I was visiting my business neighbor yesterday. I told her about FaceBook and how great it was for me to be in touch with so many people from my past. Not only from my past, but from different segments of the themes and threads running through what is the complex quilt of my life. This middle age is a great thing, it's a time for self-love and true integration and I'm feeling new levels of joy that I'd never even imagined before.
It's such a privilege to know so many great people, and to realize that they truly remember me. I think in my younger years I felt very invisible. Middle age is almost a strange realization that everything actually HAPPENED!
Anyway, I start telling her about this one friend of mine, Johnnie Walker. Johnnie and I hung out a lot in the 80's. We'd just go out dancing. That was our thing. Usually in Georgetown. I could not know how I was going to buy food the next day but off we would go and I'd spend my last $20 on barfood and beer and dance the night away with my buddy Johnnnie. The next day, things always seemed so much better and the next wait shift would kick in and that was the life.
This was also the time before my intensive training. This was when I had no command vocally and my movement training consisted of my Mother's guilt in giving my sister everything-leading to me at the age of 20 studying dance at Miss Bobbies studio with a lot of 10 year olds in tutus. It's humiliatingly true. Eventually, my dance teacher rented a room from me in my house and to my surprise she was very whore-ish and collected hockey sticks from the Caps. Each time she slept with one, they'd litereally give her thier stick and she had a life sized Pink Panther in her room that held them upright. Lesson learned. You should never rent a room to a whore who sleeps on a daybed with wheels. It'll be hard to get rest. But, that's probably a different story for a different time.
Oh yeah, and I also trained to teach Jazzercise. So, I was very bouncy with pointed toes.
One night Johnnie and I walk into this place, I want to say it was called Knickerbockers but that's another place and yet another story. This place was really close to Blackie's House of Beef just above Georgetown and across the street from the Dome, where I would later meet Alan. Lou-something maybe.
It was a restaurant AND a club and they were playing older music. The kind of music my Grandfather taught his girls to dance to, where they twirl and spin and reach hands behind heads in a slide out and twirl. I never learned how to do it but I'd watched it a lot. I can mock the style pretty well.
So as Johnnie and I are walking in we hear it announced, "Last chance to enter the dance competition, first place is $100". Say no more. So, Johnnie and I jump out onto the dance floor and it's packed! Full. And there are these judges walking around, whatever. And, I'm laughing at Johnnie because we usually danced to 80's music and a lot of Prince. A lot. So this was really silly for us.
There was one couple maybe in their 50's, which seemed much older at the time than it does as I type this. Clearly, they had worked their moves for about 3 decades. We were dancing it out on the floor. The stakes were getting higher. Couples were leaving the floor. Tapped out. Judges with clipboards. Whatever.
I think I was bouncing and kicking a lot and maybe twirling my fingers. So, the pressure's really on now. I spin away, flourish, come back to Johnnie and say, "okay, I'm going to run at you", spin away, flourish, come back to Johnnie, " and then I'm going to leap onto your left hip", spin away, flourish, come back to Johnnie, "and I'll fly over to your right hip, and then...", spin away, flourish, come back, "I'm going to push off of you through the air", spin away, flourish. I come back to Johnnie who is a man of few words and he only has one thing to say and I remember it very clearly, "no, you're not".
So, I begin again spin away flourish, explain the plan in rhythm and with timing.
And his response is exactly the same, "no, you're not".
I cannot remember what song was playing but I had spun away from Johnnie to establish quite a distance. And, you have to understand the level of skill of our competitors. I mean they were seriously synchopated. And, if you don't know this about me, I'm naturally competitive. Born like that.
Plus, $50 bucks each could cover a few meals and Johnnie was about to move to LA so it was a win/win as far as I could see. So, I just looked into Johnnies eyes. And, this was the moment. There are silly little seemingly insignficant moments we have with each other and inside of them many things are determined. This moment determined that Johnnie would be a friend for life. The reason for that is he clearly wanted to run out of the room. He didn't want to stand there. And as I started to run AT him the urge behind his eyes to run for his dignity and possibly his life was growing and I could see that. But, Johnnie knew me. And he knew I would run right into the wall at full speed if he moved.
