Author: Tonya

Posted on

Cronica de una Fuga

Wednesday night I was invited to a very early sneak preview of this amazing film. It depicts the true 1977 story of an Argentinian soccer player who was kidnapped and detained by the military government then in place for being part of a rebel group — charges of which he was completely innocent. It was very Solzhenitsyn, very scary. The beginning was confusing — I couldn’t tell what was going on, just that his family was being threatened, then that he was being captured and beaten by someone for something — and that something I never completely understood. At first, I found this confusion annoying, and couldn’t help comparing the movie to another favorite of mine, In the Name of the Father, starring Daniel Day Lewis. But that story was told from an omniscient point of view (it showed Gerry Conlon getting into petty trouble by the police, then the Belfast pub bombing, and then how the government officials were led, wrongly, to Conlon and his friends as the perpetrators, much of the action to the rhythmic beat of poppy U2 music… maybe it was told from the omniscient p.o.v. partly because of pressure to avoid being accused of IRA sympathy?…) But this film was far less Hollywood, more quiet, more real, and I soon realized, was meant to be told mainly from the main character’s perspective precisely so that we’d relate to him. He had no idea what was happening to him and why, and the audience experiences that bewilderment along with him. Full of disturbing but necessary violent images, it becomes an edge-of-your-seat thriller once the four prisoners we come to know the best plot their escape. It stars Rodrigo de la Serna, who played Alberto Granada in Motorcycle Diaries. Since he played the character opposite Che Guevara in that movie, attention wasn’t focused on him, but here you can really see what an amazingly talented actor he is. The whole film is extremely well acted. And it powerfully drove home how horrible, how frightening it is when it’s the government who’s organizing the terrorism; when there’s no accountability. I don’t want to give anything away, but it isn’t until the tail end of the movie, when you’re told, via text, the final outcome of the men’s lives years later, that you feel safe. As bored as I sometimes get practicing law, it reminded me that where there’s no judicial system, there’s no protection of human rights. It made me feel better — at least momentarily — about being a part of that system, even if I’m just a tiny cog in one wheel of a huge machine. During the focus group held after the viewing, which I participated in, the discussion leader asked what one word people would use to describe the film, and, amidst terms like “thriller,” “suspenseful,” and “intense,” a woman shouted out “relevant.” Totally. There definitely need to be more films like this — about ALL forms of government-endorsed torture.

Anyway, not to be facetious given the gravity of the film, but Rodrigo de la Serna is cute! And, funnily, I kept seeing male ABT principal dancers in the movie too. Horribly, the murderous power-hungry leader of the detention house kept reminding me of Marcelo, albeit ten years older and with a 70s Village People-esque moustache, and I kept seeing Herman Cornejo in the bravely insolent prisoner who sets the escape plan in motion… And, using another dance metaphor, as someone in the focus group remarked, the escape was really well choreographed. The men are all completely naked, since they’ve been stripped by their detainers, so the climbing down walls, swinging on ropes, sprinting down streets, etc. seems like it would have been difficult without exposing too much… yet it was really well done. And the cinematography was interesting too — I normally don’t notice things like that, but in the early scenes, where the men are blindfolded or beaten senseless, the director shot the captors and insides of the house at an angle, so you were cocking your head all about trying to make sense of what you were seeing, much like one of the prisoners. It was a gorgeous film; I don’t know how long it’s going to be until it comes out, because they usually don’t have the focus groups if the film is nearly done, but when it does open, GO SEE IT!!!

Speaking of movies: my friend Nicole found this article about the short film I’d posted about earlier that I’d seen at the Tribeca Film Festival. Made by this preternaturally sophisticated teenager, Kiri Davis, it’s entitled “A Girl Like Me,” and deals with young African American girls’ internalized self-hatred; the young filmmaker astutely performed the same doll test as Dr. Kenneth Clark that Thurgood Marshall used in the landmark anti-segregation case, Brown v. Board of Ed. I’m so glad to see she’s getting more exposure for her amazing film! Go Kiri!!!

Perhaps ABT dancers were on my mind when I saw Cronica because I just spent LOADS on my subscription to their fall City Center season. Ugh. But I did save 27% by buying my tickets all together (they give you a discount for a purchase of three or more performances), and so of course I used this savings to justify getting orchestra seats, where I find I can get the most out of the performance… They’re setting up at the theater now — there’s a huge poster of Marcelo lifting Julie outside 🙂 And more pics inside, in their lovely brochure: Herman looking very dapper in Twyla Tharp’s Sinatra Suite, David in The Green Table, the guys in Stanton Welch’s Clear, and absolutely gorgeous pictures by Fabrizio Ferri of the principals — I don’t think anyone has photographed them so well. Particularly David — he really brought out his strong Roman bone structure, delicate light skin and beautiful light blue eyes; and Jose — he shot him from below, so he looks all powerful, like the hunky badass NY actor Franky G., albeit half the size and likely possessing four times the strength 🙂 If Ferri wasn’t Alessandra‘s partner, I’d think he was gay. Not that a man (a male artist anyway) needs to be gay to appreciate male beauty but… Anyway, I’m very excited about ABT — will be a good thing to come back to after returning from my big ballroom / beach blast in Florida. As will — not to be goofy and I’m totally not a TV-head — Dancing With the Stars, starring Karina Karina Karina! Ooh, don’t they look adoooorable?!?

Posted on

Saggy Butt is the First Symptom of Serious Ballet Withdraw

And I have it big time. I’d tried on my bikini for my Martha’s Vineyard trip in my home mirror, but only viewed myself from the front; didn’t look at my lovely derriere until I got out there. Yikes. Alyssa told me to shut up and wear it to the beach anyway, as she was wearing hers and was suffering from the same problem, except hers was induced by withdraw from 20+ mile marathon-running, power yogalates, gymnastics and hiking all over such places as Bolivia and Egypt. Alyssa is the consummate amateur athlete, making my dainty ballroom dancing look like cheesecake in comparison. Still, we both have injuries and actually reconnected after not seeing each other for many months then serendipitously meeting at a physical therapy center in SoHo. Except, being the far more serious athlete, her injury was a lot more severe: she tore her hamstring in eight different places whilst doing the splits drunk at her birthday party. But good thing that came out of it was hooking up with the ER doctor… I LOVE Alyssa; thanks to her I have an inkling of what it’s like to be a Sex and the City character 🙂 And I love her for gamely trekking out there with me mainly to see Marcelo Gomes‘s first ballet (and David Hallberg perform it) in Stiefel and Stars, even though she’s not a big ballet fan. Thanks for keeping me company and being adventurous, Alyssa 🙂

The ballet, “Loving,” was beautiful! So sweet and romantic. Someone likened it to Robbins’s “Other Dances” to which I guess it was similar, but with several couples. And, not to be silly, but something about it kind of reminded me of the courting scenes in Martins’s French pastoral “Songs of the Auvergne”- maybe just because the students danced the corps parts. It was urbane, but there was something sweetly innocent and very slightly bucolic. David and Gillian were lovely as the leads — David is always so charming in his dancing. It’s funny reading him on The Winger, where he is just a guy — smart, thoughtful, sophisticated for his age, and somewhat bookish, but just a guy with a guy view of the world, not this princely dancer seemingly from another time. And the costumes, which, according to David, Marcelo designed, were gorgeous! The women and girls wore light summery dresses with haltery tops and flowing, knee-length skirts; Gillian’s top was white — a different color from the rest, and it looked perfect on her. I definitely think he has a future as a choreographer (not to mention fashion designer…)

Alyssa fell completely in love with Ethan, who did nothing more than introduce the school and the program, and apologize for not being able to dance, as he just underwent surgery on both of his knees. Women always fall for that man! I just find it funny that he didn’t even dance and Alyssa, being a normal female, still went for him. I guess it shows that so much of being a performer is personality. I like my favorites for the same reason; I probably just don’t get the appeal of Ethan because he’s straight! (Seriously, my gaydar sucks. Or maybe it’s that I have excellent reverse-gaydar. I met James McGreevey briefly while doing a judicial clerkship in New Jersey and crushed on him so badly; I’m attracted to them before they even know they’re gay…)

Anyway, besides the ballet, we went to the beach, did a lot of touristy things like visit the red cliffs at Gay Head Bluffs and the gingerbread houses in Oak Bluffs, consumed loads of good wine and seafood (me: Pinot Noir — liked it even before Sideways, I swear!, steamed scallops in a bun, wasabi-coated soft-shell crab, and cornbread-crusted cod; Alyssa: Bordeaux and lobster, lobster, and more lobster!), went to several art galleries (Alyssa’s an art history grad student), ate ice cream at Mad Martha’s in Oak Bluffs which our tour guide said is a favorite of Bill and Hillary, and did A LOT of shopping (I bought: a shiny fuscia purse; a tiny ruffly white top to go with this pink and white Betsey Johnson skirt I’ve long been trying to match; two books — one by Styron who once lived on MV about his depression, and one on being an artist by Anna Deveare Smith — at a bookstore owned by this fun, interesting woman who writes about ghost stories and gossip on Oak Bluffs and who’ll be writing a piece on the ballet in the upcoming Martha’s Vineyard Gazette which I will definitely keep my eyes open for; and two photographs, a sketch, and a print at two different galleries. Alyssa bought some wampun jewelry — made from the purplish coloring found inside the shells of clams native to the area, a sweater, an aromatic tea set for her godmother, and three books — one on African art, which is her area of specialization, and two by the writer / bookstore owner.) Here are some pictures of the trip.

