Earwax, Armpit Odor, and Small Nostrils

I saw a goofy headline on page A8 of the New York Times this morning, and just had to share:

"Scientists Find Gene That Controls Type of Earwax in People"

Apparently, earwax comes in two types, wet (which is predominant in Europe and Africa), and dry (predominant in Asia). Genetics researchers in Japan were able to identify the gene that controls which type a person has.

And guess what? They also write that earwax type and armpit odor are correlated. East Asians tend to sweat less and have little or no body odor, while the wet-earwax populations of Africa and Europe sweat and stink more. Several Asian features, like small nostrils, are conjectured to be adaptations to the cold -- less sweating could be one of these.

I used to be a journalist and editor, and I remember how hard it was sometimes to come up with appropriate headlines for the articles that came in from our field correspondents. Not only do you have to capture the gist of the piece and grab a reader's attention, you have to do so in the style/tone of voice of your publication. Imagine how long the international news editors at the Times were scratching their heads trying to write a headline for this one. Perhaps they came up with a few -- I wonder what didn't make the final cut:

"Dry Earwax: So THAT'S Why Asian Armpits Don't Smell!"

"Forget Wet Behind the Ears: Europeans are Wet In the Ears"

"Ear Moistness: It Betrays a Lot About a Person"

I mean, they'd have to be pretty bad if the winner was the very awkward, "Scientists Find Gene That Controls Type of Earwax in People". I can't even say that without making a face.

The Importance of Drinking Wine

I am watching an interview with Jean-Claude Carriere, a feature of the DVD of "Diary of a Chambermaid", an adaptation of the Octave Mirbeau novel directed by Luis Bunuel. "Diary" was the first collaboration between the Spanish film director and the French sreenwriter.

In this interview, Mr. Carriere describes his first meeting with Bunuel, who was seeking a French writer/collaborator. Carriere's agent arranged for him fly to Cannes in 1963 to have lunch with the reknowned director.

Bunuel's first question to Carriere was, "Do you drink wine?"

Carriere not only drinks wine, but comes from a family of winemakers. The two got along fabulously, and began a working relationship which spanned 19 years, during which they wrote together 9 scripts, 6 of which became Bunuel-directed films, among them my favorite, "The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie".

I think about how job interviews go nowadays, and in general about the kinds of questions we ask in order to make judgements about someone one has just met. Usually, first question is something like, "What do you do?" In a job interview, it might be more like, "Why are you interested in working at Acme?"

I wonder how much more we might learn if we could all fly to Cannes, sit down in a very relaxed environment, and open with a question like, "Do you drink wine?"

Well, maybe that's not the most important thing one needs to know about a person right away, but it's as good a question as any, and the answer/reaction perhaps more indicative than the typical out-of-the-gate query.

Carriere put forth another great question during this interview, which unfortunately may contribute to the things I ponder when I'm enduring one of the increasingly-frequent visits from my close friend, Insomnia. The question was, "How many great filmmakers lived before the advent of cinema?"

Ack, oof! That's a big question. And a lot to ponder for us folks nowadays, when technology is constantly advancing, creating new ways to express yourself at a dizzying pace.

os EUA

I was just filling out a registration form to access online content from Veja, a popular Brazilian newsweekly, and something occured which gave me pause (one of those things that make you go "hmm", as it were).

I had to indicate what country I live in, and I had some difficulty in finding the United States in the drop-down menu provided. Granted, the list was in Portuguese, but I speak Portuguese (at least, well enough to be able to pick out my home country from a list).

You see, being American, I'm used to finding my country at the top of any drop-down menu in an online address form. If it's not there, it's usually listed as "USA" or "United States". Wherever, anyway, the point is, I'm just accustomed to looking for it in a specific place.

But at veja.com, I got a little disoriented. I was forced to look for my country in a long list of countries, as if it were any other country. And there it was, Estados Unidos da America, in between Espanha and Estonia. I'm not used to looking for it as if it were any other country. I'm used to it being prominent and easy to find. Because it's the USA, right?

