Rockstar Weekend

The Dance Party hail from the picturesque rolling green hills of Prince George’s County (OK, maybe more like concrete jungle), the land that brought to you world icons such as Martin Lawrence and Kenny Lattimore. They create musical mayhem with 80s and 90s inspired songs like “Nintendo Power” and “Daniel Larusso is Gonna Fight.” As the self-professed “pioneers of slop-rock” The Dance Party is made up of four friends just trying to have a good time and make some fun music along the way. I am not only proud to be a product of the same town but also to call them my homeboys. Before they came to be D.C.’s latest Rock craze they were causing a ruckus at house parties throughout College Park and Towson, Maryland. Beers, guitars, songs, debauchery. All of the elements that made my college experience so enriched. They taught me a lady, could indeed still be a lady, while swearing during a game of flip-cup and having beer dribble down her chin.

This past Saturday they made their New York City debut at The Continental (www.continentalnyc.com) on the lower east side. The Dance Party rocked the house but the after-party took the show. You know how some things just never change? One night out with them and I swear I was in college again. Beers, guitars, songs, debauchery. We ran all over town like old times. I spent most of Sunday nursing a hangover but it was worth it. It was a refreshing break from the chichi lounges and overpriced drinks. I had forgotten how much I enjoy a nice, cold beer. Visitors from home always make me a little nostalgic for the simplicity of suburbia.

The Dance Party will undoubtedly be doing more shows in NYC. I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime they play in Washington D.C. and surrounding areas often, so do yourself a favor and check them out. If you do make it to a show, don’t expect to sit down and sip on your Cider Jack. Be prepared to rock out and party your ass off.

http://www.thedanceparty.net/

The Joy of Grocery Shopping (w/ celebrities)

City life is often a rushed, streamline routine. It is easy to overlook the basic joys of suburban life that I once used to gleefully partake in. Among other domesticated rituals, one of my favorites: grocery shopping. I’ve lost this affinity for several reasons, 1) my local grocery store, Christedes, offers a shameful selection of food and 2) my kitchen is so damn small! Thus I’ve become uninspired to cook at home. Not too long before I moved to Manhattan did I begin to develop a true fondness for cooking. Creating meals, finding the perfect ingredients, serving loved ones and watching them enjoy it. But for whatever reason it faded and it just wasn’t as enjoyable as it once was. We New Yorkers eat out so dang much, always trying to get a taste of the newest restaurant, that homecooking has become a novelty.

Last night after work, just before sunset, I walked over to Columbus Circle to get some groceries, where the fairly new Time-Warner building sits, aside the southwest corner of Central Park. A proud addition to New York’s Westside setting, her all glass façade beautifully reflects the fountain in which a large marble and bronzed statue stands. All situated in front of the trailing greenery of Central Park. It makes it a delight to walk by on a warm evening. I strolled by, glancing into the ground floor windows: Coach, Hugo Boss, Thomas Pink and Stuart Weitzman. Some other residents include the Mandarin Oriental hotel, CNN studios and an array of exotic restaurants, including the Stone Rose lounge.

I eventually made my way downstairs into Whole Foods where I was to execute my mission in rekindling my love for grocery shopping. As a once fervent grocery shopper I was tickled with excitement to see the mass assortment of cuisine! The entire store was designed in such an inviting manner, even the lighting was pleasing. It felt more like a european market and less like a mundane factory. Everywhere I turned produce was radiating with a freshness and ripe color. Sections of Indian food, a sushi station, dessert buffet, aromatic bread baskets…they have it all and you can’t beat it (this is the crème de la crème of grocery stores people). I picked up a shopping basket and set out for the beaming red tomatoes. Which will I pick, I thought. Plum, romaine, cherry, vine ripe? I went for the romaine. As I stood there gently squeezing, subtly sniffing, I noticed a familiar girl standing near me. I took a closer look and realized I was standing side-by-side, sniffing tomatoes with Denise Huxtable! I couldn’t believe it, so I just kept staring. Yes, I turned into one of those silly, celebrity-giddy girls. It was only a moment and she was gone. But wow, Denise Huxtable/Lisa Bonet, who woulda thought? (That never happened at the Giant in Greenbelt, MD -- that's for sure).

I ended up spending about an hour in Whole Foods. Wandering around, perusing all the ethnic fare from Ethiopian to Peruvian. Oh, and the cheeses! I wouldn't even know where to begin. I think I’ve rediscovered a love for food and in turn I feel that excitement for cooking coming on again. Environment makes a difference in our moods. In a perfect setting, the most clarifying thoughts can come to mind. I think I might let outside factors dictate my emotions too much, instead of evoking them from within. All this insight from grocery shopping?! Well, I suppose we can find inspiration in unexpected places sometimes.

Rebuttal: "Holla!"

