experiment: new york, new york

here it is. my one thousand word photo-essay of the city where i lived, i loved, i learned, i alliterated. it was difficult to narrow it down to an image that captured the city as I saw it and would like to remember it, but this one really slams it on its enormous, schizophrenic head. trying to reduce new york to just one image initially seemed impossible. but what is more improbable is trying to do the place justice. you know how awesome it is, you've been there, you've seen, you've experienced how it felt, and how, inexplicably you just feel different there (assuming you didn't spend all your time in midtown). i don't need to harp on about it or list all the reasons it's the second greatest city on earth (sorry, new york, old york still takes the cake, or trifle? london, see.) ah, city livin'.

what i have learned:

place is important. but people (like two fancy old friends or two sunning lovers) make the place, and though lots of my proper-noun-loves are still in new york, what can i say - i left my heart in provo. for however much i fought it, person eventually trumps place. check.

experiment: hip hop ononomous

so there's this friend of mine--a state champion, collegiate gymnast. she can do things with her arms and legs that i consider impossible for most bipeds. she recently came to visit and wanted to check out a dance class while in town.

"dance class? that sounds fun! like ballet? argentine tango? highland jig?. . . . hip hop? . . . . um. . . . you know, on second thought, my doctor advised me against putting undue lateral pressure or movement on my ankle, so i may have to pass." (pansyfied truth, but truth nonetheless.)

justified, right? hip hop is one of the few genres i feel completely debilitates me. i'm at a dance party, i'm going strong to some inxs or css, and then - smack! - metaphorical brass knuckles to the face! how do i move my arms? how do i move my legs? what do i do with my butt! quick!! what do i do with my butt!! and what about my cardigan? can i swing it around my head like a helicopter--would that be cool? a mid-air cardigan-swing?

(refresher: i am the girl who in 9th grade uttered the infamous, "so, is there a girl in Ja Rule?" smart, huh? look, i know what OPP is (and am definitely not down with it) and can rattle off the lyrics to "shoop" like the fourth member of the group, who i like to think would've been a Latina called Paprika, but that is about it. want to have a debate about East coast vs west coast rap, or about Biggy Smalls vs Biggy Biggins? I will warm the forensic bench and watch you work it, flip it and reverse it.)

And the thought of going with Splits Pommelhorse to a breaking class? confidence-breaking.
as far as dance is concerned, she's darren's dance grooves, and i'm a stake road show waiting to happen.

"but adrienne," said the petit quadridexterate," this is an experiment. you always like trying things out."

word, ken-dawg. i'm down with science. let's do it.

not knowing what to wear, and not having any appropriate attire even if i had, i put on my running clothes. no not the fancy new york ones--skin-tight and anti-gravity, but the old cross country tee and soccer shorts. she looked a little more hip hop than me in baggy green pants and a tank top, but not by too much. i was feeling up to the occasion.

the class, a weekly session in a old studio near union square, was taught by, get this, Angel.



angel feliciano. choreographer to the stars. he's big time. been on mtv. worked with J.Lo, people. he came in, introduced himself to the newbies (most were recurring characters, ones who looked like they belonged) and wasted no time getting us "loose."

i jockeyed for position in the back, as close to the door as possible. facing the mirror, he looked into it and back at me, silently calling me on my back-row cowardice. eek, not a good way to get in cherub's graces. he turned on his music machine and out poured the sickening smooth of usher raymond. this song. and everyone started dancing. and it looked really good. all 12 or so of them looked like BET all stars. i stood there, rocking inward on my sauconys and fidgeting with my ponytail. i felt like lance bass at the playboy mansion. i felt like the girl who likes metaphors but doesn't ever have the patience to dig for the right one.