Now we are back in NYC and I’m very nervous about all the work I have to do (basically research and write two briefs) before I head down to Florida for the US DanceSport nationals a week from tomorrow. We got back later last night than expected and I was very tired for my lesson tonight with Luis. He could tell, so instead of practicing lifts that could be dangerous when half asleep, he spent a lot of time talking over the choreography and brainstorming about my costume (I wanted a cute ruffly skirt and peasant top; he was thinking more hot pants with red fringe and basically no top — he’s got another thing coming; I don’t do skimpy tops ever but especially not with upside-down lifts…), and hair (he wants me to get extensions for fullness and for me to wear my hair in curlers all night the night before and all day the day of the performance (which is going to go over really well at work, especially if I get any surprise visits from clients’ families…). Ugh. AND, he decided to make some changes to the choreography — after listening to the music again, he felt one of the lifts should go in another spot than where it was. Which sent me into a frenzy. Apparently, he still does not realize that I’M A TOTAL AMATEUR and making any changes to the choreography a mere six weeks before the performance is nothing short of hysteria inducing. I’ve noticed that when I’m not dancing regularly, I get really nervous about my private lessons. It takes me forever to learn choreography, I’m scared of new things (like overhead lifts and dips where I have to support my own weight), and I just can’t move well (he tried to teach me how to shake my knees so fast that my whole body vibrates, and I could not for the life of me do it — it involves simply bending and straightening your knees, albeit at lightening speed…). Well, my hips and left knee are still a bit achy (from the tendonitis and slight meniscus tear, respectively) and my adductor muscle is still sore, but if I’m going to be donning tight ass pants and not have a nervous breakdown over minor changes in my routine, I’m definitely gonna need to go back to Steps…

Posted on

Penis-Head, Non-Sexist Doctors, and Trigeminal Autonomic Cephalgia!!!

So, I went to Columbia Headache Center, spent several hours with a headache specialist, and this was my diagnosis! Not penis-head — that was Luis’s diagnosis. I had my films with me from a former brain MRI I’d had that my neurologist had given me to take to the headache specialist, and after looking at the slides, he told me I could keep them. So, since I go to the dance studio on my way home, I had the films with me, and when Luis asked me what was in the huge shiny silvery envelope marked “images” and I told him “my brain,” he said, “cool, I’ve never seen one of those before. Let’s see!” So there we stood in the middle of the studio floor, under the chandelier, looking at a bunch of small images of my brain from various viewpoints. In one of the shots that looked like it was taken directly above my head, Luis found an object that he thought was shaped exactly like a penis (only Luis!). I couldn’t completely make it out, but Luis obviously has much more experience with male genitalia than I do, so I believed him. He yelled, “now we know what’s on YOUR brain, Tonya!” He also found some shapes resembling grass and weeds… So, my diagnosis from the head pain neurologist was “Trigeminal Autonomic Cephalgia,” and my diagnosis from my gay dance teacher was “Penis Brain.”

Anyway, I’m very excited about my diagnosis — my official one that is! After patiently listening to me go on and on and on about my latest headache episode, the doc said right off I have this rare neurological disorder, so rare that not a whole lot is known about it other than certain meds work on it and certain ones don’t. And apparently it’s not dangerous, like stroke or aneuyrism-related, thank God! It’s just one of those things, where the person gets certain kinds of pain — in my case pain in one temple and side of my head and in my sinus cavities on that same side– as well as sinusitis-like conditions — congested nose, ear, and very watery eye and swollen lid. But there really isn’t a sinus condition, which is why the antibiotics the doctor had given me to kill the sinus and eye infections I didn’t really have, and all the decongestants, did nothing. And since it wasn’t a migraine, that is why the migraine meds didn’t work either. So, now I’m armed with an entirely new arsenal of meds for the next one. One even comes in the form of a shot! He taught me how to administer the shot myself. I have to stab myself the leg hard and fast. It kind of made me queasy thinking about it, but I KNOW the next time I have that severe of pain, I’m not gonna be thinking about being queasy! Because the pain and sinusitis-like conditions are brought on simply by the way the brain is structured, it’s NOT about caffeine, chocolate, MSG, cheese, stress, lack of sleep, or estrogen. It is just because it is, basically. So the reason I’m so excited about being diagnosed with a rare, scary-sounding neurological disorder? For one, I feel unique — how many people can say they have Trigeminal Autonomic Cephalgia?!? And, two, and most important, is that I feel vindicated! I KNEW IT WASN’T A MIGRAINE; I KNEW IT WASN’T A MIGRAINE; I KNEW IT WASN’T A MIGRAINE!!! So, NO ONE can tell to just deal with it until my period’s over, like a woman should, lie down with a cold rag on my head, not take on so much so as to stress myself out, or even just that I injest too much coffee, wine and chocolate. The doctor laughed when I screamed all this out at him. Even if they were migraines, he assured me, I was regurgitating the old decrepit school of thought — telling a woman she should take it easy lest she ‘compromise her delicate composition’ etc. If they were migraines, he’d give me meds responsive to migraines, not tell me I shouldn’t try to be a lawyer, writer and dancer at once. So, my doctor’s COOL! Because, honestly, another general pract I’d seen for these (yet another time my regular primary doc was out on vacation) told me exactly that: I was doing far too much and needed calm. And I remember him focusing on my job too… “You don’t really like being a lawyer, do you?”, as if such a profession was enough to mentally destroy any poor girl, or as if, even if I did hate it, that had anything to do with the fact that my eye was the size of a golfball, I couldn’t breathe out of one nostril or hear out of one ear, and it felt like someone was stabbing me repeatedly on the side of my head. Who would think that sounded even mildly like a migraine??? But of course they were migraines because I’m a female of child-bearing age, and that’s the kind of headache females of child-bearing age get. That doctor was near retirement (and now is, thankfully); my new head pain specialist was pretty young — late 30’s. And the fact he wasn’t far out of med school worked in my favor too — he remarked when he diagnosed me that he could barely remember this weird disorder from his textbooks; a doctor who’d been practicing longer, and never seen a patient with it, might not have. Ugh. I don’t give a damn if I sound ageist, but if older means too sexist to give a proper diagnosis and proper medical treatments, they need to change the way they think or get out of the profession.

Okay, off to bed. So I can get up early for my trip tomorrow morning to Martha’s Vineyard for beach and ballet!!

Posted on

Hooray for Benji, Hooray for Marcelo, Hooray for Karina, and Hooray for Dance Fans Who Need Cool Dance Wear!!!

First, congrats congrats CONGRATS to Benji Schwimmer who, as most know on Wednesday night, was named “America’s Favorite Dancer” on the ever-so-popular TV show “So You Think You Can Dance”! Here is a picture I took of him being declared winner on my sucky, cable-less TV set. Thank you to Benji (and Heidi) for officially putting West Coast Swing on the dance map!!! I don’t know Benji personally, but he seems like such a sweet guy, very genuine, very caring, not to mention a very versatile, charming dancer who showed that not only could excel at ballroom but could do everything from Fosse to hip hop too. I don’t know how to judge dance technique, especially when there are dancers from so many different styles all competing together, and people accuse the show of simply being a popularity contest, which in some ways it is. But I think the bottom line with being a performer in general is that, while it goes without saying you have to be able to dance extremely well, your personality also has to show through — that’s what audiences will latch onto. And those with the most personality, who know how to put on the best, most mesmerizing performance, will go the farthest.