Why wasn't I a better friend? Why ON EARTH what I put my friend through that with no rehearsal? I think we've already covered my naturally competitive nature and late start in training systems and procedures.
I was halfway there and I started to giggle. I jumped, putting both of my hands on his shoulders, toes pointed and legs straight as my very loose teacher had taught me, and I flung onto his left hip and then back into the air onto his right and then up again to land with some flourish that made the crowd applaud. In my mind they all rose to their feet and we were flooded with accolades, but I can't speak to the truth of any of this.
We got a rose. For second place. And really, the married couple had the hours in, I'm sure. At the time I was pretty sure we could have used the money more though.
I never entered another dance contest.
Sometimes you just have to go out on the high note.
Thank you JOHNNIE WALKER for the millions of laughs and for the genuine stuff. Love you so.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
We Are One Concert - 1/18/9
I promised my friend Holly I'd weigh in on what this experience was for me. It's a tough nut to crack.
Alan and I were both fairly resigned to stay in through all of this inaugural hubbub. I love being in front of crowds, but am not a huge fan of being in them. I get a bit panicky pretty quickly. Around 10:30 yesterday morning, Lisa called and offered us two tickets. Hate to quote Oprah here but, "Luck is when opportunity meets preparedness." and all of that. Alan also had a show with a load in at 5:30 on 14th Street. It was going to be a logistical challenge.
Opportunity/Preparedness. Lisa and Doug! Two of the coolest and kindest people I've EVER known. Thank you thank you thank you.
We were off! Used to be that my orientation to the city had everything to do with where I waited tables. I could get from point A to point B by identifying the closest restaurant I'd worked in. Second phase was all about political satire and theatre's where I'd performed.
Could navigate DC and even parts of VA based on bus drivers that had taken wrong turns while giving, "Scandel Bus Tours". One bus driver told stories of Ike LITERALLY pimping out Tina and pointed out street corners where this all went down. Scandel tours meant I was wearing some wig from a costume change above "big swirling blue" in the bathroom in the back of the bus so that I could "perform" as Hilary, or a hybrid of First Ladies, or Rita Jenrette with balloons down my shirt, riding backwards at the front, and attempting to be funny to tourists -usually corporate parties extended- as they drank. ("The more you drink the funnier we GET!") Bottles rolled. The dressing area/bathroom got rather...unsavory.
Finally, for several years now I've taught in DC public schools for the Helen Hayes Legacy Project. So, now I can navigate according to restaurants, a stinging memory of having no funny material for certain areas of the city (don't even get me started on 66!), AND places I've educated youth that may have been lovely or barred off like prison complexes.
Alan pared down his load in for the show last night, so that he only had to carry his guitar, a small rack, and gym bag full of peddles and cables. It fit in the back of my Yaris and was well disguised with my little "vision-cover" in the back. We were off. My navigational skills coupled with Alan's perptual listening to news, weather, and traffic on the radio prepped us as much as possible for the day of driving into the city when it was essentially forbidden.
I chose 14th Street. We parked at 14th and NY Ave. Two blocks from his gig and walking distance from the concert. It was a parking-miracle. The space was too small for almost all vehicles, but YARIS TO THE RESCUE!
The city felt very different. It was full of people from everywhere, bicycling-rickshaw-hybrids carried families of 5, porta-potties locked off with plastic straps til Tuesday, and lots and lots of police of many sorts were everywhere. Also, there were military soldiers in gray fatigues scattered in groups of four and five on the other side of the temporary dividing fences every 25 feet or so, as we approached The Lincoln Memorial. It was festive and comforting to know that we have these "forces" protecting us, and a little intimidating because no one was going to be acting the fool and you could bank on that.