Below is a very enlightening response to my previous blog entry entitled, "holla!" I received it via email since it is obviously too long to post as a comment. I thought it so well expressed and entertaining that it deserved a honorary posting on my blog. Enjoy.

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oh what? you don't appreciate being propositioned by NYC guys?

I don't think guys holla unless (a) they've had some degree of positive feedback in the past with that approach before or (b) it's the only thing they know to do.

The thing is...I actually know guys who are able to get away with some of the stuff you mentioned (grabbing a girl by the arm and saying something like "lick my ear lobe" and it works). There's always one little alpha male in the herd who gets away with the audacious moves that make him a "legend" within his pack of beta males and the beta males end up going all over NYC bolstered by the success of alpha males success and they imitate to miserable results.

Let's be honest there are only a few things that really work for a man when he's trying to get the attention of a completely unknown female. He has to be able to do one of the following things: (a) dance (b) look like Hrithik or (c) have a rap (line of BS) so astounding that he could sell 10 tons of hamburger patties to a vegetarian.

Guys don't have confidence. They're insecure as hell (in general). Especially around icy death maidens such as Rakhee (kidding). You're asking guys to find confidence where they have none. Therefore, they drink. And they drink alot. Because if one shot makes us feel like Aamir Khan, then five shots will make us feel like Salman Khan (and well all know how much girls love that sexy bad boy)...

Girls may adore a sincere guy who can make her smile. But they're not likely to sleep with him, now are they? And isn't that what our little 2am chicken n' rice party boyz want when they see you at Earth or Deep or wherever. They want some ass, they don't want your respect. They want to be Colin Farrell, not Tom Hanks.

At the end of the day...the whole holla crowd is a numbers game. Yell at enough girls and one of them might be drunk enough to find you charming enough to see her naked. And that's the end of it.

I'd also like to address a distinct subset of the male population: the south asian club hopping desi male out n' about with his bOyZ...

What do you expect from us? Guys don't know what to do. They have no history to fall back on. Dad isn't there to give them words of advice. For dad, his idea of hitting on a girl was getting a relative to put an ad in the Hindustani times. And once he cornered the girl in a room his game consisted of gems like, "so, how are you liking university?" or "i'm in my 3rd year of engineering college and I have my H1B Visa" or "yes, my father went to school with your father"...

Along those lines...that's why you have so many of the 2nd tier desi boys (the one's with a tad bit more class than the 'holla' boys) who when putting the moves on a girl will go with scintillating conversation like, "yeah, I just got a six figure job as an analyst with Morgan Stanley. I'm not sure if I want to be a commodities trader or if I want to do something really sexy like Roth IRA's" or "..and I bought a piece of property on the lower east side. Ya know, someplace to put my beamer." There they stand with the well-coiffed spike---ensconsed with 20 gallons of hair gel--and the snazzy dress shirt and dress slacks. They have the classic Indian handsomeness (maybe they're even over 5'9)...and yet they're oh so dense.....

Guys having game? That's a joke. They don't know what they're doing because they really don't have much of a model to fall back on and they don't have "the abcd'ers idiots guide to hitting on girls". The rules of engagement that apply to their caucasian counterparts don't really apply.

And I'll end by saying in defense of the holla boys, that the ladies of NYC--as lovely as all of you are---aren't exactly without blame. Girls looove the power play of it all (admit it, you do). The moment a girl hits puberty and notices "changes" in her own physique she also notices the scary way in which boys and older men are suddenly looking at her. And from there on, the way she handles that interaction will dictate her whole approach to men for the rest of her life. At some point she knows she has a certain power in this dynamic and how she handles that new found ability also affects the way boys will treat other girls.

And I'll leave it there...

Crooked Teeth...

On Being Alone

What can I say about being alone? It’s lonely being alone. It’s sweets and A-minor. It’s gray and stubborn. It’s bitter and Dostoyevsky. It’s Radiohead and candles. It’s rain and sighs. It’s ‘the-glass-is-half-empty’ and paranoia. It’s sweatpants and discolored visage. It's indecision and indifference. It’s soft horns and disappearing under the sheets. It’s 10 missed calls and unjust reclusion. It’s bloating and remembering. It’s pictures and smiles. It’s futile letters and arbitrary anger. It’s mirrors and regret. It’s too much wine and late night calls. It’s praying and sleeping. It’s throwing and keeping. It’s breaking and judging. It’s insomniac fiction and fulfilling hunger. It’s stubbly legs and smooth longings. It's a song played one too many times. It’s salty lips and hopefullness. It's the gentle nudge of old rhythms. It’s happiness come round once again. Alone is discovery, it is anticipation and it is change.

The familiar face of renaissance reveals herself in the cool calm of the morning. Alone; I wholeheartedly embrace her.