This coming Thursday, Marcelo Gomes!, the great Brazilian ABT principal whom I’ve long been obsessing over (smiley face), is having the world premier of his very first choreographic venture out on Martha’s Vineyard as part of the annual performance by Stiefel and Stars / Stiefel and Students, run by ABT principal Ethan Steifel. David Hallberg, whom I’ve recently begun obsessing over (another smiley face), new ABT principal and Winger contributor, is dancing the lead along with Gillian Murphy; Stiefel’s summer students are dancing the corps. I managed to convince one of my friends, Alyssa, to make the trek out there with me to see it, and I’m so excited! I am always up for a nice ferry ride and am packing my Dramamine now! Into my Vera Bradley tote of course, ha ha, an essential for any travel to the Cape 🙂 This is my first time on Martha’s Vineyard, though I’ve been to neighboring Nantucket before, and damn is MV expensive! B&B accommodations are the price of a four-star hotel in other parts of the country! And many of these B&Bs advertise oh so important amenities such as Ralph Lauren bedsheets — ha ha! A real selling point for me! It’s interesting to me, by the way, how B&Bs in different areas sell themselves. The ones in Blackpool advertise quiet locale with single sex rooms, catering only to people over 50, etc.; the inns in MV advertise designer bedding. I think someday someone should do a study of what B&Bs say about the local culture they serve…

I am also excited about my upcoming trip to Hollywood, Florida, during Labor Day week (Sept. 5-10), to attend the U.S. National DanceSport Championships, the most prestigious ballroom comp in the country. Unfortunately, the event is held at the swanky hence exorbitant Westin Inn Resort and Spa, and blasted Trump has just bought the only affordable accommodation in the area, so this trip is going to be a big expense for me. Plus, the event admission fees in the U.S. are huge — much more than in Blackpool anyway. Yikes. Even when I’m only watching and not competing myself, this hobby is slowly draining me! And, all the stress of flying right now is not helping, to make a massive understatement. I’m one of those who’s been a VERY anxious flier since 9/11; then as now, I work two blocks from where everything happened (everything that happened in NY, that is). Plus, I always carry several bottles of water and fruit juice on board so I can take last-minute sinus and relaxation meds, “pop” my ears, and prevent dehydration which would, I fear, launch me into a horrid headache episode. It looks like that’s going to be a problem now; fortunately my flight is only 3 hours long. I booked on JetBlue, which I’ve never taken before, figuring that’d make it part of a new adventure for me. (And, because of its extensive , stress-relieving on-board entertainment system, my fellow post-9/11 anxiety-ridden office-mate, Michelle, recommended it.) I have to say, one great thing about dance is that it got me on a plane again after the attacks. My first time flying post 9/11 was last year’s trip to Billy Fajardo’s Hustle and Salsa comp in Miami. (Before that, I was taking only destination-limited and ridiculously expensive cruises and train rides… so yay for dance!). Anyway, regardless of expense and travel stress, this is my first time at this huge comp and I’m excited about that, excited about soaking up some sun on the Westin’s ritzy private beach, getting orthopedist-recommended dancer cross-training by swimming laps in their big outdoor pool, possibly even getting a good head and upper back massage for my headaches depending on the spa’s price, and enjoying good wine, food and Art Deco architecture in fun South Beach. Oh, and of course watching the greatest in the country compete for the U.S. title!

Also, I’m very excited because, according to their website, my favorite Latin goddess, Karina Smirnoff, is going to be joining Dancing With the Stars for the upcoming season! I know a lot of professionals dislike her, supposedly because she has a real ego and is not the nicest person, but I surmise it may possibly be chalked up to jealousy, since she gets a lot of attention. (She had a speaking part on Shall We Dance, and in Blackpool, her face was all over dance CD covers, posters, you name it.) Still, I think, artistically, she is the greatest Latin dancer in the world today, and I love watching her. I guess the show, being another “popularity contest,” will enable us to witness her personality for ourselves, right!

I also want to bring attention to The Winger’s message board. It’s a place where dance lovers can post messages about upcoming events, critical reviews, etc., and just talk to each other about their love of dance. It’s a lot of fun! Unlike Ballet Talk and some of the other message boards, it’s open to all kinds of dance and, unless you get really out of line, the moderators don’t restrict you in what you say. And, when you set up your profile, you can attach a picture of yourself (so that every time you post, your photo pops up, so you can feel like a real op-ed commentator, like Maureen Dowd or somebody!) or, you can select one of the many “avatars” Kristin has downloaded, to represent who you are. If you haven’t already, definitely check it out! Additionally, The Winger is now selling its own line of t-shirts and other dance accessories. The designs are very cool, we all need dance / yoga/ just hanging-out clothes, and it’s a lot more fun to wear something unique than sporting the typical Danksin / Capezio / Bloch lines. Plus, one message board member has said you can make your own design on the site. I’m definitely ordering at least one!

Finally, I have been caring for my little upstairs neighbor, Jones, while his mother is away visiting her boyfriend in Scotland. It’s been almost a year since my dear little Najma passed, and I am still missing her immensely. My allergist wants me to refrain from getting another kitty for a while to see if my allergies improve, which so far, I haven’t seen a change. So, it’s a great pleasure for me to kitty-sit! Here are some pictures of Jones and me!

Posted on

No Sexist Medicine!!!

Ugh, well three strenuous dance lessons last week including trying hard hard hard to do my oh so highly prized fish with no hands turned out to be not so good. Got sick all over again. Just a bad sore throat and cold this time, no flu thankfully, and, as of yet, no horrendous headache, but the weak muscles and bones and congestion have meant I had to miss a couple more dance lessons. Which I’m really not liking right now because my showcase is coming up very soon. I guess I have to not worry. Worry creates stress and anxiety, which is part of what’s keeping me sick, I must repeat to myself. Ad nauseum. I decided not to perform in the studio’s group class, which is not Hustle I found out, but Shim Sham, a form of Swing that I’m not familiar with anyway. It would have been fun but I have enough on my plate with my crazy fast Salsa/Samba/Cha Cha routine with Luis and my slow arty lifty Rhumba with Pasha.

My regular internist is back from vacation, so I went to see her last week about the hideous headache episode (see last two posts). She said regardless of the sinus x-rays it still sounded more like sinus than migraine and x-rays aren’t very good at showing everything that’s going on anyway. Since my general neurologist is not helping much, she decided to send me to a headache specialist. I have an appointment with Columbia University’s headache center next Monday. It should be good. They’ve already directed me to download several forms requesting detailed info on the pain and gather all my sinus and brain MRIs I’ve had over the years. I’m also gonna print out my blog entries describing this last headache episode (at least one good thing a blog is for!) and type out my old headache diaries. And I’m gonna INSIST that they not take one look at me, see ‘female of childbearing age’ and label me a migraineur. It’s sexist, unfair, and downright potentially harmful to me. Sexism simply has no place in medicine. I want them to consider all of the possibilities, and only after they’ve considered everything, including the male-dominant cluster episodes, will I let them tell me they could be migraines and proceed with the typical migraine meds. I don’t want to take those damn meds (which, as I’ve described before, constrict blood vessels serving the brain thereby causing frightening lightheadedness / light-upper-bodiedness and stress me out over the possibility of, at best fainting at an inopportune time, at worst suffering a stroke or heart attack) unless I know for sure my headache is a migraine and they’ll actually work.

Anyway, my throat is still sore and I still have gallons of post-nasal drip but hopefully, hopefully, I am now on the road to recovery and can resume my dancing later this week. I bought some killer Country Life vitamins recommended by a friend who had gastric bypass and couldn’t eat for months, and finally meekly asked my landlord to repair my broken air conditioner (the wonderful man bought me a new one after determining the old was irrepairable!), in case my crazy illness was related to that nasty heat wave we had. And, though my past week was sadly devoid of dancing, I did catch up on some reading. I managed, without vomiting, to get myself as far as my nearest New York Public Library to return a ballet videotape (ABT‘s The Dream), and, while there, found a copy of Kaavya Viswanathan‘s young adult chick-lit novel “How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life,” which, thinking they were all pulled by the publisher after numerous allegations that either she or her editor plagiarized from several other YA writers, quickly snatched and read, out of sheer curiosity of course! And it actually was pretty good, I thought. It was a sweet, over-the-top comedy about an Indian girl whose parents push her so hard to get into Harvard that, in her quest to convince the dean she’s worthy of admission, she loses something of herself, which, through the course of the novel, she regains. Of course I don’t know how much content Viswanathan may have pilched from other writers since I don’t read contemporary YA (though ideas aren’t copywritable anyway), but something I know she couldn’t have “stolen” was the hyperbolic but truth-ringing parts about immigrant parents pushing their poor kids at all costs to realize their American dream. They were hilariously sad, and for capturing at least that, at such a young age (18), I think Viswanathan should be commended.

I also borrowed a copy of Colson Whitehead‘s new book Apex Hides the Hurt, which I think I was just too zoned out on meds to get, and Melissa Bank‘s The Wonder Spot, which I found surprisingly un-put-downable for being about rather mundane subject matter. It’s basically just about the life, from early puberty through adulthood, of this very ordinary woman who’s not particularly good at anything, struggles to find a suitable career, struggles to find a suitable man, struggles with losses of friendships and family members — it delineates a normal female life, basically. Yet it was a very interesting read for me. I find myself constantly struggling to be not normal, to be above average, to have everything — be a dancer with perfect technique and artistry, as close to professional as possible though I well know I started way the hell too late in life for that; I dream of someday winning a major literary award, but it’s incredibly difficult just to write the first draft of my novel with an intellectually- and emotionally-demanding 50-60-hour-a-week job as a lawyer; and I want to be this amazing lawyer who argues a groundbreaking case before the U.S. Supreme Court and writes formidable law books and articles, well respected as being at the top of my profession, but there’s no way I can even keep up with developments in criminal law outside of that required by my job with the writing and dancing. I guess Bank made me think, wow, some people, most people, almost all people in fact, just ARE, and that’s enough, that’s perfectly fine, that’s even interesting to read about. And Bank herself — I’ve often been so envious of her, as I’ve been of other writers who’ve had a bestseller or won a literary award or had their book made into a movie, but this is really only her second book and she’s not 15 years old. I mean, you can have some accomplishments, and still be ‘accomplished’ … as long as I have some things in life to be mildly proud of, I guess I’m okay; I don’t completely suck as a human being.

