Dhoonya Dance Bollywood Class

Today, my friend Brittany and I went to Chelsea studios to sample our first Bollywood dance class. For those of you that have been under a rock, Bollywood refers to the Hindi language film industry and is a slang term that comes from the joining of Hollywood and Bombay. Bollywood, largely based in Mumbai (formerly Bombay), is the largest film producer in India and is pretty huge throughout the world as well. Most Bollywood films are musicals and involve beautifully intricate song and dance sequences that are woven throughout the script. The genre has recently become more and more popular in America with the success of Slumdog Millionaire and Andrew Lloyd Weber's Bombay Dreams (not to mention So You Think You Can Dance, but I may be the only person that is a devoted watcher of that). Anyway, when Brittany received a "Groupon" (www.groupon.com) for a half price class, we decided to check it out. 

Chelsea studios, to most New York actors, generally reeks of sweaty feet and desperation. A large number of auditions take place in those numerous studios on 26th street and the hallways are usually lined in stretching scantily clad dancers, pacing buzzing singers, and actors talking to themselves. We entered around 5:45pm and were pleasantly surprised that all the crazies had gone home for the evening and the place was veritably quiet. We signed up at the door (it was assumed that we had already paid and nobody checked anyway) and entered the large mirrored studio. I looked around as the students filed in. There was something fishy about the student composition of this dance class. After a few minutes, I realized what it was. There were NO dancers in it. Now, I've been dancing since I could walk, so I can spot a dancer (or former dancer, for that matter) from a mile away. And there were none (other than myself and Brittany) in the studio. There were about forty women and a few potential candidates for next season's Biggest Loser, but no dancers. This class was going to be interesting.

Our beautiful and petite teacher walked to the front of the class and introduced herself. The class we took was entitled Bolly Basics and is recommended to all newcomers to Bollywood dance. Priya, our teacher, explained that we would do a quick warm-up and then would learn an entire dance by the end of the class. She encouraged us to ask questions, leave the room and come back, and participate as much as we desired. She even smiled and said that we were welcome to chat while we danced if we wanted. Okay, I got it, she wanted us to have fun. Then she turned on some Indian club-like music with a driving beat and started with a step touch. We tried various easy movements during the warm-up, mostly dance steps with specific hand movements, but it was at least a little fun. Priya was funny and charming and made everyone young, old, big, and small in the room feel comfortable, "Feel free to add hips and shoulders to any movements if you want. In Bollywood, the more hips and shoulders, the better!" She explained that many of the steps we were learning were derived from classical Indian dances that were danced around harvest time, so many looked like harvesting plants or stamping soil, etc. I realized that there was much more to this Indian dance stuff than met the eye. Priya, obviously, knew much more than she was letting on, but managed to just hint at details of the dance and focused more on the having fun part. It helped that the technique of this genre of dance lent itself to being easily danced by a lay person. There were no pointed toes, piroettes, or high legs, just bouncing, hip shaking, and expressive hands. I could see where a dancer advanced in this technique could do much more than we were attempting in the class, but the movement was easy enough for most people to catch on and interesting enough to keep me engaged for an hour. Our routine (which we did, in fact, finish before the end of class) was politely sexy and actually a bit of an oblique workout. Priya translated the words of the song as we danced and laughed as we did a "throwing heart" movement, "women are always breaking men's hearts in Bollywood dance". The ladies in the room giggled and threw their imaginary mens' hearts to the floor with an arm flick and a hip shake. 

We finished our dance and filed out of the room to the changing room where I heard murmurs of "that was fun" and "where's the next class?". I listened and realized I had enjoyed my introduction to Bollywood dance, but maybe not as much as the non-dancers. I planned to take a more advanced level the next time, but it's a rare and wonderful woman that up and decides to take an Indian dance class instead of just putting in an hour on the treadmill or the elliptical. I don't know if I were not a dancer if I would have the motivation to do so, but I was surrounded by women who did. I was inspired by their courage. Priya suggested some favorite Bollywood films to rent while a woman in her late fifties with dreadlocks put on her Birkenstocks (with socks!) and talked about the dance steps with a thin, hunched mousy looking girl of about twenty. We had all shared a lovely experience. It wasn't hard, it wasn't complex, and I will definitely not be adding Indian dance as a special skill on my resume. That wasn't the point. I had a fun time. That was.

