Mike the Girl
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Sold to... Philly!

8/17/2009

5 Comments

 
This is a double post- two blogs for the price of one!


1. On Thursday, I was robbed.  Some scoundrel (or, as one theory holds, out of control self-replicating AI robot) broke into my car where I had foolishly hidden my laptop... complete with my firstmonth/lastmonth/security deposit for the next place, which was on its way to the bank to get deposited.  In cash.  Also in the bag: my fancy-shmancy new erasible gel pen, my external harddrive (where I keep all my music, image files, text files), my headphones, my chapstick (I love that brand, too), some travel receipts from BAB, and other miscellaneous items.  Not to mention, the bag itself.  Gah.  But Philly, my true love of cities, rushed to my aid.  Not one, but two rent parties happened over the next 56 hours, complete with a silent auction and dance marathon.  Dance marathon?  Why yes, dance marathon- people pledged $.10 to $1 for each song I could dance.  Consecutively.  Without a break.  The final tally?  (And I do mean tally) 45 songs.  Whew!  Philly made back a considerable amount of the money I lost (I won't be homeless after all!), and even provided a temporary laptop (I can keep working!).  I simply can't say how grateful I am, and think that in most cities, I'd have been utterly without hope.  But here, in the city of arts and commraderie, I'm back on my feet, back to a normal level of poverty (a place I'm strangely grateful for this month).  If I had any doubts about Philly, they're totally gone.  I owe this city more than cash- I owe it my sense of optimism, my love of people, and a very strong sense of community.


I love you guys!


2. With Love: A Portrait

There are few cities in the world quite as poetic, I think, as Philly.  Not the pretentious, beatnik, in-love-with-its own ideas sort of poetry, but the poetry of folk musicians (the good ones), who write about love and mundanity.  It's seven fifteen on a Monday night.  After mistakenly showing up three days early (but otherwise right on time) for a private lesson, I found myself wandering through Rittenhouse Square.  Rittenhouse, for those of you who don't know, is a park nestled in among the giant apartment buildings and skyscrapers of central Philadelphia.  Allow me to share it with you.

Temperature: probably very close to 80 degrees.  I'm not sweating (when I'm sitting still).  The light is indirect, but still looks sunny- sunset is quietly setting istelf up for a show.

On the way into the park, along the sidewalk, lay a single black slipper.  For those of you who don't yet own Carsie's new album, Buoy, you're missing the reference, but I'll fill you in, if you promise to get it.  Speaking of a heartbroken lady: "Now she lives, out in Arizona, lonely as a single shoe."  Sure, you see broken, dirty sneakers on the side of the interstate... but a pretty black slipper lost downtown... now I have a soundtrack in my mind.

The tiled fountain has an elevated section which spills over a wall into a large, 1' deep pool.  Standing on that divider wall, the chlorinated water rushing over her burkinstocks, a woman makes conversation with a nearby father and son.  Did I mention she's tethered to a giant, woolly dog, delightedly up to his belly in refreshment?

All around the center circle of pavement is a wall, and benches, where young people and artists sit and watch.  A group of african drummers (plus one coronet player) are chanting and singing to a trio of girls who shyly toss coins into a pouch.  Their father comes along, and next thing, an impromptu dance party has broken out.  Another pair of dogs drip by- it seems Woolly's idea is catching on.  

This is what so many cities doesn't get... the value of funding murals isn't that you have painted buildings, and the value of parks isn't just a photo for touristry brochures (although to two Asian girls getting their photo taken while perched atop a concrete frog is pretty priceless).  The value of funding the arts is that you get centers of joy, community, and creation.  Sure, there's a rat* hiding in the bushes across the walk, and yes, someone broke into my car, and I'm cranky about it.  But this city holds so much more than streets and gutters and police.  This city holds a space for growth.  While as nature abhors a vaccuum, art loves a space.  So keep your eye on Philly- musically, dancewise, and visually, good things happen here.


Epilogue
So here I am, sitting at Jon and Carsie's watching (occasionally jumping into) an advanced blues lesson (if you've never taken their classes, you absolutely should!), feeling utterly validated in my choice of home scenes, feeling thankful that I've landed in what, I think, is the best scene and city a gal could hope for.  