And that's what gave me pause -- having to search for my country in a long list of countries, as if it were any other country. It made me remember how chauvanistic I've become, and how long it's been since I've been out of the country. I like to think of myself as this multicultural, well-traveled, internationally-aware individual, but really, I'm just kidding myself. I'm a typical stupid American who has traveled a little bit and can speak a few words in a couple of languages other than English. I'm accustomed to being catered to, living in a country that considers itself, and is mostly considered by others, to be the center of power in the world.

Eek. That's kind of weird. I mean, it's good, that I was born here, you know...I wouldn't choose to be born anywhere else, and I am grateful for what I have. It's just that, sometimes I feel kind of boxed in by my perspective. I wish I could spend a few weeks (or however long a period of time would be significant for such an exercise) as someone that wasn't born here, and know what it's like to be a witness from somewhere other than here.

I got some exposure to other perspectives when I was younger -- I traveled a lot more, I studied and worked in Argentina and Chile and Brazil in my twenties, but it has been a long time since I've been abroad. I guess I'm thinking about all of this because I'm about to take a business trip to Paris. I travel a lot domestically for work (even to the USVI and Hawaii, but still, they're part of the US), and last week I booked the flight and accommodations and thought, "OK, done, next task." Then I stopped, and realized, "Shit, I'd better learn some French." I totally forgot that I might actually need to speak French if I'm traveling to France, and I haven't studied French since high school. I approached some of my friends, who have spent a decent amount of time in Paris, and asked, "Do I really need to speak French there?" They looked at me funny. Yeah, Diane, a lot of Parisians speak some English, but it would be a good idea to try to speak French, you silly silly person. Ooof.

I'm sure I'll be fine, but the experience of having to search for my country in a list on veja.com reminded me that come next Saturday, when I get on that plane, I have to remember I'm not in NY anymore, and I need to approach situations with some flexibility, which may be a little strange for me since I've spent too many years recently in my little American shell. It's Paris, a gigantic, cosmopolitan city, so no big deal, really, but I just need to keep this in the back of my mind, at least.

Maybe I can prance down the Champs d'Elysees singing like Audrey Hepburn in "Funny Face" -- "...that's for meeeee...Bonjour Paris!"

Free Turducken

I was having what seemed to be a relatively normal email conversation with a friend of mine, when up popped a Google-produced link for "free turducken". I kid you not. We weren't writing about food or Thanksgiving or about how weird Louisiana is, but, for some reason unbeknownest to us both, Google's algorithms decided that I would be receptive to a message about turducken at that moment. If someone can explain the algorithm's workings to me, I'd most appreciate it, because I am at a loss.

If you don't know what turducken is, that's probably a good thing. I've never had turducken, but it seems that, in New Orleans and environs, they prepare this festive holiday dish by greasing up a chicken, stuffing it into the cavity of a duck, then greasing up the stuffed duck, and jamming that into the cavity of a turkey. Apparently, the key to serving this dish properly is to slice through all three types of poultry in a serving. Uh, yum.

When I first heard about this very-Southern delicacy, I was working at Simmons Market Research Bureau in Deerfield Beach, FL. Simmons, at the time, was owned by Symmetrical Resources (which has since been purchased by Experian), and my boss was the owner, Bill Engel, who just happened to be from New Orleans. I marched into his office, and barked, in a tone of voice which betrayed my incredulity, "Have you EVER eaten TURDUCKEN??"

And, without skipping a beat, he looked up at me, shrugged, and said, "What's turducken? Is that like a duck stuffed in a turkey?"

This is just a testament to how bizarre people from Louisiana are. When I heard the word "turducken" for the first time, I thought, "What the HELL is turducken???" I could not conceive of what it could possibly be. Bill, on the other hand, did not know what it was, but without thinking much about it, offered a pretty accurate guess. That's just TWISTED. I realized at that point that I didn't belong in a company founded by people from Louisiana (those people eat swamp critters, for chrissake), and, in fact, I don't belong in the South at all, and so I must return to New York as quickly as possible.

So here I am. The people are much more uh, normal, and, er, less scary here. Yep. Well, at least they are abnormal and scary in a way that I can relate to more easily, in any case.

If you want free turducken, here's the link that Google served up in my email inbox screen:
http://www.onlinerewardcenter.com/rd_p?p=113082&t=636&gift=1873&a=1873-duck%20recipes
Disclaimer: I don't know anything about the company that's serving up this ad, nor do I care. Bon appetit!