16 Handles

If ever you are having a bad day and need a place to go to eat your feelings, it's worth a trip to the east village to visit a little frozen yogurt shop called 16 Handles. My friend Rachel offered to escort me to this oasis of happiness yesterday and while I wasn't a fan of going south of 14th street, I would now go back every day if I could. It's a beautiful thing, this yogurt shop. Here's why.

16 Handles is on second avenue and 10th Street right in the tattooed Bohemian heart of NYU. I met Rachel (and Retta, her soon-to-be-born baby girl) at a coffee shop on 6th street and second avenue and we walked past the wafting Patchouli and piercing pagodas of Saint Mark's Street up to the glistening, colorful beacon of light called 16 Handles. The decor of the shop was much like any Pinkberry or Red Mango - minimalistic and really bright - but it seemed out of place amongst the dark, grungy bars and dusty bong shops of the east village. I was drawn towards it like Patrick Swayze in the last few minutes of Ghost, sucked toward a frozen yogurt heaven. We walked through the door and I immediately saw what all the fuss was about. Rachel explained that the thing that distinguishes this shop from the rest was that its name was not solely a reference to a well-known 80's film, but to 16 different flavors of frozen yogurt. And you get to mix your own! We chose a cup (large) and started pulling the handles to dispense the creamy goodness. I immediately became ten-year-old Michelle at the best part of the Golden Corral salad bar - the "soft serve" station. I mixed and matched like I was making a slurpee at the 7-11. In honor of research, I reasoned, it would only be prudent to sample as many flavors as possible. Right? I squeezed out cookies and cream, dulce de leche, pomegranate tart, New York cheesecake, peanut butter, and pistachio. As expertly smooshed more cheesecake yogurt into my cup, I happened to notice the nutrition facts that were prominently posted next to the handles. Not bad. 25 calories and 0 grams of fat per ounce. The nutrition facts varied from flavor to flavor, but they were all relatively healthy (well, as healthy as frozen yogurt can get). I finished my multicolored masterpiece and proudly showed my work to Rachel. "Ooh, nice. No toppings?", she queried. Toppings? I really was in heaven.

I scooted down the hall of handles towards the massive topping bar. Everything you could ever put on ice cream was displayed in a panorama of sweetness. Hot fudge, caramel, sprinkles, coconut, fruity pebbles, cookie dough, yogurt covered raisins, and at least eight types of crumbled candy bars beckoned me from the bar. I appreciated the selection, but only chose to scoop out cookie dough so as not to disrupt the flavor combination I had just created. Rachel and I walked to the front of the store where we met a cheerful young lad named Paul. He nodded knowingly at my excitement, "First time?", he asked. "And definitely not the last", I replied. As he weighed our treats, Rachel told me that she would treat me to my treat! Little did I know it would be a big treat. That will be $13.98. Oy. Thanks, Rach. I guess we had pumped more than a few ounces of frozen yogurt. We sat down and dug in. It was dreamy. MUCH better and significantly more like ice cream than that chemical-tasting Tasti-d'lite crap. We ate and ate. I must say that my favorite was the dulce de leche, but the pomegranate tart was an interesting and complex surprise. I looked up as a stunningly beautiful woman was paying Paul (heh, heh) for her yogurt. "I think I've seen her somewhere. Is she in movies?". Rachel shrugged and we continued shoveling. I looked up as the manicured woman's driver let her into the back seat of a slick black Escalade and walked around to the front seat to speed down second avenue. Well, I thought, if I were rich and famous and had a driver, I would do exactly the same thing. This stuff is good, people. Like, take-the-subway-south-of-14th-street-on-a-Sunday good.

We finished our treats, grabbed a couple frequent flier cards from Paul, and waddled out of the shop a little less rich, a little less skinny, and a lot happier than before. Thanks, Rachel. I'm so going back. Next time, though, I'll take the Escalade.

Why Is Everything So Much Cuter When It's Mini?

Okay, I'll admit it.  I buy toiletries in travel sizes when I'm not planning to travel.  I buy them just because they're cute.  Yes, I know it's not remotely cost-efficient.  Yes, I know that I can just buy clear plastic bottles and refill them.  I don't care.  Mini sizes are cute.  And I will shell out more dough to bask in their shiny little shrunken new-ness.  Perhaps it's because I had such an affinity for Shrinky Dinks when I was a kid.  (Apparently, that's dating myself).  Who knows.  Who cares?  (Well, other than the mini-making-folks that are reaping the benefits of my fiscal irresponsibility).  In short, minis make me happy.  Well, a few days ago, I found a little shop in Manhattan that played perfectly to my pint-sized predilection.