But then: across the street at my bookstore, I also picked up a copy of this month’s Pointe magazine, whose cover story features the illustrious David Hallberg, whom of course I’ve been gushing over for the past couple months since he just brilliantly danced his first season as an ABT principal (and has been writing smart little entries for The Winger blog). The mag contained mostly pretty pictures, and the story was way way too short for someone as sophisticated as he, but one thing he said at the end stood out. “Everyone blooms at a different time,” he said, and in the past three to four years he’s had to learn to calm down, have patience, stop “worrying about everything happening at once.” He’s 24 years old! So, at the ripe old age of 20 he had to force himself to stop obsessing over not yet being hailed as one of the world’s greatest dancers, which of course he now is; he’s definitely on his way anyway. So, hmmm, weighing Bank’s protagonist’s way against David’s — I choose David’s! Definitely. I guess even if it means HEEAADDAACCHE??…

Posted on

I May Be a Man…

I had my first dance lesson last night since my headache episode! I’m still a tiny bit hazy from the whole ordeal, but I’m so so SO glad to be dancing again! And, since one of the group classes was cancelled, one of the many former ballet dancers at my studio who’s training to teach ballroom was free to help teach me how to do my dream trick: the hands-free fish. A picture of real dancers (ie: Marcelo Gomes! and Gillian Murphy from ABT) is here. Oooh, but it’s soooooooooooo unimaginably hard! I couldn’t do it, try as I did. Your back needs to be so incredibly strong. It makes me realize how tough ballerinas are; elegant and graceful as they seem, their backs and legs are made of steel! I need to hook my leg around Luis’s back and hold myself onto him with that leg only. If I let my back collapse, I will fall to the floor. And it doesn’t look like it from the picture or when you see people perform it, but it’s so hard to keep your back arched and not collapse it. The ballet dancer gave me some serious exercises to do, mainly where I lie on the floor on my stomach and arch my back up to the waist as high as I possibly can, and hold and hold and hold and frigging hold. Ugh, it hurts! But I wanna be able to do this so so bad, it’s worth all the work! Happily, I’ve been able to sell Luis on it; he thinks it would be so cool to end the Latin routine with it. Consummate Latin dancer though he is, he’s been really receptive to much of my ballet-y suggestions — Luis’s great!

Tomorrow, I have an appointment with my regular primary care doctor to discuss my headache episode (see last post). The doctor on call phoned yesterday to tell me the sinus x-ray was normal. So there was no sinus infection, which scares me because that means it was neurological, as he said. I did some internet research today, and from what I’ve read, I truly think it was a kind of cluster headache, which is an extremely rare neurological condition, even more rare in women (at least 70% of sufferers are men). But migraine descriptions just don’t describe my pain very well. With migraines, you have pulsing pain on one side of your face, no necessary sinus connection, and you want to lie down and try to sleep it out. With mine, and clusters in general, the pain is sharp sharp sharp, boring, drilling into your skull, exruciating, searing, honestly even suicide-inducing, making the sufferer want to scream out in pain or even knock his or her head against a wall. One sufferer whose account I read described it as having surgery without anathesia, which is precisely how I felt, and hence was why I was begging the doctor, who laughed at me, for an emergency morphine injection. And your eye on the side of the face where your pain is located is watery and red, and you have sinus congestion on that side as well; not so with migraine.

Most interestingly, you absolutely positively cannot lie down with a cluster or the pain is even more excruciating; instead sufferers pace the room, walk, run, must remain active at all times, which is exactly how I was, to the confusion of one friend who commented that I “take pain like a man” — ie: actively jumping around, not passively lying on the couch. That characterization made some sense to me, but it wasn’t like I was trying to act like a man. When I read about cluster headaches (hereinafter “CH”), and realized they described my pain more precisely than migraine, and read that men are overwhelmingly the sufferers of such head pain, I realized I was possibly handling my pain “like a man” because I had a predominately male headache. The only part of the description that doesn’t fit me is that mine was one long, 4 1/2 day headache, whereas CH’s are typically 1/2 to 3 hours in duration coming and going throughout the day for a period of weeks. I found this amazing CH support group website and almost cried when I read some of the accounts. I know this is badly anti-feminist of me, but when I first read that most sufferers were men, I immediately thought, oh my gosh, I can’t imagine a man going through this. Last week I was literally walking the streets of Manhattan screaming and bawling out in pain, with cab drivers, store clerks, pharmacists, even a group of police officers in a deli where I went to buy ice taking pity on me, trying to hold my hand, helping me get to where I wanted to go. Not to mention all of my friends and co-workers… But in our society, which stigmatizes any male showing of pain or emotion, it seems a man would have to try to hide his pain, would never be able to act like this, or would surely scare people. Sure enough, some of the accounts on the support group website talk about running to the basement to pace, bang heads against the wall and cry and scream out, desperately not wanting wives and children to witness such a state of helplessness. Other men likewise talked of “not feeling like a man,” being humiliated, feeling out of control, etc. So much worse to have to deal with these societally-based feelings on top of this horrendous, horrific pain. And, in my New York example, especially with the police or even begging the doctor for injectible narcotics, so much the worse if the man is minority — he may automatically be suspected of being an addict or criminal… Ugh, so nasty on so many different levels…

Anyway, I’m gonna talk to my doctor about it all tomorrow, and ask her to consider sending me to a headache specialist instead of my same neurologist. Even if I end up with a diagnosis other than CH, I feel like I’ve learned about another sad world through all of this. Bottom line: if you know people who suffer from chronic headaches, of whatever type, please offer all the love and support you can, and please don’t dismiss them!!

Posted on

I Can Never Be a Drug Addict…

Though I’m feeling kinda high now! Have just overcome the absolute worst ‘headache’ I’ve ever had. Actually, I don’t think I’m gonna call them that (at least when they’re this bad) because the term somehow diminishes their seriousness.

It started on Tuesday evening, after a week of a flu / eye infection likely caused by the flu, while I was writing my last blog entry as a matter of fact, and consisted of a tightness in my left temple extending out to the center of my face. I took my regular Excedrin (which cuts off my minor headaches, especially when taken with Coke — nothing else works, and I’ve tried every over-the-counter drug there is, many many times). But Excedrin didn’t respond, and the next morning I woke up with real pain – tightness all around my head and now a pulsing in the left temple where the pain had originated. After another dose of Excedrin and a cup of coffee did nothing, I took a Maxalt (migraine drug) tablet. Two hours later, after literally feeling the blood drain from the upper half of my body (I HATE Maxalt’s side effects: it works on your migraine, which is a headache resulting from enlarged blood vessels bringing blood to your brain, by constricting those vessels, thereby reducing the blood supply to your head — a medical authority must deem you not at risk for stroke or heart attack before you’re given the drug needless to say…), the throbbing pulsing pain began to recede. But the tightness was still all around, and it felt like something was lodged in my sinus cavity, where my ear canal meets my throat (I had a sore throat and my ear needed “popping” as an effect of the flu). I waited until the lightheadedness, or ‘light upperbodiness’ rather, subsided, then somehow got myself to the subway, and on to work. About five hours later, the Maxalt began to wear off and the pulsing began again. I tried to follow it up with Excedrin, but to no avail. I took another Maxalt; this one did absolutely nothing, except make me feel the drain of blood from waist up. I took another (you can take up to three in a 24-hour period, but no more under ANY circumstances — I don’t like taking a single one to tell the truth), and this one had a minor effect. Tightness was slowly turning into sharp shooting pain, and throbbing was diminished but still there. I didn’t want to leave work and navigate the subway in such a condition — either with the increasingly excruciating pain or the upper body bloodlessness. My sweet co-worker and friend Denise (a fellow dancer, by the way — she does belly!) suffers migraines and insisted on accompanying me home. By the time I got home, the pain was horrendous — I felt shots of pain searing straight through my skull from side to side, and more pulsing in my left temple. The doctor who I’d seen on Monday for the sinus / flu / eye problem told me he’d be on call 24 hours until my regular doc returned, so, I called him. He said it sounded like sinus, since that was my original problem, and to focus on decongestants and not the Maxalt, and, as horrid as such a suggestion sounded in the heat wave, to take a very steamy bath — I really needed to clear my sinuses. I did as he said, and, unbelievably, while in the shower I did feel some relief, despite my 94 degree airconditionerless apartment. But when I got up to my loft to go to sleep, there was no way in hell my head was going near that pillow. I had to sit completely upright or it would feel like either the veins in my left temple, or the gunk trapped in my ear canal — I couldn’t tell which was the more apt characterization of the pain — were going to burst right out of the left side of my head, leaving blood and mucus and who knows what else all over the pillow. Seriously, I don’t mean to be gross. I was really scared I wouldn’t wake up if I fell asleep. Instead, I spent the night crying because of the, now 30-hour-long searing, pulsing,horrible pain, never knowing when it would end.