Much love, many swingouts, and multiple murals,
-Mike


*a note about the rat.  She's huge.  Really, really huge.  I mean, I kept rats for a while, and this lady is giant by well-fed standards.  However, she's doing her darndest to stay well out the way (and reach) of humans.  She's smart, and she's social.  And frankly, everyone's got to make a living, right?  She's cleaning up the garbage that disease-carrying humans leave.  She's an undervalued garbage-lady.  Who doesn't steal laptops.  Scurry safely, little one.  Scurry safely.
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Adventures of Late

6/9/2009

3 Comments

 

The advantage, and disadvantage, of owning your own business is that it's all on you.  I realized today that my blogger, MiketG, hadn't posted anything in a month.  So, as boss, I had to fire her.  So instead, I've hired you a new blogger- MiketheG.    Hopefully, she'll be better about blogging at least once every few days.  If not, I'll have to fire her, too.


There have been so many adventures in my life lately.  I went on a spree of travel, starting in mid April, that went like this (highlights included if not previously updated):


Rochester, NY- Stompology.  
Pittsburgh, PA.
Chicago, IL- BluesShout!.
Nashville-Memphis-Nashville-Hunstville-Nashville- being foolish in Hunstville. : )
Philly (36 hours)
Mystic, CT, Mystic Blues -NewHaven, CT- Buffalo Chicken Calzones, the house of awesome.
Philly (36 hours)
San Fransisco, CA- Camp Blues- Blue Sequins.  Also, a house of awesome.  And making people cry.  Myself included.
Philly- over a week!


The last week and a half has been a gloriously stationary period, although no less busy that previous weeks.  In a shining example of bliterary (blog literature term I just made up) parallelism, here's a list. I've:


had all the kitty fuzz I could stand
lost Shakespeare
found Up (in 3D!)
acquired some delightful Scotch
made cherry-mango goodness
flirted unabashedly
all over the neighborhood and beyond,
been frightened by lightening
worked on leading tango
won at boggle
lost at boggle
eaten salted chocolate (delightful)
practiced choreography
choreographed
eaten 2 whole boxes of mac'n'cheese (not totally true: one was "white cheese with spirals dinner" and one was "bugs n' cheese!")
attempted rock climbing
learned about cherry water ice
created 2 lindy sets without access to my music collection
wanted to cry after watching SYTYCD (audition video)


Rather than continue on with 12,000 words, here you have it:

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3 Comments

Art in the Park in Pittsburgh

5/8/2009

1 Comment

 

My apologies- this blog entry isn't chonological.  Right before BluesShout, I spent a week in Pittsburgh, PA, watching epic Dr. Mario battles, hiding from potential tornados, striving for sibilance, and engaging in social art.  While the first few days were cold and gray, the weekend was startlingly beautiful; Joy, Davis, and I set out in search of a kite and frisbee, to take advantage of a charming Saturday afternoon.  As we found out in the aisle of Kmart, however, neither Joy nor I can catch, or throw.  So much for the frisbee.  And they don't sell kites at Kmart, aparently.  So, without an appropriately sports-like activity, we turned to the next best classic: sidewalk chalk.  The results are as follows.

Davis serenades us with his mandolin. (My first piece of "art" is the flower/hummingbird in the foreground)


It turns out, Joy has a way with kids.  


Suddenly, we're a social art project.


Good thing we bought the 50-pack, instead of the 3-pack!


I'm more comfortable with chalk than children.


Joy gets comandeered into a portrait.


Even I get a portrait done.  Looks just like me, right?


1 Comment

One Good Day

4/16/2009

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After several days of cold, rain, hormones, taxes, and general unpleasantness (despite great company), today didn't have to be particularly great to be a big improvement.  And yet, today has been fantastic by any standards.  The quick and dirty version of my day:


--Woke up at noon- initially disturbed because I meant to wake up at 10.  Guess I needed it?  Practiced tap- did my 2 steps I know at 192bpm.  Big improvement.  
--Ate leftover Pad Thai.  Small but delicious.  Ran from the front of the apartment to the back, outside, back in, to the front, about 10 times with the dogs, since I didn't have time to walk them properly before leaving, and they had serious itches in their canine britches.
--Took a bus downtown.  Delighted in the sunshine and 65F weather.  Walked to Jerry's studio.
--Practiced tango with Jerry for 1.5hr.  Talked some shop.  Felt awesome, and challenged.
--Took  a walk until I was tired, then hopped the 32 back home.  Again, delighted in the weather.
--Ate my favorite leftovers meal: lime tortilla chips, slightly broken, topped with fresh spinach, then fake-meat and black beans, peach-mango salsa, grated cheddar, and ranch.  All heated except the ranch.  Served with a cold glass of mango nectar.  I could eat it every day, I think.


And now, here I am.  Just did a few puzzles in an abandonded Southwest Air magazine, writing a blog for no one's pleasure but my own, waiting for Carsie to come home so I can do my laundry (I'm not buying more detergent!), then going to either tango or lindy tonight.  My life is so great.  This is why I wouldn't trade all my "I can't, I'm too poor" moments- because on days like this, I'm filthy rich.


