It is considered very bad form indeed if you kick someone while you tango. With all those boleos and gauchos, (I think--let's refer to them as 'embellishments') that make tango so exciting it's hard not to get caught up in the moment and then in someone's dress. Especially when it's crowded! And when you accidentally do a Tanya Harding, you get a look that remarkably resembles the one a homeless person gives when you wake them up on a subway.

 

 

 

 

It's frustrating for the followers because the leaders are the ones steering the boat. The men are so vain they want the woman to do all the sexy rubbing and heel striking all the time. They lead you into a gaucho, you follow and dip and flick, you take out the couple behind you, and it's not your fault because he's the one who should be watching. But you're left with the guilt... Karmically, the woman who gave me a really horrible look and prompted today's post apologized later, saying she had just been surprised. "It was a look of shock, really." Her partner smiled and kept threatening revenge the rest of the night. I don't give those looks, even if I did get an elbow in my neck last night.

If you visit or live in nyc there is one thing about mass transit you learn very quickly. Some people will trample children, old ladies in big hats, and small froufrou dogs to get to a seat on the bus or the subway before you do. Normally I accept this with a certain degree of respect. If they want it that bad, they deserve it. They saw their chance, and they took it. Nothing to hold against them. Once in awhile, though, my closet sexism shows up abruptly when I feel that, as a woman, I deserve to sit. A couple weeks ago as the L train in Brooklyn arrived at my stop, the subway car slowed down to a stop with the doors right in front of me where I was waiting . There was one seat available; I could see it clearly through the window. As they opened I stepped inside to walk the few feet to the open seat.  A Hispanic man in his late thirties who'd also been waiting at the stop raced from the other end of the car and slipped into it right in front of me. I gave him a look. It may have resembled this:

As he sat down he looked up at me beseechingly, obviously afraid of my reaction. Normally I can give the benefit the doubt. He was probably working hard all day, his back hurts, he really really needs to sit. And I did get there. Only it was 5 seconds after the death glare had already gone out. When I looked at the rest of the car they were all watching me. I was so embarassed to be seen acting so petty! Then it got even worse. Two Hispanic men in their late 20's, early 30's, stood up immediately and offered me their seats. I said futilely that I was fine standing, but they wouldn't sit back down. So I sat. The desperate seat-stealer? He got off at the next stop. If I had been patient I would have had that seat in less than a minute. Heaping coals upon my head...

My life revolves around pilates like an endless, 360 degree teaser. Get up, do pilates, go home, go to sleep, get up, go to work, go home, go to sleep, get up, do Pilates, go home...That being said, I'm in the best shape of my life. I'm wasting away it seems. I tried so hard to lose weight through saunas or cardio/weight training, and all I really needed to burn calories was to walk around NYC in the bitter cold. Huddled under layers of various unmatching fabrics, I quick-step under the Brooklyn Bridge and through the waterfront area to the Fitness Guru. I'm working there 12 hours a week now, not counting the self-practice, observation, and apprentice hours I'm doing. Yes, I'm whining/bragging. I'm also sleepy.

My new job as the Girl Friday at a GMAT prep center is going very well. Everybody there is young and smart, and they all do their jobs, meaning everyone chills out because nobody's slacking. It's a remarkable atmosphere. I'm at the bottom of the food chain, but with a monthly bonus just for doing my job and free pizza at least once a week, I'll take it. I'm actually wearing the company hoodie as I type. Free advertising for them, more warmth for me!

Winter and I are done. We're finished. Ever since I slipped on the ice and went kaput on a Brooklyn sidewalk at 5 am, our burgeoning relationship ended abruptly. Can anyone say deal breaker? I'm ready to sweat. And I will, b/c my apartment has no air conditioning.

My steamy nights of tango are the only respite from the long bleak darkness. Oh, but now I've found the heart of what I want to write about.

A girl in my circle was killed a week and half ago. She was beautiful, and she took tango lessons with her boyfriend every weekend. They went to NYC milongas every week, everybody loved them, and they loved each other. I never met her personally, but we were in the same places and some of my male tango friends danced with her. On Saturday night she and her boyfriend were walking home from a milonga when they were hit by a drunk cop. She was killed instantly, and her boyfriend is still in the hospital recovering from a coma and broken legs. You can read the story and see her picture at http://www.nydailynews.com/news/ny_crime/2009/02/07/2009-02-07_law_grad_struck_and_killed_by_car_near_b.html. I'm heartbroken for him and her family.