12/18/03

A man is never as fortunate or as unfortunate as he imagines.
-La Rochefoucauld (1613-1680)

Man In The Bubble

I walk 20 blocks to work and 20 blocks back home, everyday. To some it sounds like a lot, but it really isn’t much at all, especially when ‘all the world is a stage.’ One of my favorite things to do is to walk and observe all that is going on around me. In New York City there is no lack of entertainment. Every other corner is a man tapping or chanting. Each subway stop has a Broadway-worthy performance. Dancers, singers, poets, gymnasts, preachers – there is an act for every boy and girl. And only in New York City will you see a man willing to trap himself in a giant fish bowl for 170 hours.

I live directly behind Lincoln Center. On my way to work last Tuesday I noticed a crowd congregating at the center of New York’s premiere performing arts center, which I pass everyday. I saw what appeared to be a massive marble placed in front of the fountain. As I moved closer I noticed a man inside. The sign in front read, “David Blaine: Drowned Alive.” It then continued to explain: ‘you are under risk of being video taped if you remain in this area.’ I had no clue what the new stunt was about, though I must admit I was quite intrigued. Everyday for the next several days the crowd grew bigger and bigger. Finally, I gave in, and at about midnight on Thursday I walked over to a relatively meager group of people still hovering over the famous illusionist. I waited in line for 5 minutes and made my way up to the aquatic sphere. At first I felt as though I were looking at a caged animal. It was a circus-like atmosphere, people flashing pictures, children pointing and asking to “touch.” I was just waiting for the cotton candy and clowns to come out. But as I looked into the glass I saw him, peaceful, sleeping. I put my hand on the glass; he looked up for a moment and waved at me faintly. That was it. To my surprise it was actually an invigorating experience. I can’t exactly explain why however. You just had to be there.

Tonight, he held his breath for 7 minutes and 8 seconds. Not the record he was going for, which was to break the supposed all time record of 9 minutes, though this is still up for debate. Nevertheless, Blaine is a performer, the 21st-century Houdini. Many argue whether his stunts are real mental challenges as he portrays. He’s been buried alive for seven days, remained on a 100 foot platform for 35 hours, levitated on a busy Manhattan street, stayed frozen for 61 hours – all on camera and in front of hundreds to see in the flesh (or so we think).

I am more inclined to believe than not, because let’s face it, believing is more fun. That and the fact that I grew up with a professional magician/yogi/actor for an Uncle who used to mesmerize me for hours with his Las Vegas acts (I’ll leave those details for another post ;-). In any case, I experienced the “magic” first hand this past week. Maybe it was all of the people, wanting to believe, together. All gathered to cheer on one man in his quest to break a record. There was a constant whirl of high energy and spirits all week. Real or not, it was uplifting and exciting. Sometimes illusions keep us young and inspired. Are we not all guilty of a little illusion here or there?

I wonder what stunt we have to look forward to next. One thing is certain, that Blaine sure does know how to draw in a crowd.

Comments

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Girl-Woman

Disaster is approaching the edge of my skirt. Not just a girl. A Indian girl, living in the city, away from home is not uncommon, but it is never easy. After being a bridesmaid in my best friend’s wedding several weekends ago the waters began to stir and I got caught in the current. Mom: “A boy’s mother was asking about you.” Of course being a bull-headed, independent, Desi daughter I grunted and refused to even look in the direction of the suitor. Mostly because I was preoccupied with friends and also because that is far from my present agenda, very far from. Afterward I thought about it and wondered if I was too rash, perhaps I should’ve considered? Nah, I thought, and proceeded to dance with my friends.

I am a Girl-Woman. Neither here, nor there. I struggle with the term "woman" because it is so definitive. I prefer to pick and choose when I want to be a woman. On the weekends, a girl. At home with Mom and Dad, a Tomboy. At work, absolutely a woman. While on a date, a lady. With girlfriends, a girl-woman. Whatever the situation calls for I’ll conform. I don’t feel I have to make that decision at twenty-five. I can rock heels and a pencil skirt if need be, and sport sandals and a baby doll dress the next day if the mood calls for it. The choice is mine for a short period of time. Not much longer, but I have a few years to salvage as a girl and I’ll take it, thank you very much. Suitors can wait while I continue with my tea parties, dress-up and girl talk for now. The mischievously demure manner of which a girl possesses is not an easy transition to the provocative and intense nature of womanhood. There is a pale pink area, almost fuchsia, not white nor crimson, where us Girl-women fall under.

Though it will be catching up with me before I know it, I have the best of both worlds at the moment and I adore it.

A New Taste, A New Perspective

Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavour, metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned.
-Bronte

Does it not follow that the pleasures of such a life are illusory phantoms of real pleasure, in which pleasure and pain are so combined that each takes its color and apparent intensity by contrast with the other?
-Plato