Peter's Mood on 1/27

Ah, finally, Friday has arrived. Peter's Advanced Beginner class is at 6:15 at BDC.

I have nothing significant to report. He is still in the same balanced, nurturing mood he seemed to be in the last time I posted about him, which was last Monday, I think. I'm not quite sure what's going on. It's rare for him to be benign for an entire week.

Lemmeseehere...he did bring up another one of his typical diatribes: if your method of learning isn't working, you must change it. He elaborated by describing the pathetic attempt we made at whatever was the last barre exercise. He'll say something like, "It wasn't that complicated. And I showed it to you 2 times. If you watched me do it two times, and then you tried to do it while watching someone else do it two times, then tried to do it two times on your own, but still didn't get it, you've got to change your method of learning. Because that was six times, and it wasn't a complicated exercise. Your method isn't working."

I'm not being very articulate this evening, because it's late and I've worked very hard this week and I haven't gotten enough sleep, but I'm very glad I made it to Peter's class and can report on it. I have to admit, though, that I suffered from a complete lack of concentration during class. My mind kept wandering towards dinner. Every time he said "rond de jambe", I thought, "rack of lamb". "Tendu" became "fondue". "Sissonne" became "Goddamn, I need a slice of pizza!"

Bad, bad, baaaaadddd student.

At My Teacher's Right Hand

Today I was late for Richard's class at Djoniba. I was kept at work until well after I needed to leave, and got downtown as fast as I could. I typically arrive early for all my dance classes, and it makes me very uncomfortable to walk into a class after it has started. It must be something that was drummed into me during my ballet training as a child. Tardiness is UNACCEPTABLE. And I always strived to be an obedient student.

When I arrived in the classroom, it was packed. The drummers were already playing, and the warm up was half over. I sheepishly crept in, deposited my stuff in the back, and looked about for a place for myself in the last row. Latecomers should always stay in the back. But Richard caught my eye in the mirror as I was looking for a likely spot in which to insert myself as inconspicuously as possible, and did something which I find to be one of the single most gratifying things a dance teacher can do for me.

He looked straight at me in the mirror, nodded his head slightly, and pointed at the spot directly to his right and slightly behind him. This means, "You come and stand here, next to me, in front of the class." I do what he tells me to, and I beam with joy and gratitude. Nothing means more to me than having a teacher do that.

My Afro-Cuban and modern dance teacher in Miami, Elena Garcia, would do the same thing. If I tried to stand in any spot other than the one at her right hand (which I would do if I arrived late, because I just feel it is wrong to saunter into a class and stride right up to the front -- one should cower in the back if one is not on time), she would look at me, and point to the spot. No words are said, but it is clear, "Diane, you belong HERE. Your spot is HERE." And so it had also gone with my Capoeira teachers as well, when I trained with them in my twenties before getting back into dance at the age of 30.

I had stopped taking ballet at the age of twelve, when I felt like I just didn't fit in, and therefore could not spend the 48 hours a day in the studio that the other girls at my level were spending just in order to keep up. I also felt like I had lost that special status that I held when I was younger than that, and always the star student. I was this painfully shy child who didn't know how to connect with anyone, but people seemed to love me when I danced. I was put in front of the class, I was asked to demonstrate movements, I was admired, I was put in front of audiences and picked for special roles at our local theaters, McCarter in Princeton and the War Memorial in Trenton. I felt very special.

But alas, puberty set in, and things became awkward. My body just didn't seem to grow in that way that a ballet dancer's should -- instead of looking fragile and billowy, I looked curvy and strong. Nor was I very white with good hair and upper class, like the rest of the Princeton girls. I didn't have pretty dancer outfits -- I just had my same basic leotard and tights, no fancy warm up sweaters or leg warmers or pretty things in my hair. And I refused to go on crash diets or throw up on a daily basis. I liked to eat a normal 3 meals a day. This made me unfit for serious ballet dancing. So I quit.