Rolling in happiness,
-m.

3 Comments

Franklin Fountain

3/23/2009

3 Comments

 

This is one of those silly, meaningless, what-happened-in-my-life-today posts. You've been warned!

...because it's not at all meaningless to me. Today, I finally experienced the delight that was the Franklin Fountain (link at bottom). It's an old-school (although not that old) ice cream shop at the corner of Second and Market, here in Philadelphia. And while the establishment is only a few years old, everything inside seems like it's been waiting for you for a half-century or more. That's not entirely true- the ice cream is fresh and delicious. The rest, however, is as old-fashioned as it gets. Want to see the oldest working soda fountain, with some sort of fantastic name like the Draft Tower? It's there. Clear-Toy Candy or Teaberry flavored gum? Check. Servers with knit hairnets or armbands? Of course. Marble, brass, and old wood... even belt fans. The winter menu, available for only a few days more this season, offers hot milkshakes (toasted marshmallow, anyone?), mead, hot sodas, and hot chocolate. Me? I got a hot chocolate float, with butter pecan ice cream. Jesse and Dan, in their second round, split an apple pie milkshake. What's that? Why, it's a vanilla milkshake- with a genuine slice of hot apple pie in it. Ridiculous? Yes- in the best way possible.

Oh, and all this goodness? Comes with a paper straw.

The Franklin Fountain

Life is good,
-m.

3 Comments

Welcome, and Good Luck!- from Archives, March 10

3/23/2009

3 Comments

 

People tell me, from time to time, that I need to actually write in my blog; they're right. I often consider that maybe if I didn't spend so much time chewing my thoughts over and over, that there'd me more left than mush when I finally consider writing them down. I had grandiose ideas when I set up this blog- it was supposed to be full of wit and wisdom... or at least not be all about dance, like everything else I do. The reason there's only one entry? Probably because I set my standards to high. It's hard to live up to anything grand. So starting today, I'll try and just blog.

Moving has left me with a lot of thoughts, but I question whether that warrants a blog. To be honest, for someone who moves as much as I do, I'm not especially good at it. I mean yes, I'm good at packing- secret #1: don't get attached to your stuff. You can do without most of it. And I'm good at finding out what there is in a city, and where to find people- secret #2: google, and google maps, are the source of all things informed. And sure- I'm even good at getting around in cities I've never been to- see again secret #2.

But the hardest part about moving isn't identifying roads or attending dances. The hardest part about moving is feeling at home. For me, that means making myself a part of the community. It means finding someone I can call at the end of a rough day, and saying, "Hey, come over- let's do nothing together." There are countless groups of nice people that are easy to find in any given city... and yet, there's something else that has to happen- something hardly short of mystical. And the more I talk to other people, the more I feel this is a large pattern. So why?

Sometimes I think it has to do with history, and that the reason frequent movers feel alienated is that they don't have the chance to build a past with someone. It's hard not to feel close to the people who've seen you through your best haircuts and worst relationships. That's cetainly part of it. There may be more to it, though. (warning: this will look like a tangent. Stick with me.)

I read in a book once (TheGeneral Theory of Love) that the value of therapy isn't actually anything the therapist has to say. It's not a matter of telling someone who suffers from some intangible ailment how to see the world rightly. It is, as it turns out, the act of bonding with someone. To enter into a state of limbic resonance with someone more psychologically healthy than you is to learn from them on a subconscious level. The act of forging a bond is the medicine.

I read also that people suffering from emotion are, in a sense, emotionally blind. That is to say, someone who is severely depressed can't look at someone's face and see affection, sarcasm, humor, or irritation. They hear the words, but miss the connotations. This means that acheiving limbic resonance becomes incredibly difficult; the patient loses access the their best chance of healing. (This is why medication + therapy is often the best solution for patients suffering from depression).

So, if someone who is depressed needs to feel accepted and loved, and cannot read acceptance or love... you get the idea.

Perhaps, on a much reduced level, those who are in a state of upheaval suffer a similar situation. Even moves to cities where people already have friends can be shockingly traumatic. Once enough time has passed, the shock wears off, habit sets in, and the limbic brain restores the emotional and social order we pack animals need so very badly. Bonding follows, and voila- you've made yourself a home.

So the next time you move, schedule in some cushioning: plan to call friends, schedule visits, get involved in multiple social circles in your new city, and- most of all- remember that with time and the right group of people, you'll find yourself an indispensible member of the community.

Cheers,
-m.

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