"ok, y'all. let's slow this waaaay down," angel said, answering my prayers. "from the top."

he proceeded to go through each step, slowed down sufficiently, so even i could get it. after teaching the new kids on the block about 16 bars or so, we'd stop, turn on the song from the beginning and run through the new routine. the regulars looked bored. in spite of everything, it was unexpectedly fun. though i did hamper my progress because of my intense focus on each individual move and not on the collective seamlessness of the routine. i looked jerky. i looked a little square-dancey. and catching a glimpse of my own reflection in the mirror, was making an extremely square-dancey face. maybe, i said to myself, it's because i'm just a beginner.

looking right to Balance Beam Betty, i deflated. she had it down to a science. stupid quick learner.

after finally learning the first 30 seconds or so and feeling comfy enough to move up near the middle of the floor, i suddenly saw a blip appear on my confidence meter! haha, you tricky dancers, i too have learned your steps! but before i could fully revel in my ability to mimic and memorize, angel stepped it up a notch. crap.

the second half of the class was spent in a desperate attempt to just keep up, not even trying to learn anything new. legs and arms flailed about, cascades of sweat falling over the "Sha" and "sion" of my Shawnee Mission shirt. and sauconys? the completely WRONG shoes to wear. most dancers in the class were wise to the fact that you need to wear something with a bare sole for smooth sliding across the wood floor. hey, i'm learning. then finally, after 35 minutes of making me feel simultaneously pumped and depressed, angel called it quits.

"for those of y'all who are new, come say hi before you take off." (he was super nice, i gotta say that much).

Gymnastia and i obediently trotted over to the front of the studio.

"I'm Naturally Talented," she said, outstretched hand.

"I'm from Kansas" I offered, only later realizing this wasn't a name but an apology.

what i have learned:

Hip hop = hard. If you can't pop or lock, you're going to look a fool trying to dance in a hip hop class. Learn fundamentals of those first.

Hip hop = fun. I even liked the Usher song at the end, and the two of us kept breaking out in our dance routine on the N train.

And be sure to catch me on my new reality TV show this fall, "So You Don't Think You Can Dance, Fatty Fatpants?" starring Me, Bruce Vilanch, and Elaine Benes!

experiment: botany, or Why I Can't Have Nice Things

plants are fascinating, aren't they? little green disturbances that annoy as often as astonish. annoy because you spent 3/4 of your life picking weeds, and the other 1/4 mowing what seemed like acres of parched kansas lawn. using a hatch-job lawnmower. and with a discman duct taped to your sweaty teenage torso.

don't get me wrong, i like plants as much as the next person who doesn't like plants. that is, to say, i enjoy the scenery. i've even recently voyaged to the bowels of brooklyn to enjoy the botanical gardens in all their rose colored glory. and i'm partial to showers of romanticism and dream about a future in the oregonian rain forest, establishing homestead in the magical blueberry fields that surround my estate. but TEND to plants? to quote a london prof, "not i, said the duck."

so to acquaint myself with the wonders of creation, i bring you a preparatory step toward fauna fantasia--my little eggling!



finally! something for the homeowner who loves eggs and strawberry plants and novelty trinkets! don't you just adore the Japanese!

actually the first thing that crossed my mind when I opened the gift bag was a flash of a certain jr high home ec teacher's face. she had assigned "egg babies" to "couples" to "rear." or at least keep from cracking. to see how responsible these 13 year olds could be and to teach them, just how darn HARD it is to take care of an egg. this was perhaps her misguided attempt to a) teach adolescents responsibility and regard for anything other than self, and b) to keep them FAR FAR away from each other's genitals. yay for conservative midwestern sex ed, in which we have to use symbolic eggs in place of real ones.

this is your brain on _______.

i was excited at my new undertaking. if friends of mine could care for babies, i shouldn't balk at tending to an egg plant. egg plant. and strawberries! that's an exciting combination. it's got murakami written all over it, right? kaikai! kiki! riding a giant strawberry egg through the sky!

here is my eggling in its early infancy. i name it Dottie, an homage to the new york wit, ms. parker.


for 4 days i love dottie like the satirist daughter i never had. and then, tragically, in a freak watering accident


cracked!
scrambled!
fried!
poached!
sunny side dooowwwwn!

oh the cruelty of hardwood floors! poor little dot, taken at the tender age of 96 hours.

the proof is in the photos, people. i am not fit to be a plant caretaker.
i am ashamed.
i have hazardous hands, consistent poor luck, and my possessions take the heat for it.

don't believe me?