After a lovely dinner with my friend Bomboy, we happened upon a little establishment called "Baked by Melissa" on the walk from Lucy's (see past blog) toward the Sondheim Theatre.  Now, us New York folks are accustomed to seeing and experiencing every square inch of space on our little island filled with stuff, so the vast emptiness of this bake shop was the exact thing that caught my eye.  Well, and the name.  I mean . . . we'll just say . . . not the most creative.  But, there WAS a sort of homey quaintness to it as well.

"Look, this is cute", remarked Bomboy.  I didn't hear her - I was already dazedly walking through Melissa's door.  In front of me stood a wall of mini cupcakes.  They were brightly colored, perfectly iced, and adorably bite-sized.  Minis!!!  My Pavlovian kindergarten Shrinky Dink reaction jump-started my salivatory glands and I hungrily gravitated toward the rainbow sparkly baked goods.  (Duh).  Bomboy, obviously much more the adult than I, quietly contemplated the pricing.  I followed her gaze to the board that listed the mini cupcake pricing and lo and behold, the prices were anything but small.  One dollar per cupcake.  These bite-sized amuse bouche cupcakes were a full dollar.  Each.  A small bell went off in my head and a tiny voice whispered "overpriced", but it was quickly drowned out by my NEED for one of those cute little mini cupcakes.  Bomboy shelled out two bucks for our treats (thanks!) and we, in the interest of conservation, consumed them in two bites (instead of one).  Brilliant.  A perfect little treat.  Any more, actually, would have been too much.  (Even though, obviously, if I had had two, I would definitely have made them disappear somehow).  I was satisfied with my little treat and, interestingly, not too upset that I (well, Bomboy) was short one dollar.

So, "Baked by Melissa" was not the most exciting blog experience I've ever had.  Perhaps the likes of paintball and trapeze school were much more involved, but I was interestingly just as invigorated by my little new mini-adventure as I had been by my more adventurous adventures.  I tried something new, changed up my routine, and had a fun little time doing it.  The moral of the story?  Mini adventures, much like mini cupcakes, are often just as rewarding as their larger counterparts.  Word.  

Air in the Square

I love inadvertently stumbling across something that is completely blogalicious.  18 months ago, before I started this blog, I would have impatiently pushed past the throng of viewers in the middle of Times Square last Thursday and headed straight to my destination.  Now, partially because I am constantly in need of new subject matter for this blog and partially because (thanks to it) I have a renewed thirst for the adventurous, I stop and check things out.  Well, most of the time, anyway.  As I walked toward my new theatre of employ (the Stephen Sondheim Theatre on 43rd), I ran straight into a looming wooden structure and equally-as-huge crowd.  I stopped to check out the hubbub and was pleasantly entertained and thrilled for the next half hour.

Last Thursday afternoon, if you didn't know, was Air In The Square, a Mega-ramp ASA Triples Event.  Don't know what that is?  Yeah, I didn't either.  So, I stopped and asked an official-looking man setting up barricades.  Turns out, it's a BMX competition.  In Times Square.  For free.  Mama like.  I scooted toward the front of the group of folks, googled, and waited for the activities to commence.  According to my trusty internet-capable phone, this series of ramps was 195 feet long and a scaled-down version of the ramp used in the X Games (and event I DID recognize).  This course, though, had an extra ramp and two 15-feet jump gaps.  Oh, and it was smooshed between 42nd and 43rd street on Broadway.  Okay, I thought, this was getting more and more interesting by the minute.

Soon, the blasted punk/alternative music began to swell and guys on too-small-looking bikes whizzed down the large ramp and did an assortment of tricks in the air over our heads.  It was, in a word, thrilling!  They soared above our heads and I was terrified when I saw one of the first contestants wipe out, but the crowd around me didn't seem too concerned.  I realized as I continued to watch that falling was a pretty normal occurrence and these guys pretty much knew how to take their spills injury-free.  A particular biker did a fabulous-looking move and I leaned toward the guy next to me and asked what it was called.  "A 360", he repiled.  Okay.  Well, it was appropriately named, anyway.  I stayed for as long as I could, ooh'ed and aah'ed along with the crowd, and reluctantly turned toward work.  I became aware that this was an experience most people would pay a lot of money for and here I was stumbling on it while heading to work.  BMX pros warming up the pavement I walk every day.  And this, folks, is one of the many reasons why I love New York.

