For the last three weeks, I've been teaching myself how to dance.
It starts when my Wife buys two tickets to the Raphael Saadiq concert at the Park West.
The tickets say there will be dancing. You cannot see Raphael Saadiq without dancing. I make myself a personal declaration: "No more being scared and self conscious. No more cowering in the corners of life. The time has come to change. From here on out, you're gonna be a dancer!"
I break the news to my buddies at a track meet: "I'm gonna learn to dance...."
Everyone's an expert -- everyone's got something to say. Ray hops off the bleachers and starts Steppin' right there. He's as smooth as they come. I watch in awe. "Damn, man, where did you learn how to do that?" I ask.
He shrugs, like it's something he's been doing his whole life. Sort of like breathing.
I try to imitate what I've just seen, but Daddy Dee cuts me off. "You look really stupid," he says.
"Thanks for the confidence boost," I say.
"Forget the steps. Just move back and forth while trying to look cool...."
He shuffles one foot one way and the other foot the other way, while looking really blase.
"That's like dancing for dummies," I say.
"Well....."
"I'm better than that -- I wanna dance!"
That night I search You Tube looking for inspiration: Fred Astaire, Sammy Davis Jr., John Travolta, random teenagers on Soul Train. Forget it. They're so good and I'm so bad. It only makes me depressed.
Every day I wake up and tell myself: This is the day I teach myself how to dance. And everyday I find some excuse not to get it done.
Finally, a few days before the concert, my wife takes me into the kitchen and says: "Follow me."
It's four basic steps, she explains. Left food forward, that's one. Left foot back, that's two. Right foot up and down, three. Pause, four. Then reverse it. Right food back. Right food forward. Left foot up and down. Pause. And repeat....
She puts "The Way I See It" -- Raphael Saadiq's latest -- on the beat-up, old CD player we have on the kitchen counter, looks at me and asks: "Ready?"
I nod. "Okay, let's go," she says.
"Ooh, ooh, ooh -- sure hope you mean it," sings Raphael.
I take baby steps. One, two, three, four.
"Count it out," says my wife.
"One, two, three, four," I count.
"Good," she says.
"One, two, three, four....."
"Now count to yourself....."
I count in my mind: "One, two, three, four....."
"Now, count without moving your lips...."
And on it goes as we run through the songs on the CD: "100 yard Dash," "Keep Marchin'," "Big Easy"....
And, just like, that I'm a Steppin' fool. We dance through the whole CD. The next day I wake up with the songs playing in my mind. Everywhere I go I hear Raphhael Saadiq. Got "The Way I See It" going nonstop on my brain. I'm riding the elevator at City Hall and I'm singing to myself "Falling in love can be easy, staying in love can be tricky." And I'm Steppin' right there in the elevator -- one, two, three, four. Only I'm taking teeny-tiny baby steps, so no one will notice and realize I'm as weird as, you know, I really am.
On the eve of the concert I give it one last go all by myself in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom. Checking myself out. One, two, three, four. Me and Raphael Saadiq -- the world's coolest dudes.
Nicky, the dog, walks in and looks at me.
"I'm ready, Nicky," I tell her. "John Travolta's got nothin' on me...."
To Be Continued....
Showing posts with label Fred Astaire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fred Astaire. Show all posts
Monday, March 16, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Benny Jay: Dinner With Dad
For my wife's birthday, we eat at an Italian restaurant.
My father's feeling good. Apparently, he drank a scotch (or two) at home before he got here, where he orders a Manhattan. That makes two drinks -- or three -- but who's counting.
My wife's drinking a Cosmopolitan, my mother got a Manhattan, and my sister's sipping wine. I'm nursing a beer. In a family of serious drinkers, I'm known as the wimp.
It's noisy in the restaurant. We have to speak up to be heard.
Two guys walk in. My sister leans toward me. "Isn't that Eddie Arruza?" she says.
"Who?"
"Eddie Arruza -- the TV guy from Channel 11...."
I act like I'm too cool to care about a TV personality: "I dunno...."
She's annoyed: "You didn't look...."
My father orders a second Manhattan. My wife mentions that we recently saw "Macbeth." My father starts quoting Lady Macbeth -- at 83, he's got this amazing ability to quote from songs, plays and poems: "I have given suck, and know how tender `tis to lose the babe that milks me; I would while it was smiling in my face, have plucked my nipple from his boneless gums and dashed the brains out...."
He gets really loud when he gets to the part about nipples, boneless gums and dashed-out- brains.
My sister tells him he's talking too loud.
"What did you say?" he says.
"You're being obnoxious," she says.
He puts his hand behind his ear, like he's straining to hear her: "What was that word?"
"Obnoxious...."
"Oh," he says. "Obnoxious. Say it clearly: Ob-nox-ious...."
"Stop yelling," she says.
"I'm not yelling...."
"You're talking too loud...."
"I don't yell -- I project. There's a difference."
Emily, the waitress, stops by to say hello. She's a voice major at Northwestern University. She tells us she'll be performing in an upcoming student opera production.
"Will you be singing, `Una Furtiva Lagrima'?" asks my dad.
She smiles. Months ago she played the role of Adina in a student production of "The Elixir of Love." Adina doesn't sing "Una Furtiva Lagrima," and my father knows it. But it doesn't matter -- cause he enjoys asking her that question.
"I'm not a tenor," she says. Which is what she usually says.
"What's the name of that song?" I ask my father.
"Una Furtiva Lagrima -- a furtive tear," says my father. He explains that in the opera a young man is afraid of women so he drinks a bottle of wine -- the elixir of love -- that emboldens him. His eyes filling with tears, my father starts singing: "Una furtiva lagrima negli occhi suio spunto...."
