The Trauma of Special Occasions

identity concealed to protect the humiliated

Recently a friend of mine bravely decided to throw herself a birthday party.  She spent weeks in preparation, getting just the right outfit, hair, nails, jewelry, even deciding to give the party a theme.
This party was supposed to be the coming together of different entities in her life: roommates, old friends, new friends, co-workers, even her lover--all together under the same roof celebrating the only thing they all had in common: affection for the hostess.

Ambitious? Definitely. Impossible? Maybe. Ill-fated? Absolutely.

Everything began to unravel when, an hour after showtime, one roommate and I were still the only guests who'd arrived.  She was beginning to panic.  I tried to diffuse the scene by plying her with soothing speech and cocktails, but those were only band-aids.  The impending doom lay in the possibility that when her lover arrived, no one was going to be there, and she was afraid she'd be humiliated.  (Also she dribbled vodka down the front of her perfect outfit.)
Finally guests began to pour in. But somehow, they were all from the that section of the guest list that you're only inviting just in case no one else comes.  One of them began to inappropriately monopolize the conversation, at one point even likening sex with an AIDS patient to being as morally bankrupt as sex with one's own mother. Don't ask. The point is, this party was going nowhere fast.
And that's not even the worst of it.  But for the sake of time, space and my friend's pride, I won't go on to mention what else went awry.  The lesson to be learned here is that once you reach a certain age, you realize that birthdays are rarely those magical moments that we as children are led to believe they are supposed to be.
Part of growing up is learning to accept that your birthday is just another day.  So is Thanksgiving after all.  And Christmas for that matter.  Often we tend to attach such expectations and lofty objectives to these "special occasions" that when they turn out to be average days, we end up devastated.
Why do we do it to ourselves?  Because we have ideals and hopes and dreams that life--even if only for a couple days out of the year--can be perfect.  And it's hope that makes us human.
So worry not, dear Reader, if no one comes to your birthday party.  Should your holiday plans collapse this Thanksgiving, if your family is far away, or your traditions due to circumstances are somehow impossible to recreate, be happy that today is, after all, just another day.
But take heart in the fact that tomorrow is too.  And keep trying.

Ambitious? Definitely. Naive? Maybe. Worth it? Absolutely.

Martha Wainwright at City Winery

I didn't want my blog to turn into a place where I simply talk about the shows I see. But I just couldn't leave this one out.  Last night at City Winery, that ethereal pixie Martha Wainwright graced the stage for a beautiful set of music both masterfully played and brilliantly sung.  I have to confess I was not familiar with her music before last night, but believe me: today I'm a bona fide fan.
But first let's talk about the opening act. Nath Ann Carrera was nothing short of a breath of fresh air.  He appeared onstage wearing a very short, plain white dress and a blue turban looking like a cross-dressing amalgam of Nurse Ratched, Norma Desmond and Jackie O.  His guitar playing was simple, his deep baritone not always in tune, but he was fascinating to watch.  He spoke like some observer/activist/monologuist robot gone haywire.  And like Sandra Bernhard, the songs didn't mean much without the banter.  Before singing what he called a "cultish lesbian separatist murder ballad" based on real-life prison interviews with the cellmates of Susan Atkins, a member of the infamous Manson Family, he recited (in character?) the disturbing yet kooky things these women had said.  Later, before singing one of her songs, he called Karen Carpenter one of the first people "to be thrown under the bus by gender fundamentalism."  He ended his short set with--of all things--Hank Williams's "On the Banks of the Old Ponchartrain."  I'm sorry I don't have any pictures of Nath Ann for you; I was simply too transfixed by his performance to bother.
And then came Martha.  She casually strolled out on stage to everyone's surprise and greeted us as though we were her old pals.  She's funny.  She joked about how expensive City Winery is by congratulating the audience for "making it to TriBeCa," though it is actually in the heart of SoHo.  She is also an impressive guitarist, tuning the thing by ear between songs while talking to the audience and being cute & charming. I was just waiting for her to start hopping on one foot to show us what a real multi-tasking performer she is.

But that voice! Ah, it was at once gruff and angelic. She sounds like Kate Bush and Jewel wrestling Marianne Faithfull to the ground while PJ Harey cheers from the sideline: just incredible.
She sang some of her old songs and some new ones, covered a handful of Kate McGarrigle (her mother) songs, and even sang (in French of course) several Edith Piaf songs (video coming soon).  Above, watch and listen as she sings her own "Four Black Sheep."
Wainwright invited her (other gender-bending) friend Justin Vivian Bond on stage to cover Melanie's "Leftover Wine," a torch song v sang with voice throaty and visceral (that wasn't a typo: "v" is Justin's preferred gender-free pronoun). Turns out, Bond is a fixture of New York's avant-garde scene and currently has an art exhibition called Fall of the House of Whimsy at Participant, Inc., a gallery on Houston between Avenues A & B.
I'll be following the careers of all three of last night's performers. And I recommend you do the same.  Oh, and City Winery is pretty damn cool too.  But Martha was right: it is expensive.