As a teenager and college student, long after my dancing years were over, I always got plenty of awards and recognition for academic achievement; but nothing that made me feel special in that same way as I did when I was a little girl and Audrey Estee, the founder and director of Princeton Ballet, would pick me for special roles. "Don't EVER put this girl in acting school," she would caution my mother. "She's a natural -- they would RUIN her!"

But when I finally made my way back to dance as an adult, I recaptured that moment of feeling like a really special, singular person. I worked hard, and soon enough, one day, each teacher would point at me, standing in the back of the class, and beckon...

Stand here -- this is your spot, next to me.

Ah, I'm back home!

The Awkward Issue of Coffin Transportation

The green juice and treadmill have not been working. I woke up this morning overwhelmed with anxiety about how difficult it is to make friends as an adult. Or rather, how difficult it is for ME to make friends as an adult, because many people I know seem to do it just fine. And I don't mean "make friends" in that Dale-Carnegie way, I mean finding people whom you can just call or IM on any particular day at any particular time for no reason, get together without a big production of "making plans", have fun doing whatever, whether it be going to the theater or a poetry reading, to some other state or country for a few days' vacation, or to Bed, Bath & Beyond to buy a blender. It gets even more difficult when you are a single adult and most of your friends are married, for obvious reasons that have been hashed out in thousands of columns and books and "Sex in the City" episodes.

All of my enduring friendships were created at high school, college, or work, with the vast majority from the former two. I'm not unique in this respect -- people make friends at school and work because they are forced to. In high school, you have to make friends to survive, and there's really nothing else to do in any case. In college, you have to live and study with other students, so you're going to spend time and develop relationships with some whether you want to or not. At work, sometimes you spend long hours working on projects and traveling with your colleagues, so you have to get along and learn to relax and have fun together in order to be at all functional.

In the absence of an environment which compels you to spend so much time with others, people, and especially shy people like me, are much less likely to make friends out of strangers. They still do it, but I just can't seem to get the hang of it. And come to think of it, I'm not so good at keeping close touch with several of my existing friends, although, thankfully, the friendships seem to endure in spite of my laziness. Making new ones in my 30s just seems impossible.

Worrying about making more friends really isn't a good reason to jacknife out of bed in the middle of the night. What keeps me up at night occasionally is thoughts of my father, and how much I don't want to be like him.

My father died of cardiac arrest at the age of 72 on March 28, 2001. The death part made me sad, and I guess I got over that OK, but the thing I never got over was what turned out to be the very awkward issue of coffin transportation. We had a very hard time finding pallbearers -- my mom thought it only appropriate that the pallbearers be male, which ruled out my sister and I (and I wasn't really in a condition to be schlepping a big heavy box around at that time in any case), but there weren't any male family or friends to carry him. In fact, there were very few people at the funeral services that were related to my dad in any way, except his sister and her husband (who refused to be a pallbearer). Practically all of the turnout were friends and family of my mother.

We ended up getting some random guys who were around that day to carry my dad. The sight of complete strangers carrying him because there wasn't anyone else to do it was the enduring picture I have in my mind from that whole horrible experience. I told a therapist about it a few months afterwards when I suffered a rather disturbing series of panic attacks, and she assured me that it's quite logical that I would have this reaction. I suppose it's nice to know that it makes complete sense that you would find a particular situation troubling, but that never really helped me put it to bed completely. Every once in awhile, the frightening thought visits me, "Diane, what if there is no one willing to carry you when you die?" Eek.

Ah, but then I remembered -- I don't want to be buried in a coffin, I want to be cremated. Well, there ya go, case settled. You don't need a bunch of people to carry around a pile of ashes. Silly, silly me. All of this fear and unease for nothing!

In fact, this whole thing is all my dad's fault. Why the hell did he order a mausoleum plot if he was too lazy to make the requisite number of friends to schlep his coffin when the time came to carry him there in a box? I mean, jesus christ, what poor planning. The level of irresponsibility is mind-boggling. If you are going to sit around all day watching TV and never bothering to make friends or keep in touch and spend time with people, then order CREMATION in your will, for chrissake. Goddammit. What the hell was my father thinking -- that dead bodies just carry themselves to the cemetery?? What an inconsiderate bastard.