As we walked across the field toward the Lincoln Memorial one image really struck me. I didn't take a picture of it because it was somehow too intimate. This African American couple maybe in their sixties were in the middle of one of the field areas. I felt like I was back in dance improv class, or doing Alexander work, or in rehearsal for some really physically connected piece. They stood back to back. This was odd and caught my eye. They were doing a weight exchange and leaning into one another through their backs. Breathing and connecting through their backs. Hearts touching that way. Their knees were slightly bent as if they were almost sitting.
The woman - she was facing the White house. Just taking it in. And the man - he was facing the monument. They could not see each other but were connected into one kind of living thing. And, the thing that struck me most about this was their facial expressions. They each had the EXACT same expression. It exceeds verbal language. It was almost as if the weight of the hour could have sent them both smashing into the icy ground or perhaps (in my imagination) they could rocket up into the sky defying the laws of gravity and restoring faith in the entire planet in a single moment. This was profound for me. This trust. This connection. The true-nuetral that can launch into any direction. This kind of shared moment in the arms of love and a new truth. Weight exchange. Trust exceeding sight.
From where we stood in front of the Lincoln Memorial, the monuments were massive but the crowd was more impressive. It was so cold. So COLD. And some people had staked out their spots since morning. I thought it would be a feel-good. A kind of spontaneous hug fest between strangers. There was caution in the air. Real caution. With snypers on top of the Lincoln Memorial and also in the hearts of the people not really knowing yet if it was safe to believe this was really happening. It was. Because I have photo's of it.
The folding of profound hope and trust mixed into the middle-aged woman trying to scam us by getting us to downgrade our tix so she could get a better view. It was strange and beautiful. And wonderful and a little creepy.
My impression of the President-elect (this is the first time I'd seen him live) was in a word, "sobering". Through the artists behind podiums the words of Presidents past were evoked. "Ask not..", "The only thing we have to fear...". And, much much more. As I awake today this occurs to me.
There has been much talk about our Founding Fathers. And for me in my line of work, lots of years investing in researching the Founding Mothers, but Barack Obama feels like a sibling. I hasten to say "big brother" because, well-you can deduce. But he does feel like an older sibling. As if the country is no longer in Elementary School having sand fights on the playground at recess because some bully said NUCULUR. We are growing up, and we are going to have to learn to not run to Daddy and hide behind his chair anymore waiting for his words of wisdom. If things go down in the lunch room, we're going to have to learn to work through them ourselves, to use our own words, to express, communicate, to grow.
Personally, I felt that my griping about all the work I need to do is really ridiculous. I mean STAND UP! Look at what this guy has to contend with and get on with organizing and making things appear! (That's my inner-voice there.)
And this "expression" that was so celebrated on Sunday strikes me. The string of artists, one after the other, left me with a profound sense of hope for the arts. There seemed to maybe be an understanding of what humanities mean to humanity. The value of the poet, the musician, the storyteller. The articulation of the unseen, the voice of expression that can transform and transcend. The imagination that leads to the dream that becomes the next reality. I felt this was being honored. This left me tremendously inspired and cautiously hopeful.
As Obama spoke, Alan called his Mom. He held the phone up like he was at a rock concert. "Is that him speaking right now?" "Yes." The cynical and jaded part of me was thinking, "right now? What about theatre etiquette? PROPER and respectful audience!" And then, the other part stepped in. The sobering part brought out by this sobering presence. The realization that I was standing next to a man who was only 5 days old when the March on Washington went right past the apartment where he had been living in his less-than-a-week existance. One who had a Father that was a teacher and a preacher and left us too soon to see this day. Who's Grandmother's voice rings in my head, "SING DEBBIE!" as all were gathered around her sick bed. She clapped and music, music, music! I was standing next to a man who had regained something stolen from his family a long long time ago. The simplicity of the moment was profound. I would have wept like a child, only we aren't those children anymore and we are each called.
As we headed back to the car to get Alan to his gig right on time, more thoughts started to sink in with me. I thought about my Grandmother. Knowing, she'd never have been able to comprehend this. I thought about being born in that city of "things etched in stone". Not from a reputable line of consumptive city life ancestry, but farmland people. I was born there because there were no hospitals up Penn Ave in PG County in 1966. My Grandfather built barns up and down 301. He owned property and donated some if it to build a Firehouse in Forestville. So that if you ever need to find Murray's Steaks just look for "Penn-Randall" drive. What's in a name? Help finding Murray's Steaks. On and on my mind rambled about my family of birth and confusion over their choices.
