy Shining Moment: During a muggy NY night match, the stadium was packed (pre-Ashe stadium days) to watch Lendl vs. Agassi. Husband was working behind Lendl's service line, his back was to the wall just below a row of fans who were jammed into their seats. Agassi, the hometown favorite and long-haired darling, and Lendl traded strokes in an intense point until Lendl lobbed the ball to Agassi who in turn rocketed the ball back with an overhead smash. The ball blistered by Lendl, skipped off the line and shot up towards the first row of faces in the crowd. Instinctively Husband bounded up, shot up his hand like an outfielder and caught the ball awkwardly just inches from an older lady's face. The crowd went berserk. They cheered long enough to cause Agassi to break focus to see what was going on cross court. Agassi applauded on his racket then turned the racket around offering Husband the handle to play. The crowd went nuts again. And Husband's best friends, who were in the audience, hollered and yelled and pointed at Husband who was then the hometown favorite for that five minutes.
So, I wanted to get him back to the Open this year. I'm even more disappointed in my withering, near flaccid hook up when Husband says things like, "No, it's ok. It's no big deal." Uh, drive the knife in harder with your understanding, why don't you?
Back to the party: The planning is on point thanks in huge part to my good friend Ma who has championed the party even when I was unsure it could happen. All aspects are pretty much in place. Just need people to show up and have a good time. I'm having a bit of dress drama though. I did not attend my real senior prom and according to many reports, Dress Drama is a very big part of going to a prom. I had chosen a straight-laced strapless in a spectacular color, bright yellow satin, but now I'm not sure. The dress is great, but I don't know if I can dance well in it. As far as I'm concerned salsa dancing is a rough-n-tumble contact sport and I am hyper sensitive to the thought of exposing myself. It wouldn't be the end of the world if I did. What’s a little boobie among friends, but I mainly don't want to feel hemmed up and hesitant because I think it might happen. I'll try on one more dress tonight and if I'm not feeling it, I'll go with the yellow dress, maybe apply some modeling duct tape tricks and let the chips -- or front of my dress -- fall where they may.
Monday, August 13, 2007
August 24th is Nigh
We haven't talked about me turning 40 in a while. I've kept the volume down on that freak out. And now my birthday is less than two weeks away. I'm feeling more solid about it all. I think things like, I know when I'm turning 50 I'll long for 40 so just love 40! It takes hard work and deep introspection to truly believe that horseshit. That type of saying is fluffy rhetoric, really, but I'm absorbing it, man; letting it be.
40 was hard for me because I've always felt like the secret golden child, an infant old soul, a baby genius that has lurked in the shadows of others; always waiting for my own time. In most ways I feel developed and whole and practically me and in many ways I'm still waiting. The patience has betrayed me. The patience is a mossy rock in a downhill brook. Time is a-rushing. I'm pressed with an urgency realizing that a golden child doesn't get plucked and praised (oooh movies and books can be a cruel expectation builder). The window feels nearly closed. At forty I feel like I'm flirting on the outskirts of ordinary. When I was younger I felt sparked and humming with greatness, untouchable as craziness swarmed around me. I felt then that at any time I was going to jump ship and swim to brilliance. And now I feel seasoned and grounded weighted by a familiar self-imposed patience that is snuffing out the spark. The shore looks pretty distant now. This is how forty has felt to me.
So I decided to have a party on my birthday, August 24th. A party planned exactly the way I would plan a party. A big blow out. A coming out. I'm giving myself a Cuarentañera. I'll be coming of age at 40, I've decided. It's the year I'll drop kick some stale, useless patience. The party is going to be held in a big banquet hall where vegan appetizers and a vegan three tiered cake will be served and a salsa DJ will spin my favorite hits from the early 80's: Eddie Palmieri, Ray Barretto, Hector Lavoe, Ruben Blades, El Gran Combo. And the party is prom-themed. I've told my friends they have to dress in prom gear from any era, any interpretation. I've hired a photographer to take our posed prom pictures. I'm going with a contemporary 50's look. I can't wait.
I have to admit that the Quinceañera spin on a forty year old's party is not my idea. My good friend Rebel Girl came up with the Cuarentañera idea years ago. But her 40th came and went without a peep of a celebration. I gladly steel it. I'll knock it out of the park for all forty year olds -- anyone really -- just coming of age, shirking ordinary, dog paddling an ocean back something interesting and true.
40 was hard for me because I've always felt like the secret golden child, an infant old soul, a baby genius that has lurked in the shadows of others; always waiting for my own time. In most ways I feel developed and whole and practically me and in many ways I'm still waiting. The patience has betrayed me. The patience is a mossy rock in a downhill brook. Time is a-rushing. I'm pressed with an urgency realizing that a golden child doesn't get plucked and praised (oooh movies and books can be a cruel expectation builder). The window feels nearly closed. At forty I feel like I'm flirting on the outskirts of ordinary. When I was younger I felt sparked and humming with greatness, untouchable as craziness swarmed around me. I felt then that at any time I was going to jump ship and swim to brilliance. And now I feel seasoned and grounded weighted by a familiar self-imposed patience that is snuffing out the spark. The shore looks pretty distant now. This is how forty has felt to me.
So I decided to have a party on my birthday, August 24th. A party planned exactly the way I would plan a party. A big blow out. A coming out. I'm giving myself a Cuarentañera. I'll be coming of age at 40, I've decided. It's the year I'll drop kick some stale, useless patience. The party is going to be held in a big banquet hall where vegan appetizers and a vegan three tiered cake will be served and a salsa DJ will spin my favorite hits from the early 80's: Eddie Palmieri, Ray Barretto, Hector Lavoe, Ruben Blades, El Gran Combo. And the party is prom-themed. I've told my friends they have to dress in prom gear from any era, any interpretation. I've hired a photographer to take our posed prom pictures. I'm going with a contemporary 50's look. I can't wait.
I have to admit that the Quinceañera spin on a forty year old's party is not my idea. My good friend Rebel Girl came up with the Cuarentañera idea years ago. But her 40th came and went without a peep of a celebration. I gladly steel it. I'll knock it out of the park for all forty year olds -- anyone really -- just coming of age, shirking ordinary, dog paddling an ocean back something interesting and true.
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