Dinner Drink

My dinner this evening is a 20-ounce glass of kale, celery, and spinach juice, with a shot of wheatgrass as an appetizer. I'm sipping this rather bitter cocktail right now. I'm not at all happy with the taste, but I sure did seem to impress the cute juice-bar guy. They were out of cucumber (which goes a long way toward mellowing out a heavily-green veggie juice), so he seemed to feel guilty that he'd be serving me up this concoction.

"Don't you want some apple or something in that?"
"No."
"All [he slices air with hand for emphasis] greens?"
"Yes."
"No carrot or nothing? Nothing sweet?"
"That's right. All greens."

And just to show him what a COMPLETE BADASS I am, when he gave me the wheatgrass shot, I downed it expressionlessly.

"Wow, you didn't even make a face or anything."

That's right, my friend. I'm one badass, green-juice-swigging bitch. Don't you forget it.


The reason I'm having green juice for dinner is because I've been feeling like complete crap for the past couple of days, just really moody and unable to concentrate and exhausted. When that happens, I often lay around and watch TV and eat doughy, cheesy foods, which tends to just deepen the funk. Sometimes I like to wallow in that funk, just really embrace it, but I have no patience for the funk right now, so I endeavor to do the exact opposite of those funk-prolonging activities. Green juice is the easiest way for me to make sure I'm nourished, and then I exercise. Unfortunately, I have to go to the gym today because I got back to the City too late to make it to any of the dance classes I like. That really sucks because I'd rather prefer to log another entry about how Mr. Schabel is feeling today. It's a much more engaging subject than green juice and why I'm drinking it instead of ordering in some rigatoni, pouring myself a glass of chianti, and throwing this here Bunuel flick freshly arrived from Netflix in my DVD player. I guess it will just have to wait until the weekend, which is SO FAR AWAY....

Annoying Mouth Sounds

If I ruled supreme over the world, gum-cracking would be a crime punishable by death.

There would be no trial, no investigation, just death. If you were caught cracking your gum, you would be killed. Immediately.

I didn't realize just how much I hate people that crack their gum until I moved back to New York City a few years ago. In Miami, I got from point A to point B in a car, and was free to create my own sound environment. I'm not saying that I miss my car, because I do not, but everywhere I go now I'm packed into a train or bus with a bajillion other New Yorkers, and about 30% of them seem to have the idea that gum-cracking is a fine pastime. I don't understand it. When did this become acceptable? CHEWING GUM SHOULD BE ENJOYED QUIETLY. Everyone should know this.

Actually, mouth sounds of any kind really annoy me. I cannot tolerate the sound of people chewing their food loudly, sucking on their teeth, smacking on candy, or slurping on their beverages. But gum-cracking has to be, by far, the most obnoxious practice. I cannot emphasize enough how angry it makes me. It's all I can do to resist the urge to shove my fist down the offender's throat, grab his/her tongue, and rip it out violently.

This is the main reason why I listen to my iPod when I'm on public transportation. It's not my love of music that compels me to don the little white earbuds, it is to save myself from the hassle of being tried and convicted of first-degree murder. I wouldn't be able to survive in jail -- I could never bring myself to eat the disgusting food they serve to inmates. And I can only imagine how much women in jail crack their gum and chew like cows. I shudder to think of it. A true living hell.

When Toast Attacks

The thing I just discovered about blogging is that it's a great way to pass the time when insomnia hits. I woke up at 3am, it's now 4, and I have to start getting ready for work in about an hour. I like my job a lot, but the commute out to Westchester is quite an inconvenience. I wish Starwood would move their headquarters to Manhattan. Then my life would truly be perfect.

But me and my insomnia and my commute are not the intended subjects of this post. This morning's subject is an explanation of the links I've put in the sidebar, which is basically a way for me to trumpet how great my friends are. A nice way to start the week, methinks.

I'll start off with Stephanie, since I just received notice of her wedding next Fall. I am beside myself with joy that I will be able to witness her and her wonderful fiancee Phil tying the knot. I also hope they get busy and have kids immediately, because these are the kind of people who will produce great progeny. I'm kind of ambivalent about having kids myself (I can't even take care of plants), but I try to encourage all creative, intelligent blue-staters to procreate, because we are hopelessly outnumbered by scary close-minded fanatics who seem to give birth in large numbers. What happens if we wake up like 30 years from now and realize our country is completely overrun with bookburning freaks? I shudder to think.