My years of creating work in the city where I was born haven't been easy ones, but I just can't help falling in love with that city over and over again. It's where corruption can fester and where I've been mugged, but it's also where promise lives and laws are made.
So, I'm trying to get ready. Because it is indeed - a new day.
XOdb.
Alan and I were both fairly resigned to stay in through all of this inaugural hubbub. I love being in front of crowds, but am not a huge fan of being in them. I get a bit panicky pretty quickly. Around 10:30 yesterday morning, Lisa called and offered us two tickets. Hate to quote Oprah here but, "Luck is when opportunity meets preparedness." and all of that. Alan also had a show with a load in at 5:30 on 14th Street. It was going to be a logistical challenge.
Opportunity/Preparedness. Lisa and Doug! Two of the coolest and kindest people I've EVER known. Thank you thank you thank you.
We were off! Used to be that my orientation to the city had everything to do with where I waited tables. I could get from point A to point B by identifying the closest restaurant I'd worked in. Second phase was all about political satire and theatre's where I'd performed.
Could navigate DC and even parts of VA based on bus drivers that had taken wrong turns while giving, "Scandel Bus Tours". One bus driver told stories of Ike LITERALLY pimping out Tina and pointed out street corners where this all went down. Scandel tours meant I was wearing some wig from a costume change above "big swirling blue" in the bathroom in the back of the bus so that I could "perform" as Hilary, or a hybrid of First Ladies, or Rita Jenrette with balloons down my shirt, riding backwards at the front, and attempting to be funny to tourists -usually corporate parties extended- as they drank. ("The more you drink the funnier we GET!") Bottles rolled. The dressing area/bathroom got rather...unsavory.
Finally, for several years now I've taught in DC public schools for the Helen Hayes Legacy Project. So, now I can navigate according to restaurants, a stinging memory of having no funny material for certain areas of the city (don't even get me started on 66!), AND places I've educated youth that may have been lovely or barred off like prison complexes.
Alan pared down his load in for the show last night, so that he only had to carry his guitar, a small rack, and gym bag full of peddles and cables. It fit in the back of my Yaris and was well disguised with my little "vision-cover" in the back. We were off. My navigational skills coupled with Alan's perptual listening to news, weather, and traffic on the radio prepped us as much as possible for the day of driving into the city when it was essentially forbidden.
I chose 14th Street. We parked at 14th and NY Ave. Two blocks from his gig and walking distance from the concert. It was a parking-miracle. The space was too small for almost all vehicles, but YARIS TO THE RESCUE!
The city felt very different. It was full of people from everywhere, bicycling-rickshaw-hybrids carried families of 5, porta-potties locked off with plastic straps til Tuesday, and lots and lots of police of many sorts were everywhere. Also, there were military soldiers in gray fatigues scattered in groups of four and five on the other side of the temporary dividing fences every 25 feet or so, as we approached The Lincoln Memorial. It was festive and comforting to know that we have these "forces" protecting us, and a little intimidating because no one was going to be acting the fool and you could bank on that.
As we walked across the field toward the Lincoln Memorial one image really struck me. I didn't take a picture of it because it was somehow too intimate. This African American couple maybe in their sixties were in the middle of one of the field areas. I felt like I was back in dance improv class, or doing Alexander work, or in rehearsal for some really physically connected piece. They stood back to back. This was odd and caught my eye. They were doing a weight exchange and leaning into one another through their backs. Breathing and connecting through their backs. Hearts touching that way. Their knees were slightly bent as if they were almost sitting.