Knitting is for . . . cats

***Warning: Adult content!  Well, kind-of.  I didn't intentionally put it in here, but there are some adult-esque quotes floating around this narrative.  Not quotes from me, though.  I can't, though, talk about my latest adventure without including them.  So, stop reading now if you don't want to know about it.  The end.***

A few days ago, my latest adventure began with the following text messages:

"Wassup.  Jst got an email abt this kewl xhibit.  I want 2 go.  U near soho?"

"Yup.  When u wanna meet?"

"30 min at Spring St Physique?"

"Word"

Now, I was the first person in the above textersation (the murder of the English language facilitated by the world of texting still makes me cringe, but I, alas, must make my messages less than 160 characters like the rest of the world.) and my friend Zakiya was the second texter.  Per our vastly complex communication, we promptly met in Soho and headed toward a new art exhibit entitled (hold your ears, Mom), "Knitting is For Pu$$ies".  Yep.  And I hate to say it, but the name, in all its crassness, was partially what attracted me to the exhibit.  Also, I'm a pretty avid crocheter, so I figured that someone that shares my penchant for both crochet AND vulgarity was someone whose art I should see.  And yes, there was a lot of art to see.

The exhibit, by a female artist named Olec, was on the second floor of the Christopher Henry Gallery on Lafayette Street and, according to the man at the front desk, had been the hot spot of Soho for the past few weeks.  Alrighty, then.  Ignoring an exhibit of penciled pastel lines that I was obviously not cultured enough to appreciate, I immediately climbed the stairs to the dark second floor, made sure the coast was clear of wax figures (long story), and coerced Zakiya into joining me in what was, quite literally, a crocheted studio apartment.  Everything, and I mean everything, was crocheted.  The walls and floor were crocheted.  The windowsills and throw rugs were crocheted.  There was a crocheted sink, toilet, television, clothing rack, wardrobe, ironing board, and a crocheted man/woman sitting on the crocheted bed and pulling back his/her crocheted blanket.  Most of the yarn was semi-glow-in-the-dark, so the room took on a psychedelic quality that reminded me of a glow-in-the-dark mini golf course.  It was crazy and oddly surreal to stand in the room as the only un-crocheted beings.  I thought of the scarves I crocheted for the cast of a recent show and realized that, at the risk of sounding like Captain Obvious,  this had been an insane amount of work.  (Incidentally, I read later that the artist said she had created her impressive work while watching the Lost series on DVD from start to finish - I can relate to that).  We oohed and aahed for a few minutes.

"Um . . . Michelle?  Have you read any of this?" Zakiya asked.

No, I hadn't.  Bad Michelle.  Read the crochet and find the underlying meaning of this artist's hours and hours of toil.  There must be something she was trying to say.  I looked at the nearest inscription.

"Soul is the part of you that sees a lap dance every time you close your eyes."


What?!?!  Hold on a second.  No quotes from God?  The Dali Lama?  Confucious?

"Ur pu$$y is my soul mate."

"My mother hates Mother's Day".  

Really, Olec?  Really?  I mean, with a name like Olec, people maybe just expect you to spout wisdom like your almost-namesake Olmec from Legends of the Hidden Temple (c'mon, you know you watched that show), but did we have to go there?  Well, apparently we did.  And I've got to say that the quotes above were amongst the less vulgar.  I looked at Zakiya whose eyebrows were so far raised that they were actually creasing her normally-smooth forehead and . . . we laughed.  Heartily.  It was actually refreshing for a New York artist to so obviously take herself with an albeit very dirty grain of salt.  After reading the crocheted phrases, I felt more at home in the crocheted apartment.  Somehow, I was a little more at ease, akin to a friend telling a dirty joke at a tense dinner party.  We strolled around the apartment and looked closer at the plethora of woven objects.  As I was sitting at the desk pretending to talk on the crocheted phone, we heard a couple of women near us suddenly realize what was written around them.  Their response?  Laughter much like our own.  We smiled and headed toward the sunlit exit in gallery below.

Perhaps there was some deeper meaning I should have gleaned from the exhibit.  Perhaps there was some profound juxtaposition of the old-world crochet and the new-world verbiage that would shed light on the state of humanity today.  Or, some chick with a weird name likes to crochet dirty phrases while she watches reruns of Lost.  Whatever.  It was fun.  I figured that was what counted.  I thought of my previous textersation with Zakiya and figured Olec would have liked that idea, too.  Perhaps she would have crocheted it on a wall.