I waited for 9 a.m. to roll around, then called doctor’s office right away, making an emergency appointment for 2 p.m. But when I got to work, I couldn’t take it any longer. Finding me propped against the bathroom wall with a wet paper towel glued to my head, a co-worker asked what was wrong and I burst out crying. Another co-worker emerged from another stall and insisted I go to the hospital; head pain just shouldn’t be that bad unless there is something serious going on. Both wonderful women walked to my office with me and waited while I phoned the doctor to tell him if he couldn’t take me in now, I’d have to go to the hospital. The receptionist said to come in right away. Alexis and Lisa, and now Jonathan, another co-worker and friend from down the hall, helped me pack my things, turn off my computer, and get downstairs and safely into a taxi.

Doctor couldn’t figure me out. Which doesn’t surprise me since even my neurologist has never diagnosed my head pain precisely. She (neurologist) has insisted they’re some form of migraine because I respond at least somewhat to Maxalt, which supposedly only works on migraines, although no one in my family has ever had a migraine and they’re supposedly very hereditary, and although the pain that prevents me from lying my head down or holding it in any other position than upright is symptomatic of sinus congestion, whereas migraineurs typically wish to lie down on the side of the head from which the pain is emanating). Neurologist surmised that I had combination migraine and tension headaches. My allergist, however, says they’re likely almost completely sinus based, since I do have a deviated septum and other chronic sinus problems, and my sinus headaches are simply turning into migraines. My regular primary care doctor thinks they’re actual sinus infections and always gives me antibiotics, which may or may not work — they’re usually gone by the time I’m done with the penicillan. And, this doctor first thought it was sinus since I’d just had the flu, but upon seeing how much pain I was in in his office, decided they had to be something more; sinus pain couldn’t be that severe. He suggested possible temporal cluster headaches, which have both a sinus and migraine element but are tremendously uncommon in women (unlike migraines) and usually cause pain in the face, not the temple. He also said it might be neuralgia. Was in too much pain to even ask what that was, and I really more than anything desperately needed to be free of at least the searing pain. It had been over two days now. He said he wanted to send me for a sinus x-ray to see exactly what was going on in my sinus cavity, which was definitely a good idea, but there was simply no way in my state I could get myself around Manhattan. I couldn’t see cars coming at me on the streets, couldn’t read street signs very well — my equilibrium was completely off, I was having a hard time walking a straight line, and I was easily becoming disoriented. Normally, head pain associated with these symptoms would be a sign of a possible stroke or brain hemorrage, but since I’ve had the pain before (albeit not as bad) and since sinus conditions are also associated with loss of equilibrium and disorientation, he just didn’t take it seriously. He said after my x-ray, he’d place an order of Codeine — a narcotic drug that was so powerful it’d be sure to knock me out, which would be waiting for me at my pharmacy, a whole 50 blocks from his office. Okay, fine, but I need an injection before I leave, I told him. He looked up from writing the prescription. What? My allergist has given me on the spot shots when I’m broken out in hives and itching like a madwoman, so I assumed he could give me a shot of Codeine; I was actually going to ask for Morphine.

“I need it to get to the x-ray place and to get home,” I said. He chuckled and went back to writing the prescription. He wasn’t taking my pain seriously; I wasn’t going to get my shot; I was going to have to walk the streets of Manhattan in excruciating, blinding, disorienting pain. I started bawling, like a baby. I couldn’t help it. I don’t understand why doctors don’t understand headache pain. Headache pain can be completely debilitating; I felt for parts of this one like a guy who’s seriously injured in war and taken to a base hospital; I needed Morphine like he did. I cried harder, trying between sobs to tell him I couldn’t get myself six blocks to the x-ray imaging place without a shot of something to abate the pain. He laughed and said he didn’t have any Codeine on him, shaking his head in humorous disbelief at me. I asked him if I could have a shot of Morphine then. He burst out laughing. I cried harder.

Finally, he looked me in the eye and said, “What movies have you been watching? Do you realize what would happen if I had injectible narcotics in this office! Every drug addict in this city would be banging the doors down…” and continued laughing.

Oh. Didn’t think of it that way. I guess drug addicts are not breaking down the allergist’s door for a fix of antihistamine. Maybe I should have gone to a hospital. I mean, I don’t know if my insurance would have covered it, but they should if a person is unable to get herself from doctor’s office to imaging center to pharmacy to home without serious risk of walking out in front of a car. I thanked him, grabbed my prescription, and cried all the way downstairs and all the way outside, where I managed to find a cab driver brave enough to pick up the hysterical girl and drive her six blocks.

The people in the imaging place had no sympathy either. I asked for a glass of ice to hold to my head and they told me to walk down the street to the deli and buy one for 50 cents. After waiting nearly two hours, during which time I tried, unsuccessfully, another Excedrin, I was finally called to the back for my x-ray. Once I peered into the mirror of the changing room I saw that my left eye was swollen practically shut. This is now days after I’d started the antibiotics for the infection, which seemed to be clearing up. The technician who performed the x-ray was nice and took more x-rays than were ordered, as I kept pointing out to him that it was my left temple and ear canal that were hurting, not my facial sinus cavities, and he complied, taking pics of the whole left side of my head, in addition to the face. When I left I asked him if I was having a brain hemorrage, he looked at me like he’d never heard the term before. Said he was only ordered to look at my sinuses, and doc would get reports hopefully tomorrow. Tomorrow… if the Codeine didn’t work I didn’t know if I would make it through the night — both because I was worried about something — whether it be a vein or sinus cavity — bursting, and because I just couldn’t take the pain anymore; this was the longest head pain episode ever and I needed to know it would end sometime. I can honestly see now how people can become suicidal over pain.

Duane Reade pharmacy was a comedy of errors again. The heat wave crashed their computers so they couldn’t turn out any prescriptions. Clerk told me it would be a couple of hours. Not wanting to go back to my hot apartment, I managed to find a refrigerator with cold sodas, and held one to my temple while I crashed on the chairs. Soon, I heard the pharmacist calling out to me. I had my head in my hands, and had taken my glasses off since they had been bothering me basically since I began wearing them. When I looked up to see a figure in the distance wearing a white gown waving at me, I had no idea what was going on. I found my glasses, apologized and stumbled to the counter, where he told me he’d written mine out for me in his own handwriting since the doctor had explained to him how much pain I was in. Awww. But he needed to go over the instructions with me verbally since his handwriting was so crappy, he said, and when he did so, for some reason felt the need to impress upon me the importance of not consuming alcohol with this or any narcotic. Advising me not to drink for the third time, the clerk, who had just told me she likewise had a migraine, burst out laughing, and for the first time, since the ordeal, I nearly did as well. Poor Indian pharmacist had no idea what we were off about — that the idea that anyone with a severe headache would actually want to party was a riot. “Look, I am just trying to do my best to get this poor girl her medicine,” he muttered, embarrassed.

Well, apparently, I could never become a drug addict, because Codeine, one of the most intense painkillers, had the effect of: a) completely numbing my entire body, except for my head; b) taking away the throbbing in the left temple but; c) by breaking those throbs into tiny sharp sparks of pain; d) shooting the sparks of pain through my head to the other side so they could then shoot back across, thereby; e) making my entire head ablaze with sharp sparks of searing pain shooting back and forth across my head. I think I’ll take the throbbing in the one temple over this, thank you very much. I had no idea what to do: could I take Codeine and Maxalt together? I was going to GIVE MYSELF a brain hemorrage with the damn drugs. I dug out my neurologist’s card and dialed, only to discover she’d moved. Three phone calls later, I finally found her. After initially scolding me for for not having been in for a while, hence not knowing about the relocation, she told me I really shouldn’t take so much Maxalt and should follow up with acetominophen (Excedrin), or say, Codeine. I burst out crying all over again. She couldn’t understand my reaction to the Codeine: “Everyone responds well to Codeine, oh well!” she said as if I just told her I’d missed my bus. Ended up telling me to take the Maxalt through the weekend unless the pain actually subsided, and good luck! (Okay, and she also told me to come see her next week regardless of whether the pain was gone to discuss.)

I went up to my upstairs neighbor’s cool, air conditioned apartment (she’d offered it to me earlier in the week) and tried to prevent myself from thinking about my pain by playing with her cat. That pain aversion lasted all of 8 minutes. I tried to explain the intensity of my pain to her; she said she understood, she’d had horrible backpain, and could she offer me this great drug she’d been given: Codeine. Ugh. I came home and tried to blast the pain out by putting on head phones and cranking up my Latin dance CD I’d bought in Blackpool. When the time came that I could safely do so without drug interference, I took another Maxalt. Between the Samba and the pill, some of the edge actually went away.