The fires in Australia? The plane crash in Buffalo? It's all so frightening and upsetting. It sounds like a 10 year olds plaintive cry, but can you believe in an afterlife/heaven when you don't believe in Jesus anymore? I'm beginning to realize how short life can be, and how even a long life will be over so quickly. If this were all building towards some kind of epiphany where I live every day like it's my last, ad nauseum, I would feel better about the whole thing. Instead I feel like every front page obituary is a cautionary tale, and I should call everyone I love every ten minutes so that I don't have any regrets if I get hit by an overzealous bus driver.

When I start to get bitter about all the concrete and tears I've ploughed through since moving to NYC, I invariably argue that everything I want to accomplish up here I could've been working on down in Austin. I never would have had to leave Texas, I could've maintained my romantic relationship (maybe), and I'd be able to dance, act, practice martial arts, and get into film work. Ah, the questions why.

Then I think about everything I've done in a two week period. Per example:

I saw a one-man show by Mike Daisey at Joe's Pub called If You See Something Say Something. It was a very funny, interesting piece about the secret history of Department of Homeland Security. After the two drink min. at the place I wandered tipsily down towards 14th street and managed to find my train and a friend, as you'll recall if you read the last post. I also learned alot about the bomb from the show. A few days later I had to watch Dr. Strangelove again just for the heck of it. It was a good tie in.

The night before Thanksgiving my friend Kayla and I went to another one-man show called Taking Over, by Danny Hoch. It hit straight home considering he was talking about midwest kids and Californians who move to NYC to "find themselves," and then leave a couple years later, never realizing that for natives it's home. There were dead-on dialects that killed they were so funny. But it also made me very sensitive to where I'm living and how intrusive my presence probably is to the Hispanic residents in East Williamsburg. Gentrification is heading their way, and I'm on the first wave.

Thanksgiving I dragged myself out of bed and went to Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade! It was so exciting! Clowns on roller blades, Hello Kitty balloon, a Pirate float that was outstanding, baton twirlers all in red, wow! I had never realized by watching it on TV that the bands are the lifeblood of the parade. I always got bored when they took center stage at Times Square, but on the street they're blasting out energy into the cold, anticipating crowd. It was fantastic. I saw Miley Cyrus, Izzina Mendel (or whatever her name is), James Taylor, and Miranda Cosgrove (for those of you w/o the assistance of 11 year old sisters, she plays I-Carly on Nickelodeon). I also managed to toss a baby's shoe up to the second floor window from which it had fallen and hit me. The New Yorkers were duly impressed.

The Orphans' Thanksgiving was a great success, with Kayla and Len coming over to wine, good times, and a feast. We laughed the lonely day away in each other's company. Len did tarot readings for everyone before he passed out on my couch from all the wine he'd imbibed. I did dishes, moved my roommate's car b/c she's out of town and there are alternate parking day laws (*sigh*), and went to bed w/o him moving a muscle.

Here's where it starts to get crazy. Friday night I hear about a bar called the Crocodile Lounge where with every drink you get a free pizza. Weehee! I make plans for Saturday night. I meet Andy, a guy from California who'd only been in town a week, and it was the worst week of his life. He buys my drinks, we chat and commiserate, and we have a decent time together.

Sunday night I go to a magic show at Feinstein's at Loew's Regency, the guest of the magician on spotlight, Michael Chaut. I had contacted him through my job with Joe's Pub, and after my repeated callbacks trying to get him to buy a membership he invited me to one of his shows.  Turns out he's a wellknown and respected magician/sleight of hand artist/mentalist who's been on tv many times. So I went to a very fancy show, met two of his very sweet friends, and was ultimately charmed by all of his magician friends who came up to the table again and again to do close up magic. Later he drove me home and invited me to the Monday Night Magic Show. So, I go to another magic show last night, where John Stetson, the mentalist, amazed absolutely everyone. I was seated next to Susan Marshall, which would've made me faint unless I'd been told it was not the modern-dance-legend, but the wife of a well known magician and daughter in law to an even more famous one, Jay Marshall. She was wonderful company, and we got along grandly. Afterwards I went to dinner with two mentalists and a comedian who refuses to view himself as a magician despite having written 20 books on the subject. His name is Simon Lovell, or something. He was really funny.

So, I'm guessing, not all of that would've happened to me if I'd been in Austin.