(it's is a more a maniacal weeping than it is a gentle. 1997-2008 RIP.)


what i have learned:

you probably shouldn't let me babysit, or watch your yacht in the off season.

experiment: contesting

how couples in closely related fields manage to avoid the pitfalls of competition is always astounding. the notion of “group work” is anathema to me. (too many cooks! get out of my creative kitchen! Don’t even think about touching my grilled cheese!) however. however. i’ve realized, because of those twin towers of intransigence and arrogance, i’ve actually missed out.

see, jared won a very cool contest, accompanied by laud and a bag o goodies. we were able to work on much of this together and i honestly think we (and the project) were the better for it. but still, it was him that won. he reaped the fruits. and yes, i was genuinely excited for him, and yes, i do want a talented friend to get the recognition he very much deserves. but hey, wait a minute! what about me? don't cut-ME-out, uncle joey. i need to win something, too!

these incessant, internal “me-toos!” coupled by a simply awful work month, tripled by my feelings of creative flabbiness—led me to start looking for creative contests of my own.

the first i found was accidental, on jaman.com—a very cool, alternative distribution site for foreign and low budget domestic films (intentional plug, i actually think it’s cool). we’d met the founder just weeks ago at a tribeca thing and after jared interviewed him, i wanted to check out the site for myself. and i ran across a promo--$1000 to whole foods for the best review of the documentary “super size me.” it seemed, i don’t know, five years too late to be running such a show, but i figured, hey, i’ve seen it, i can write, i can win this thing. i can join my boyfriend in the winner’s circle. so, with HIS input and feedback, i wrote a slightly ridiculous "review" of the movie. and thanks very much to kith and kin, i won! that's right. i can call myself a winner.

(hopefully, i will prove to be proficient in more than just food-centric writing. the first time i traded words for dollars was when i won a creative arts contest as an undergrad --500 bucks for a poem that was more or less about, yeah, wal-mart.).

you know that feeling, when you’re type type typing away, or designing away, or sautéing away, or strumming away, or accounting away, or biologizing away, or experimenting-away, and you suddenly realize --- hey, i could do this. not just now, but for a living? do you? it’s (peacefully) intoxicating, and somehow, a firm ground.

but could i be better? working with another? or was this just a fluke?

this is a question i am trying really hard to answer. and maybe it will find itself, and maybe it will take its sweet time, and maybe, like Rilke suggests, i should learn to live the questions. and though i am starting to see the fruits of collaboration, that doesn’t mean healthy competition is wrong, right? in romantic relationships and in all others? what if it makes me want to be better?

i am competitive, certainly. i used to have intense soccer matches to channel this, but now i can make anything a contest. what do you want—i’m a scorpio. hear me scuttle silently, strike, and watch my victims seethe in pain. hahahah. just kidding, i am Nice scorpion. who is trying hard to become less of a contestant even if it kills me or means i have to share or expose my vulnerabilities and creative ideologies to criticism and revision.

what I have learned:

loads.

since beginning the reluctant, solipsistic shed, i’m feeling much better about TEAMWORK. and more than the proof (mostly for myself) of being able to win, and more than the impending whole foods shopping spree (hello, 21 dollar a pound cheeses!) maybe collaboration can be better than going it solo. (turns out, not everyone will in fact, burn my grilled cheese. some will take it to a level of cheesy, gooey perfection.)

goodness, look how long this is. you know who i want to collaborate with next? an editor.

hypothesis: the internet sucks (creativity)

i venture there is a direct inverse relationship.

(i just lost 5 points posting this. but it was done in the name of science.)