Angelique Kidjo at Joe's Pub

Angelique Kidjo emerged last night from behind the stage at Joe's Pub (one of my favorite performance spaces in NYC) looking every bit like "Africa's Premier Diva," as she was once famously dubbed by Time Magazine.  Her wrists abundantly bangled, her skin radiant, her gele tied and knotted to perfection, a matching sash draped across a simple linen dress split to the knee to accommodate a forthcoming fury of dance.  

She took us on a journey through customs, birthrights and coming-of-age in her tiny village in the West African nation of Benin.  From childhood baptism to ancestral idolatry (with a particularly moving ode to the goddess of love and the sea, "Lemanja"), the show was a working version of a musical play currently being written about Angelique's life.  As with many one-woman shows, she sang, then told stories, and then sang again.  But her perspective and spirit shone in a way that made that tried-and-true format feel new again.

The highlight of the evening was a joyful rendition of "Mama Afrika" that the whole audience joined in on as Angelique fluttered about the house holding the mike to nearly every mouth in the room.  

At the end, she dragged a bunch of audience members on stage and had them all dancing like the "She's Your Queen-to-Be" scene from Coming to America. (Did that reference just blow all my credibility?) Anyway, catch a video of that dancing here, and pay close attention to the man dancing at 4:02.  He's not me, but people say we look alike :)

Angelique's next NYC-area performance is December 18 in Newark at the NJ Performing Arts Center with Lizz Wright and Martha Reeves in a show called Soul Sisters Sing the Truth! How fun does that sound?

P S A

Just Judy

You only have 9 days left to catch The Judy Show off-Broadway at the DR2 Theatre (15th St at Union Square East).  Judy Gold is one of those television people whose name you may not recognize, but whose face you definitely will.  She takes you on a hilarious 90-minute journey through her life from awkward childhood to awkward adolescence to poised and fabulous (and mildly awkward) adult Jewish lesbian mother of two.
Gold employs references to the best of the American sitcom canon to ground her story.  Like it or not, she's right in her claim that TV sitcoms taught several generations of Americans a lot about life.  Way beyond just entertainment, Sitcoms were windows in to how other families lived, communicated, expressed love, resolved problems. (And I don't know if that's still true today.)

HIGHLIGHTS from the show include

• Judy summarizing of The Facts of Life
• Judy at summer camp
• Judy singing and playing the piano
• Judy impersonating her mother
• the story of Judy's father

The show is closing on Nov 27. So go if you can before time runs out. You WILL love it. Scout's honor.

"B-Boys on the A-Train" gets noticed!

Hey, Reader!

My video from this morning got noticed by the folks over at MyBlockNYC and they personally invited me to upload it to their site (and complimented me on its "beautiful framing").

According to their email, MyBlockNYC is a new video sharing site just for NYC. It is also a featured art project at the Museum of Modern Art and is receiving attention from media and press around the world.

And now, you can see my masterpiece B-Boys on the A-Train (along with about a million other amateur videos) by logging on ... check it out!

--T.U.B.S.

A Rainy Night in Georgia's

I have to hurry up and write this before I lapse into a diabetic coma.  I was on a diet. I wasn't going to indulge until Christmas week. But, Reader, I fell off the wagon.
I happened into Georgia's Eastside BBQ tonight simply searching for shelter from the rain, but what I found instead was a hearty hello and an unforced smile from the pert, pretty waitress across the room. I gazed around the restaurant (in what felt like slow motion) to find gingham-print vinyl tablecloths, wood paneling, a rifle on one wall, a huge fish on another, a kitschy pig holding take-out menus and a psychedelic Blessed Virgin sparkling by the cash register, and I said to myself, "this is gonna be good."
Despite the genial hostess and the fun atmosphere (rounded out by heavy metal music and a portrait of Manny Pacquiao) I decided to order take-out.  (Sometimes after a long day, a man needs to go home and eat with no pants on, know what I'm sayin?)

The Pulled Pork Plate includes a heap of slow-cooked (not smoked) Boston Butt seasoned to near Southern authenticity, potato chips, cole slaw, extra (housemade) bbq sauce and 2 sides of your choice. I went with collard greens and macaroni-and-cheese ($2 extra since it was on the Daily Specials Menu, and worth every penny). For the sake of journalism, I also had a Georgia Dog: a char-grilled hotdog with cheese, slaw, onions and diced pickles.  And while I waited for them to prepare it, do you know what I got? Free Sweet Tea. Free. And a refill! (pictured below with a bottle of pepper vinegar)

Even if the food hadn't blown me away I would have gone back for no other reason than the stellar service.  But it did. I shot my diet all to hell and I don't even feel guilty about it.  Tomorrow it's back on the wagon; but tonight, it's sweet dreams with Georgia's on my mind.