Managed to sleep sitting up on futon Thursday night, and awoke Friday morning in same amount of pain. Maxalt was hardly working at all by now. I called Lisa at work to ask her to inform the front desk I was sick and check my mail. “Oh my gosh, I’ve never seen someone in so much pain over a headache,” she said, causing me to bawl again. Called doctor; sinus x-ray not in yet. When 8 hours had passed, I took another Maxalt, only to realize, to my horror this was my last one. I called the pharmacy and the nice Indian pharmacist told me I luckily had one more refill left; which he’d do for me. By that time, I was feeling light upper-bodied by the last Max, and decided to wait an hour before walking three blocks to pick it up. By the time I got to Duane Reade, Indian pharmacist had left for the day and the blasted computers were down again. A record-breaking heat wave is not a good time to be sick. Other pharmacist said he couldn’t fill it with the network down and to come back. I bawled again. Funny thing was that all of the bawling was making me feel a little better; I think it was literally relieving some pressure in my skull muscles. On my way back home, I got the idea to stop in the deli and buy a bottle of Coke. I found black cherry vanilla. At home, I popped two Excedrin and downed them with the Coke.

In half an hour the whole headache was gone.

So… when that ‘headache with something special’ comes on, I drown myself with Excedrin and Coke, they do nothing, I resort to Maxalt, which takes the edge away but not the root of the pain, I try to follow up with Excedrin but it does nothing, so I try more Maxalt, which now has decreasing effect, try to follow that up with a narcotic, which simply turns one pain into another more severe one. Then, after four days of excruciating, completely debilitating, even suicidally-invoking pain, I take two simple over-the-counter Excedrin and a black cherry vanilla Coke and it’s gone just like that.

Happily today, Sunday, was my first pain free day in over a week. I still have a bit of a sinus thing going, but my ear has popped, the eye is not dripping mucus, and my throat is not bulging red, and, most importantly, no head pain, either at the left temple or anywhere else!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Thank you so so so much to Lisa, Alexis and Denise from work, Rebekkah from upstairs, and Jonathan and Nicole for being such great friends and calling me repeatedly to check up (and make sure I was still alive) 🙂 🙂 For someone without a husband and family, friends are everything 🙂

I’m very excited to return to dance. Today was the last day for my eye antibiotics, and therefore, glasses! I stretched hamstrings and adductor muscles this morning. Ouch. But not as bad as I would have thought. And I transferred to video the routine Luis and I taped on the camcorder, watched it over and over, and wrote down the choreography (just so I can remember it in my own way; Luis’ll laugh at the writing!). I seriously can’t wait till tomorrow night at 7 for my lesson! Anyway, here are a couple of pictures of my sickness: one of me and my arsenal of meds, and one of some interesting ‘artwork’ my freezer made!

Posted on

Total Frigging Joke!

Okay, I’ve decided to give up for the moment trying to figure out how to post pictures on Word Press — way too much for me to handle right now being sick with flu / migraine / eye infection / sinus infection / laryngitis / dehydration-verging-on-heat-stroke. So, I am just going to link to the photo page of the picture I wish to show as such. That’s what I will be looking like for the next week. Ugh. Red puffy make-up-less eyes covered by a massive, thick shield of glass. I hate hate HATE glasses! After waking yesterday morning completely unable to swallow, hear, breathe or see out of one eye, I called my doctor only to find I was unable to speak as well. Apparently my flu infected not only my sinuses and eye but my vocal cords as well. Of course my doctor would have to be on vacation, leaving me to call first her answering service to find out who her emergency doctor on call was, then call that doctor and explain to his curt receptionist who I was, what I needed, and get out of her detailed instructions on where they were located. I really don’t know how she understood a word of my squeaking. After the trying phone conversation I drank a bowl of steaming (perfect in this heat wave) chicken broth, and coughed up a bit of blood. I know, tasty… sorry.

Anyway, I managed to make it up and down two sets of subway stairs, walk the length of two subway platforms, and then lumber five blocks out in the blinding sun wearing my depth-distorting glasses with no shades. Ended up with a horrible migraine. Doctor confirmed I do indeed have an eye infection and cannot wear the contacts for at least a week. Did not have strep or mono (as I honestly was beginning to fear), but likely had a sinus infection, and of course laryngitis. He gave me prescriptions for two different antibiotics, one of which my local Duane Reade did not have in stock and so referred me to another store but not until after I’d already paid for both there, leaving me to cough up more blood trying to explain to the pharmacist at the second store why he should fill my prescription without me paying him, then ask him about drug interactions since I knew I’d be downing Maxalt (mind-saving Migraine meds) the second I got home.

I eventually got over my headache last night, although it’s returned twice today, likely I think, from the heat, and I’ve now used up an entire $10 three-pack of Maxalt tabs. My eye is less red and swollen but every time I turn on the fans, I literally feel it dry up (though I make sure the fans aren’t directed at my face) and then begin to blur and hurt again, which is a big problem at least for the next couple of days because of this BLASTED heat wave. When I turn off the fans, I find myself drenched in sweat (I don’t have an air con because I’m honestly usually not that hot) which the doctor told me to be careful of or I’d suffer the effects of dehydration.

I’m so depressed! I called the studio this afternoon and cancelled my two lessons — with Luis and Pasha — for this week. Plus, they’re starting a performance class this Thursday for the October showcase, which I was going to take. I don’t even know what dance the class is going to perform but judging by the teacher, likely Hustle, which would be a lot of fun. I almost cried when I spoke to the receptionist, defensively telling her there’s just no way with this sinus thing, returning migraine b/c of heat wave and having to wear glasses, and the damn glasses themselves that I can dance right now. She laughed and assured me it was okay and I could join the perf class next week; I’d easily catch up on the class and my private lessons. I just hope the eye is better next week. I still don’t know what real dancers do when things like this happen? I wonder if I could just go without seeing well – at least I wouldn’t freak myself out as much fixating on how horrible I looked in the mirror?… And maybe I’d be less inhibited with the “sexy poses” Luis gives me and Pasha’s “acting” suggestions, by not being able to see any crazed looks people in the studio may be giving me??? Hmmmm… Oooh, I know this so isn’t a big deal in the grand scheme of things, other people go through far worse, and I sound like a complete baby, but I just want this to be over; I want my contact lenses!!!!

Posted on

Help — What Do Real Dancers Do???

I took the day off from work Tuesday and made my annual trek out to the Winter Garden restaurant on the Brooklyn boardwalk to enjoy my little golden pot of red caviar with mounds of buttered bread and Russian white wine whilst taking in the alimentary ocean air and lovely sights of the charmingly vast cross-section of humanity found on Brighton Beach / Coney Island 🙂 See photos beginning here. This has become an annual tradition of mine since reconnecting over the same “brunch” with a friend from college Russian classes a few years ago after recognizing each other at an alumni event in the city. Except now that she’s gone to Washington DC to do fancy State Department things, I just go out on my own now — kinda my little celebration of the beginning of the summer, which started way late for me this year since work was a total bitch all the way through mid July… Anyway, after my totally dehydrating meal of salt and alcohol, I decided to walk to the other end of the boardwalk and visit the Aquarium, so I could reconnect with my little friends — the happy smiling beluga whale, bashfully adorable sea horses, scary great whites, and my favorite, the leafy sea dragon — the most oddly beautiful little creature who looks like a cross between a fish, seahorse, and, as his name implies, leaf, which he maintains for camoflage. I’d forgotten that the beluga had passed away last year, they no longer had either the leafy or weedy sea dragons, and I missed the bloody shark feeding frenzy, but I did get to see the sea lion performance in the center tank, and plenty of cute wiskery otters and elephantine walruses seemingly trying to rub up against us humans via the glass of the underground tank separating us from them. And there were plenty of little seahorses, although it was really upsetting me that no one was obeying the PLETHORA of “please don’t take flash photos” signs. Sea horses in particular are very shy and easily frightened, poor things. Of course I don’t mind flashing away at a certain bravura ABT dancer doing a dangerous leap during curtain call, but no way will I harm a tiny defenseless fish!