Steph is an incredibly talented artist who teaches bookmaking, and has created several works dear to my heart. The one I hold in the highest esteem is "Animals on Wheels" (I have copy #6 of 100), followed closely by "When Toast Attacks" and "Monkey Toe". She has published limited editions of some of these through the Center for Book Arts, whose link I have provided in the sidebar. For some reason I cannot seem to link directly to the page on their site referring specifically to her (http://www.centerforbookarts.org/archive/bio.asp?artistID=379), but if you follow the link and then type "toast" in their search engine, you'll get some Google-produced results that will lead you to it. Unfortunately, they have posted information about the work under the title, "The Toast Attacks", which is ENTIRELY inappropriate (don't get me started -- it's just SO WRONG), but Steph's trying to get them to fix that.

Ngozi lives in Washington, DC and works for Ted Kennedy. His blog is political in nature and addresses more serious issues than that of my fluffy content. He also plays bass in a band called the People 606. If you are ever in the DC area, they are definitely worth a gander. Lots of stuff there for people that like to dance, and for people that prefer to lean against the wall nursing a beer and just listening. If he provides me with links to info about shows, I'll be sure to post them.

Ivan is a professional musician and teacher (yes, he actually makes his LIVING as a musician -- three cheers!). He has just completed what sounds like his magnum opus, but he hasn't released it yet. He occasionally has shows in the City at a variety of venues, and can sometimes be seen at The Living Room. He's scheduled to play there on February 4 (www.livingroomny.com). Alas, I'll be heading to the airport to catch a plane to France on that evening, but when I'm in town I make it a point to catch his appearances. I have no talent for music criticism, or for describing art in any articulate way, but I guess one could describe his style as sort of folksy-rock, with echoes of country and bluegrass, even. The vibe of his show really depends on who he has playing and singing with him on that particular evening. It's never the same show twice, that's for sure.

Laura is a marketer like me, but made a very valient effort at shifting to a career in non-profit work. We both tried to make that leap together, unsuccessfully, about two years ago; I got to the very final round of interviews in landing a job managing the NAACP Legal Defense Fund's marketing database, and she volunteered for several months at WHEDCO, the Women's Housing and Economic Development Corporation, in the hopes to be hired as a full-time employee eventually. It turns out that non-profit organizations aren't always accepting of, or good at integrating, folks like us that come from the corporate, for-profit world. One day I'm sure we'll try again. In any case, Laura continues to carry the torch for WHEDCO, which does excellent work providing housing for women in need. She also teaches illiterate adults to read. Her husband, Seth, is also a glorious and thoughtful and super-talented individual, who made the leap to create a career in design by shifting down to part-time status at the ad agency where he and Laura work in order to complete his degree. He has a wonderful combination of impeccable taste and inspired practicality that will take him far. And hopefully he'll get Laura knocked up soon, because this is another couple that should be producing as much offspring as possible.

Oof, it's 6 minutes past five, I have to jump in the shower. Shit. I HATE schlepping to work. Agh.

Well, I don't have time to keep going on about my friends, but you get the idea. I'll continue to add links as they provide them, as well as some of my own that have nothing to do with people I know personally.

Have a great week!

Peter's Mood on 1/22

I think this lovely weather we've been having this weekend has softened Peter up a bit. He was almost nurturing today, I was astounded. He refrained from insulting or imitating us. He didn't remind us that our bodies are old and deteriorating. He didn't point out that our movements were reminiscent of persons afflicted with some kind of palsy. He didn't stop us five times in the middle of a movement and insist we do it again.

He didn't even remind us that counting to 7 isn't that difficult. That's one of his favorite insults -- at the barre, he'll have us do a movement (I'll refrain from using any ballet vocabulary at this point, because I'm relatively certain that no one reading my blog right now is a dancer) where we have to count to seven and close on eight. Inevitably, like five students will do the movement for eight counts and get confused. And this is where he mentally rubs his hands together and grins. His favorite comment at this point, after berating us for our clear lack of focus and concentration, is to go on for awhile about how easy it is to count to seven, and point out that, if you cannot master counting to seven, Sesame Street has a lovely series of videos that can help teach you how. This makes the newcomers chuckle and the veterans sneer. It probably was funny the first 1,000 times he said it, I'm sure.