Subway B-boys on a Downtown A-Train

Ahh the ubiquitous subway dancer boys! Such fun for the out-of-towners. But look at the genuinely disinterested expression on the face of the girl in the foreground.  New Yorkers take pride in being unimpressed by the impressive.  Search high and low, the only true enthusiasm you'll find in the big apple is on a Broadway stage.

These boys are behind her dancing to undeniably happy music performing death-defying feats of acrobatics on a herky-jerky moving train, and she can't be bothered to have a look.  Why should she? She's probably seen it all.

I however gave them some change, and now I'm making them famous.

Delightful, Delicious, D'Espresso

When time permits, it is not in poor taste to hunt for a bargain.  I thought I'd found one when the move-in papers at my new apartment claimed that, as a resident of this building, I'd receive a 15% discount at D'Espresso, a small coffee shop around the corner.  But when I waved my key fob and asked my barista if it got me a discount, he replied with a brusque "absolutely not" without skipping a beat.

Lesson: Never believe what your apartment people tell you.

I thought since I was there I might as well stay, so the barista, whose name turned out to be Ese (like essay) and whose manner turned out not to be so surly, made me a fine macchiato and welcomed me to the neighborhood.  He recommended me restaurants and we passed pleasantries while other customers came and went.
D'Espresso (the Lower East Side location) is small and straightforward, stark and sparsely decorated, all off-white with a couple of paintings of coffee beans.  The music is upbeat and modern: nothing you've heard, but nothing that sounds unfamiliar either.  All this comprises an atmosphere of cool, ordered calm: a lovely environment in which to enjoy a coffee.  There is wi-fi and window seating.  And as for that bargain hunt, next time I'll probably stay home with my Nespresso Essenza.  But on special occasions when i do go back, I hope it's Ese who's there to greet me.

Sweetheart, Please ...

In America we value individualism--non-conformity, self-expression--at least in theory.  So here in New York, things can get pretty noisy when 8 million people are clamoring to express themselves.

When I first arrived in the city I took great comfort in the anonymity that it offers.  Having come from a small town, I couldn't leave my house without running into someone I knew.  A simple (dreaded, anxiety-ridden) trip to Wal-Mart was like one of those nightmares where the most random of people from your past appear out of nowhere.  My fourth-grade teacher on the toilet-paper aisle, that girl i once made out with ringing me up at the check-out... The great thing about New York is that I can walk down the hallway of my own building and still not get recognized!  You can sit on a bustling street corner, barefoot, in the dead of winter, rattling a cup of change, and no one even knows you're there.

The Glamour of Anonymity wears thin pretty soon, and you realize it's rather nice to get noticed. It's gratifying to know you're being heard.  It validates you're very existence.

So that's why I was struck by Vicki from the tree store (?) who chose to leave a message for the litterbug outside her back gate.  What I love about her note (aside from the fact that it's posted, appropriately enough, in a tree) is its tone of Exasperated Militantism, speaking to every passerby's empathy when she says "I really have enough to do..."  We all have.  We're busy.  And exhausted.

But Sweetheart, please...take the time today make your voice heard.  Write a note.  High-five a stranger.  Yell at a taxi driver for honking his horn in gridlock.  Whether Vicki's litterbug will stop leaving boxes outside her gate remains to be seen.  But it really doesn't matter.  She said her piece: and I'll bet you she's having a damn good Tuesday because of it.

And, Reader, I wish you the same...

Welcome to The Urban Boy Scout

In case you are wondering, I am in no way affiliated with the actual Boy Scouts of America, nor have I ever been. But I love the idea that they stand for lifelong learning, developing values and building character (incidentally, i hate their religious exclusivity and anti-gay rhetoric--but, hey, no organization is perfect).

I've been forging a path of my own (scouting, if you will) here in the big city of New York for a while now, and at every turn there's a new adventure, challenge, heartbreak or windfall.  Sometimes I feel like Odysseus on that harrowing journey home; but that guy had it easy: at least he knew what his destination was.

The highs are high here, and the lows are low. But that's the beauty of NYC. (No one needs a manual on how to get on well in Peoria, after all.) But here in the Concrete Jungle, it wouldn't hurt to heed the advice and share the tribulations of an Urban Boy Scout.

So that's what this blog is about: Keeping your chin up and your head straight; Keeping not only composure but also sanity; and above all, keeping your fabulous in check.

Stay tuned, and you might just get your hands on the only merit badge the Urban Boy Scout ever aspires to earn...