The woman - she was facing the White house. Just taking it in. And the man - he was facing the monument. They could not see each other but were connected into one kind of living thing. And, the thing that struck me most about this was their facial expressions. They each had the EXACT same expression. It exceeds verbal language. It was almost as if the weight of the hour could have sent them both smashing into the icy ground or perhaps (in my imagination) they could rocket up into the sky defying the laws of gravity and restoring faith in the entire planet in a single moment. This was profound for me. This trust. This connection. The true-nuetral that can launch into any direction. This kind of shared moment in the arms of love and a new truth. Weight exchange. Trust exceeding sight.
From where we stood in front of the Lincoln Memorial, the monuments were massive but the crowd was more impressive. It was so cold. So COLD. And some people had staked out their spots since morning. I thought it would be a feel-good. A kind of spontaneous hug fest between strangers. There was caution in the air. Real caution. With snypers on top of the Lincoln Memorial and also in the hearts of the people not really knowing yet if it was safe to believe this was really happening. It was. Because I have photo's of it.
The folding of profound hope and trust mixed into the middle-aged woman trying to scam us by getting us to downgrade our tix so she could get a better view. It was strange and beautiful. And wonderful and a little creepy.
My impression of the President-elect (this is the first time I'd seen him live) was in a word, "sobering". Through the artists behind podiums the words of Presidents past were evoked. "Ask not..", "The only thing we have to fear...". And, much much more. As I awake today this occurs to me.
There has been much talk about our Founding Fathers. And for me in my line of work, lots of years investing in researching the Founding Mothers, but Barack Obama feels like a sibling. I hasten to say "big brother" because, well-you can deduce. But he does feel like an older sibling. As if the country is no longer in Elementary School having sand fights on the playground at recess because some bully said NUCULUR. We are growing up, and we are going to have to learn to not run to Daddy and hide behind his chair anymore waiting for his words of wisdom. If things go down in the lunch room, we're going to have to learn to work through them ourselves, to use our own words, to express, communicate, to grow.
Personally, I felt that my griping about all the work I need to do is really ridiculous. I mean STAND UP! Look at what this guy has to contend with and get on with organizing and making things appear! (That's my inner-voice there.)
And this "expression" that was so celebrated on Sunday strikes me. The string of artists, one after the other, left me with a profound sense of hope for the arts. There seemed to maybe be an understanding of what humanities mean to humanity. The value of the poet, the musician, the storyteller. The articulation of the unseen, the voice of expression that can transform and transcend. The imagination that leads to the dream that becomes the next reality. I felt this was being honored. This left me tremendously inspired and cautiously hopeful.
As Obama spoke, Alan called his Mom. He held the phone up like he was at a rock concert. "Is that him speaking right now?" "Yes." The cynical and jaded part of me was thinking, "right now? What about theatre etiquette? PROPER and respectful audience!" And then, the other part stepped in. The sobering part brought out by this sobering presence. The realization that I was standing next to a man who was only 5 days old when the March on Washington went right past the apartment where he had been living in his less-than-a-week existance. One who had a Father that was a teacher and a preacher and left us too soon to see this day. Who's Grandmother's voice rings in my head, "SING DEBBIE!" as all were gathered around her sick bed. She clapped and music, music, music! I was standing next to a man who had regained something stolen from his family a long long time ago. The simplicity of the moment was profound. I would have wept like a child, only we aren't those children anymore and we are each called.
As we headed back to the car to get Alan to his gig right on time, more thoughts started to sink in with me. I thought about my Grandmother. Knowing, she'd never have been able to comprehend this. I thought about being born in that city of "things etched in stone". Not from a reputable line of consumptive city life ancestry, but farmland people. I was born there because there were no hospitals up Penn Ave in PG County in 1966. My Grandfather built barns up and down 301. He owned property and donated some if it to build a Firehouse in Forestville. So that if you ever need to find Murray's Steaks just look for "Penn-Randall" drive. What's in a name? Help finding Murray's Steaks. On and on my mind rambled about my family of birth and confusion over their choices.
My years of creating work in the city where I was born haven't been easy ones, but I just can't help falling in love with that city over and over again. It's where corruption can fester and where I've been mugged, but it's also where promise lives and laws are made.
So, I'm trying to get ready. Because it is indeed - a new day.
XOdb.
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