He did say some things typical of his style of wit today, like "DaVinci had a good eye" and "Balanchine was not stupid" in which he states the obvious and then grins in that derisive manner of his, but all of these comments today were paired with quite helpful comments and insight. That's why I keep going back. He may be somewhat crotchety, but I learn a little something from him every day I go, and I somehow feel relaxed and at home in his class. I feel I can concentrate and really work on the things I need to work on, without feeling totally lost and trampled upon, like I do in, say, Kat Wildish's very crowded class. I go to ballet to work on my basic technique -- I do my fancy stuff in other classes in other studios.

Speaking of which, my class at Ailey yesterday was fantastic. My other main teacher is Richard Gonzalez, who teaches Afro-Cuban dance at Alvin Ailey Dance Theater (http://www.alvinailey.org/aileyschool.asp) and Djoniba's studio (http://www.djoniba.com/DDDC/schedule/schedule.html). The reason the class was good was because Richard was energetic and the drummers were very on. The drummers really set the tone for any class -- if they are tired or bored or off, forget it, it doesn't matter how the dancers are feeling or how well they are executing the movements. The class will suck if the drummers are not on. Yesterday they were on, in this very interesting way. I'm not a musician and I don't really have the vocabulary to describe musical events in a meaningful way, so I have to leave it there, but I'll try to learn some so I can express what happens to me and to the class and the space when I go to see Richard, because it is something awesome. It is difficult to be a dancer and have all of these feelings and experiences that are incredibly significant, but impossible to verbalize (for an inarticulate person like myself). I'll try to learn and jot them down here.

BTW, I'd like to include with my posts about Peter's moods some kind of indicator, like a thermometer, that visually expresses my rating of his mood that day. The top should be some kind of nasty red, with which I could pair a "10" rating of something like "totally malignant and practically spitting on us" and the bottom would be some kind of nice tranquil blue or green, indicating that, like today, he seems balanced and relatively benign. I'm computer-illiterate and helpless at finding my own resources online, so if anyone can suggest some kind of icon that I can manipulate in the appropriate way to post a visual rating of Peter's moods along with my scribblings, I would most appreciate it.

Peter Schabel's Moods

I've been taking ballet class with Peter Schabel for about a year and a half now. I've also been wanting to start a blog for about two years but I am an extremely lazy person when it comes to communication of any sort. Taking class with Peter, and listening to his insulting, repetitive monologues and the reactions they elicit from his students has inspired me to finally publish.

In the dressing room at Broadway Dance Center, the students who have just finished the Beginner class and the students that are about to head into the Advanced Beginner class have very animated conversations about Peter. How is he feeling today? How much does he really hate us? Is this one of the days where he is reminiscing about his days with Beijart, or when Cynthia Harvey or Gelsey Kirkland took his class? Are we worthy?

It is a truly entertaining experience for me every week. I love Peter, and that's why I keep taking his class. He can be an asshole, it's true, but he doesn't strike me as a particularly mean and nasty person. He's a good teacher for me, and I find his commentary very amusing. He seems to have a very marked effect on the folks at Broadway Dance Center (both students, and other teachers), but it's hard for me to really relate to how emotional people get about him. He's not that bad. In fact, he's a kitten compared to some of the very severe teachers I had when I was seriously studying ballet as a kid in Princeton.

Anyway, I plan to write about things other than stuff Peter says during the class, but Peter, and the folks who talk about him, are the reason I've gotten off my ass (well, not really, because I am sitting down on my sofa to write this, so really, "gotten off my ass" is just a metaphor) to start jotting things down and sharing them with lord-only-knows-who might be reading, and with my friends, of course. So I will try to post regularly after classes with him (I usually can only make it to class on the weekends), but I might toss something up here during the week about my other dance classes, or about work, or some guy, or a really nice pair of shoes I saw in a store window.

I invite you to share but will delete any stupid or annoying comments.

Cheers!