Anyway, between dehydrating myself with food and wine, surrounding myself with sneezing coughing children, and getting caught in an actually quite chilly seabreeze, I woke up in the middle of the night with a horrible sore throat. Ended up coming down with the second of the two bouts of flu I’ve had in only six months. My doctor had offered to send me to get a vaccine this year since there was no shortage, but I said no bother, didn’t get vaccine or illness last year, I’ll be fine. I’m never, ever not getting it again! I was out cold for two weeks in February, and have been sick for five days now. I finally felt it beginning to degenerate into a cold yesterday, but last flu that cold turned into a flaming burning searing sinus infection. And, a few hours ago, I noticed a scratching sensation in my left eye, followed by intermittent bluriness. I changed contact lenses, but after it continued to hurt, I looked in the mirror to see the eye was completely red, swollen, and draining some kind of clear but steady substance. Doctor mom says it’s an infection. I’m gonna call the real doctor tomorrow, but if it is, I’m scared she’s going to tell me I have to wear glasses for a while. I can’t wear them at all, especially in dance. Not only will they fly off during a lift — forget a lift — a simple spin even — but I have no depth perception since I never wear them since I have a weirdly shaped face, which no pair can fit correctly. I’ve been wearing them for three hours now and have stubbed both toes twice on various apartment furniture that appeared much farther away than they actually were, slammed my right shoulder into the wall rounding the kitchen corner, and almost missed a stair on the way out of my building to the corner bodega. But even if I was used to them, they’d never stay put during any low-level trick. What do real dancers do when these things happen? I mean, I’m trying to take good care of my knees and hips now, doing my strengthening exercises regularly and taking Advil and epsom salt baths at the first sign of inflammation, and I’m TRYING to eat well. But I never thought of a flu / cold turning into an eye infection requiring me to wear glasses as a potential problem. And, although my performance is still a couple of months away, now is the time I really have to start getting serious. Luis warned me last lesson now that we’re done choreographing he’s going to start being a total hardass on me. I assured him I was ready; now I might have to cancel my next lesson? The key obviously is to stay healthy in the first place, which, for some reason, the last couple years I have not been able to do. Anyone sneezes within a half mile of me and my throat is on fire next morning. Are there super-vitamins? I was taking Centrum, but that didn’t seem to be doing anything for me. Professional dancers never seem to get sick??? Oooh, hopefully the doctor will give me two days of amoxicillan and it’ll be all over. If I can even call her; my voice is starting to give into laringytis. Could I be more of a mess?

Anyway, before coming down with the full-fledged flu, I managed to see a couple performances by the San Francisco Ballet, which just finished a week-long run at Lincoln Center. Tuesday, their opening night, I spotted two “celebrities” — dance writer and former ABT soloist Joseph Carman, and with him William Cubberly, the publisher of the book they put together with photographer Roy Round, Round About the Ballet. I’d met Cubberly before, in Barnes and Noble, but when he asked me, camped out on the floor perusing the glossy photos, what I thought, frustrated from having just been hit on by a very annoying guy, I was kind of rude to him, without of course realizing he was just the author wanting to know what I thought of his book! Now I’m not even sure he’s straight, so I’m laughing even more at myself for having thought he was trying to pick me up 🙂 Anyway, they passed right by me, but I said nothing — I’m far too shy 🙁 Then, Thursday, I saw Mark Morris‘s Sylvia (okay, I was a bit run-down by then, but I swear, I didn’t breathe on a single soul!), which was okay and better than the Ashton the ABT does (though no one but NO ONE makes a better Aminta than the splendid David Hallberg!) but I was hoping for something a bit more iconoclastic from Morris, even though Playbill warned not to… Speaking of Mr. Tall and Beautiful (Hallberg, of course), I saw his radiant blonde head up in the Fourth Ring. Wasn’t sure at first whether it was him, because he said on The Winger he was going to Mexico for a break and I didn’t know whether he was back yet, but his friend and fellow ABT dancer Matthew Murphy posted on his blog that they saw the ballet that night, so I was right :):) He was just sauntering around, in jeans and a t-shirt, like a normal person, not the STAR he is :):)

Okay, time for more nighttime Robitussin. I just wanna be well, dammit! Two days ago, I told myself to be glad the Cadbury 5 I’d gained at Blackpool was now gone; now, I just wanna crave a cheeseburger and fries, would give anything to have my appetite back. Even if my eye thing is nothing serious, I’m not going to have the energy to dance…

Posted on

"Come … and Do YOU!"

This is a partial quote on advice to freshman from a senior graduating from my alma mater, that I fell in love with while flipping through my latest alumni mag. The whole quote is:

“It’s easy to be pigeonholed, to fall into a role: the protester, the hipster, the low-level college bureaucrat, the rich New Yorker. Instead, come to Brown and do you.”

So very Brown! And, that’s kinda what I like about blogging. You can really be you — no editor or agent telling you some philosopher is too lofty to quote, metaphors you worked hard on are too long, an image is too disturbing and must be changed, a word a character habitually uses too esoteric, etc. — all of which may well be ‘correct’ by increasing the work’s sales potential, but nonetheless prevents you from having complete ownership of your writing voice and creative work product, you know? Here, you can create your own little space — theme, links, titles, categories — all in a way that suits you… So, there, blogging is very Brown 🙂

Anyway, back to the graduating senior: Mr. Elliott Walker Breece. He concentrated (the unique Brown word for “majoring”) in Modern Culture and Media (the unique Brown term for “semiotics“) — my favorite subject (wish sooo much would’ve studied it more…), and, among loads of other accomplishmens, served as editor-in-chief of a student newspaper, “African Sun,” and while in middle school (?!) founded a web development company. Now, he’s just launched a unique online music store called Amie Street. This store, which he describes as “iTunes meets American Idol meets eBay,” is geared toward selling the work of small, independent recording artists, who can download their songs and create their own profiles. Consumers can also create their own profiles in which they can make lists of their favorite music as well as recommendations of artists selling on the site. The price for each song starts out low and climbs with every new buy. Consumers who recommend songs that end up selling well actually get a percentage of the profits! What interests me so much about this is not only its novelty but that it so perfectly puts into praxis what Chris Anderson in his new book The Long Tail, which I blogged about in my last entry, says about the internet-led economy. Anderson writes that, in the “niche” (rather than “hit”)-centric internet economy, not only are artists themselves self-producing more, since the tools of production are now easily attainable, but consumers actually take a role in production as well, by spurring the sale of niche items through recommendation lists (like those on Amazon) and word-of-mouth — or, I guess, “word of blog” if you will. Breece has taken that idea to a new level by allowing consumers to reap a portion of the profits of these underground / “niche hits”. And, like Anderson’s blog-on-the-way-to-a-book, Amie Street has maintained its own blog on the way to a business. It’s very fun to find such connections! And makes me very proud to have gone to this fabulous school that produced someone with such a cool Brown way of thinking, and such a pioneer. Brown rocks!!!

On a weirder note, I don’t know what it is with me and book stores, but I honestly don’t know whether I unwittingly took part in some kind of social experiment this weekend or if this guy was actually hitting on me. Now that both ABT and NYCB are off season, I found myself planless on Saturday night, so, not wanting to sit home, decided to visit the book store. I find books can be great company. I was browsing the discounts, trying to decide whether $7.95 was too much to pay for a copy of Anais Nin‘s Delta of Venus, when suddenly this guy walked up.

“I want to compliment you on your color choice,” he said.

I looked up at him; he seemed totally serious. I looked down at my dress. I was wearing this very basic black rayon sundress — absolutely nothing special, no interesting accessories, nothing.

“Huh?” I said.

“I noticed you’re wearing all black,” he continued, “and black is a very good color for you, it suits you well, brings out your highlights.”

I have brown hair, with no highlights; I had no idea what he was talking about.

Then he laughed and said, “Obviously, I’m not really complimenting you on your wardrobe, I’m just using it as an excuse to meet you.” He extended his hand and said his name was Andrew. I wasn’t at all into him, but wanted to be polite so shook his hand, said my name, then quickly looked back down at my book.

“I often come here and get ideas of things I want to buy,” he said, “then go to the library and just check them out.” I kept my gaze on the book. “Do you do that?” he asked.

I harrumphed and looked up at him. “No, I just buy them,” I said curtly, returning to the book.

“Doesn’t that get expensive?” he said.

“I guess,” I said, shrugging, still looking down.

Then, he went into this huge story (I actually remember this conversation word for word because it was so odd): “Speaking of expensive, I went to the store today for some cargo pants. I tried on two pairs. One had a bunch of little pockets, all down the leg, like ten of them, or maybe eight, on each leg. And they were cool. But I didn’t really like them. Too much noise. This other pair was plain but made of really really cool material. I don’t know what type of material it was, but it was cool. I really liked them. Then I saw the price tag. $160. I mean, would you pay that for a pair of cargo pants?”

I must have had a deer-in-the-headlights look on my face because a guy passing behind him just then did a double-take at me. “Would you pay that? Don’t you think that’s expensive?” Andrew repeated.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, looking back to Nin. How obvious could I be?

Then, he actually bent over, peered around the book cover and said rather loudly, “What did you do today?”

Knowing I wasn’t going to get rid of him, I said I had to go and put Delta back on the shelf.

“Oh, are you trying to keep it light?” he asked, reaching out and actually touching my sleeve. I didn’t even know what he meant. I just said goodbye and started walking away. He walked behind me asking again if I was “trying to keep it light?”

All the way home, I kept looking behind me to make sure he wasn’t following me, and I even walked into a deli to ‘wait it out’ for a while. I looked in my bag worried he may have had a buddy trying to scrounge around for my wallet behind me while he distracted me, then realized that was completely paranoid since we were in a bookstore, not at some crowded tourist attraction. When I thought it over later at home, I felt badly for not being more receptive to meeting someone, but I guess when I’m in a bookstore, I’m really in my own world, or rather the world of the author whose book I’m contemplating, that some guy trying to get to know me is a real annoyance. If bookstores are the new pick-up joints, maybe that’s safer than a bar, but I don’t know if it works for me…

Posted on

HOT HOT HOT!