"Dad, stop," says my sister. "You're too loud...."
It's true. He's very loud. But no one seems to notice. 'Cause it's so loud in the restaurant.
I make my way to the bathroom. I see the man my sister thinks is Eddie Arruza. I don't want my sister to know I'm looking, yet I'm curious. Is it him? I sneak a quick look. But his head is down and I can't be sure.
On the way back, I sneak another look. But it's dark in the restaurant. I keep looking. Don't see where I'm going. Oops, I walk into a waiter. "Sorry," I say, "my fault...."
Back at the table, my father, well into his third drink, is back to Lady Macbeth and her nipples.
We drive to my parent's house to give my wife her presents. My dad builds a fire. My sister puts on a CD of big band songs. Frank Sinatra's singing with Tommy Dorsey.
Sitting on the sofa, watching the fire, I suddenly remember -- the Bulls are playing the Mavericks and it's on TV. I look at my watch. The game must be nearly over. I wonder who won. I sneak out of the living room and into the side room where they keep their TV. I turn on the set, but keep the volume low. My father can't stand the sound of sports on TV.
Perfect timing. There's about three seconds left in regulation. The score's tied. Derrick Rose has the ball. He cuts by his man. Drives to the basket. Jumps. Turns. Shoots. Off the rim! Overtime. "No," I wail. "Where's the foul...."
I turn off the TV. No sense in watching. I just know they'll lose. Damn!
I return to the living room. My wife and my mother -- who's beyond 80 -- are dancing the jitterbug to Glenn Miller's "In the Mood." My mom's leading. She twirls my wife, like they're Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.
"Overtime," I announce. Like anyone cares.
I watch my mom dance with my wife. You never grow old in my father's house.
My father's feeling good. Apparently, he drank a scotch (or two) at home before he got here, where he orders a Manhattan. That makes two drinks -- or three -- but who's counting.
My wife's drinking a Cosmopolitan, my mother got a Manhattan, and my sister's sipping wine. I'm nursing a beer. In a family of serious drinkers, I'm known as the wimp.
It's noisy in the restaurant. We have to speak up to be heard.
Two guys walk in. My sister leans toward me. "Isn't that Eddie Arruza?" she says.
"Who?"
"Eddie Arruza -- the TV guy from Channel 11...."
I act like I'm too cool to care about a TV personality: "I dunno...."
She's annoyed: "You didn't look...."
My father orders a second Manhattan. My wife mentions that we recently saw "Macbeth." My father starts quoting Lady Macbeth -- at 83, he's got this amazing ability to quote from songs, plays and poems: "I have given suck, and know how tender `tis to lose the babe that milks me; I would while it was smiling in my face, have plucked my nipple from his boneless gums and dashed the brains out...."
He gets really loud when he gets to the part about nipples, boneless gums and dashed-out- brains.
My sister tells him he's talking too loud.
"What did you say?" he says.
"You're being obnoxious," she says.
He puts his hand behind his ear, like he's straining to hear her: "What was that word?"
"Obnoxious...."
"Oh," he says. "Obnoxious. Say it clearly: Ob-nox-ious...."
"Stop yelling," she says.
"I'm not yelling...."
"You're talking too loud...."
"I don't yell -- I project. There's a difference."
Emily, the waitress, stops by to say hello. She's a voice major at Northwestern University. She tells us she'll be performing in an upcoming student opera production.
"Will you be singing, `Una Furtiva Lagrima'?" asks my dad.
She smiles. Months ago she played the role of Adina in a student production of "The Elixir of Love." Adina doesn't sing "Una Furtiva Lagrima," and my father knows it. But it doesn't matter -- cause he enjoys asking her that question.
"I'm not a tenor," she says. Which is what she usually says.
"What's the name of that song?" I ask my father.
"Una Furtiva Lagrima -- a furtive tear," says my father. He explains that in the opera a young man is afraid of women so he drinks a bottle of wine -- the elixir of love -- that emboldens him. His eyes filling with tears, my father starts singing: "Una furtiva lagrima negli occhi suio spunto...."
"Dad, stop," says my sister. "You're too loud...."
It's true. He's very loud. But no one seems to notice. 'Cause it's so loud in the restaurant.
I make my way to the bathroom. I see the man my sister thinks is Eddie Arruza. I don't want my sister to know I'm looking, yet I'm curious. Is it him? I sneak a quick look. But his head is down and I can't be sure.
On the way back, I sneak another look. But it's dark in the restaurant. I keep looking. Don't see where I'm going. Oops, I walk into a waiter. "Sorry," I say, "my fault...."
Back at the table, my father, well into his third drink, is back to Lady Macbeth and her nipples.
We drive to my parent's house to give my wife her presents. My dad builds a fire. My sister puts on a CD of big band songs. Frank Sinatra's singing with Tommy Dorsey.
Sitting on the sofa, watching the fire, I suddenly remember -- the Bulls are playing the Mavericks and it's on TV. I look at my watch. The game must be nearly over. I wonder who won. I sneak out of the living room and into the side room where they keep their TV. I turn on the set, but keep the volume low. My father can't stand the sound of sports on TV.
Perfect timing. There's about three seconds left in regulation. The score's tied. Derrick Rose has the ball. He cuts by his man. Drives to the basket. Jumps. Turns. Shoots. Off the rim! Overtime. "No," I wail. "Where's the foul...."
I turn off the TV. No sense in watching. I just know they'll lose. Damn!
I return to the living room. My wife and my mother -- who's beyond 80 -- are dancing the jitterbug to Glenn Miller's "In the Mood." My mom's leading. She twirls my wife, like they're Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.
"Overtime," I announce. Like anyone cares.
I watch my mom dance with my wife. You never grow old in my father's house.
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