I really thought there was going to be another blackout today in NY. I got on the 3 train about 9:25 a.m. just to stand, gripping the pole, and stand, and stand, and stand, before being told there was a loss of power and thus no local or express trains running on the 7th Ave. line. This news resulted in a mass exodus to the 8th Ave. line where several thousand profusely sweating, hysterically rushing, immensely frustrated people tried to pile into the first car of a C train, just so the train could sit and sit and sit in the station. About 15 minutes later, we were told there was a medical emergency and the train would be held indefinitely. I jumped out, landed a seat on a platform bench, and, deciding to screw being worried over being late to work, pulled out my Chris Anderson book — about which I will say more in a sec. When I finally boarded the next C train nearly an hour later, I honestly wondered if I should get right back off of it, thinking on such a hot day with one power-outage already underway, I may well find myself walking the 8 or so miles from the financial district to my apartment later today, which I did three years ago in brand new, un-broken-in shoes — not very pleasant. I had comfortable shoes on today, but have noticed the past few days a pain now in my left knee, in the exact location where I’d felt pain on my right knee when I was diagnosed with a meniscus tear. I haven’t been dancing a lot the past few weeks and after beginning to sense a jello-y presence accumulating on my lower butt, started myself on a regimen of demi and grand plies, days before I noticed the pain. Can I please bend my knee without injuring myself, for crying out loud!?!? Anyway, it wasn’t nearly so hot three years ago either. Today, it almost hit the 100 degree mark — was probably over that with the humidity. By the time I got to work, two hours after I began my normally 40 minute commute, I was dripping with sweat, and, being from Phoenix, where it’s often at least 110 degrees in the summer, I really don’t sweat on the east coast. I can’t imagine how hot a normal person must have been. If there would’ve been another blackout, there may well have been several heat strokes. We really really really have to do something, as a society, about global warming…

Anyway, I am horribly sad that the ABT has now ended its summer Met season, and am suffering from ridiculously serious separation anxiety. Therefore, I have posted on the photo page some of my favorite curtain-call moments featuring their incredible, world-class cast (because, with a company populated by such “characters,” rarely does the fall of the curtain signal the end of the show:):):). In particular, I find that I’ve developed a stupid little bad crush on baby principal David Hallberg. He’s such a little cutie — in addition to being a charming dancer with a very mature for his age, very regal stage presence, his entries in Kristin Sloan’s brilliant and ADDICTIVE blog, The Winger, are so well thought-out, and he’s quite sophisticated and cerebral, especially for a 24-year-old. Funny, since I’m first and foremost a writer and reader, I tend to develop crushes on dancers not through their dancing but either their books, or their interviews in magazines and books (e.g. Marcelo!) or, now, in their blog posts 🙂 I also think part of my ABT-detachment issues are stemming from the fact that now I really have to focus on my own dancing since I no longer have my favorites to watch and since my showcase is coming up in just a few months!!! Needless to say, it’s a lot easier to watch someone else perform (especially if that someone is the best in the world…) than deal with my own dance problems!

While not dancing a lot lately, I’ve started reading this book called The Long Tail. Normally, I don’t read a lot of non-fiction but Kristin (see how addicted I am???) posted about attending author Chris Anderson’s book signing party and when I read her link to his intriguingly original book-in-progress blog, then that same day received an email from Borders offering me, as a rewards member, a 30% discount on that very book, have had my nose in it for the past several nights now. His thesis is that the internet has fundamentally changed the laws of supply and demand so that instead of only a few big commercial, mainstream “hits” reaching and thus dominating the public mind, consumers are discovering smaller, alternative “niche” products. Online stores like Amazon and Netflix are realizing that while each “niche” product in and of itself doesn’t sell as well as one “hit,” taken together the “niche” products consistitute a market far greater than the “hit” market — a market the online stores, without the overhead costs of actual stores, are exploiting. This is great news for first-time or avant-garde book authors or filmmakers whose sales potential publishers and production companies find risky because, with online companies selling more non-mainstream products, we actually have a fighting chance of our good actually making it to the consumer:) But I wonder what it means for dance. Online advertising (e.g. Google) has opened up to smaller niche advertisers in the same way as online stores, Anderson argues. So alternative choreographers and small dance companies can better sell themeselves to the public. But dancers make relatively low salaries for the same reason stage actors do, and while a live performance (of which there is no equal of course) costs many many times what a taped one does and a tape has the potential, with the internet, of taking in many times that of a live show, I wonder if DVD is the future of dance. While nothing beats a live performance, I have many dance videos that I treasure and watch over and over again. While Nureyev directed filmed versions of himself and his company dancing, he proclaimed that he was a much better stage performer, as are many of today’s great performers with through-the-roof charisma, like Angel Corella. But, being too young to have ever seen him perform, those taped versions of Nureyev are the only way I “know” him, and, from viewing those tapes, he has become my favorite ever dancer. So, is it so bad if lots of people have access to dance solely on tape? Hmmm, it’s interesting to ponder. I have to finish the book though!

Very excited because I sent off for my Blackpool seat tickets today! True, the dance festival doesn’t happen until end of May 2007, but the cut-off deadline for seat ticket orders (standing room only tickets are available until about a couple of weeks before the event) must reach their England office by July 28th. So, if you think you’re gonna go, and you want to be guaranteed a seat, go to their website, download an order form, and fax or fed-ex it right away!

Posted on

Dumber Than a 6-Year-Old, 6 is the New 14, and Money Money Money!

I cannot for the life of me memorize my choreography. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Luis and I have our Latin combo Cha Cha / Samba / Salsa / Merengue routine almost finished, except for the “series of overhead lifts and tricks” (yikes…) he has planned, which we couldn’t choreograph yet because we need the big studio with the high ceilings (double yikes…) for that. I spent all afternoon Sunday watching and re-watching and re-re-watching the damn video I made of us, and I thought I had it all down, but when he turned on the blasted music and we were actually going at it, I forgot everything! David Hallberg posted a picture on The Winger of a bunch of little kids, by the looks of it not more than 6 years old, tremendously excited about having little roles in ABT‘s Le Corsaire last week. He commented how he could have never remembered his choreography at that age. And it made me think, ‘geez, I am dumber than a 6 year old kid…’ — just like when you’re in a foreign country trying so hard to learn the language and some little local kid comes along and blurts out sentence after sentence after sentence in perfect fluency and you feel like the greatest idiot…

On top of learning this choreography and mastering these crazy to-come lifts, I have a new worry over my head: money. Ballroom dancing is getting really expensive. I mean, I want to practice practice practice until I’m as perfect as possible — because how are my routines possibly going to look good if I don’t? But that’s hard when I have to pay a lot of money for every 50-minute lesson with each of my two teachers. I’m going to practice on my own as much as I can, and kill myself with far less expensive ballet classes for overall dance technique, but I can’t really practice lifts very well on my own. And you can’t really practice much in ballroom alone — ballroom by definition takes two. At the studio last night, one of my fellow students, who competed in a local pro-am competition last weekend, was all upset because her husband came unglued over her I won’t say how many thousand dollar credit card bill last MONTH. Unfortunately, it is so believable to me that you could rack up a several thousand dollar bill in only one month on this kind of dancing. Gowns are around $1000 at least, competition entry fees well over a thousand, teacher fees in the hundreds, likewise studio fees, and the bizillions of private lessons you need to get yourself ready. .. it’s breathtaking, really. And this was in Brooklyn, so there weren’t even any transportation costs. I jokingly told her to tell him, “please, dear, it’s necessary to my human development,” but I felt like she’s really lucky to have a husband who can afford it in the first place! I certainly don’t; and am struggling to afford it myself as it is…

Anyway, to try to calm myself down, I went to see The Devil Wears Prada. Mad great wicked fun! Of course I sat in the raucous-with-laughter ‘gay man section’ so that might have (greatly) helped set the mood for my viewing… Very campy in a “Valley of the Dolls” sort of way and somewhat satirical like “Heathers” or “Clueless,” and the genius screenwriter both gave Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci some nastily cool lines and re-wrote the plot to make it sweeter and with more heart than the book. At one point, in explaining to protagonist Andy why Streep was really going out on such a limb to hire her — “the smart fat girl” — Tucci exclaims that size 4 is the new 2, 2 the new 0, and 6 (Andy’s size of course) the new 14! Very wickedly funny movie, and far better than the book.

On one last note, I want to bring attention to Doug Fox‘s new blog, Dance That Matters, which will deal with how dance informs and speaks to the compelling social issues of our time, such as global warming, genocide, and wrongful incarceration, and will log what dancers and dance companies are doing to help improve their communities. As someone with a keen interest in both social justice issues and dance, I am really hoping this takes off. Go Doug!