Share on Facebook

When in a cab migrating north or south on the Henry Hudson during evening hours, if I’m not scanning the Hudson river sparkling with city lights, then my head is often turned towards that interesting territory adjacent to the highway where the city starts. One thing that always captures my attention but never the lens of my camera is the lonely taxi stand outside of Hustler. That’s a strip club, for those not in the know. Taxi stands are not a familiar sight, at least in the parts of the city I find myself in. Usually every where you step is a taxi stand, created by your very own self when you peak outside the sidewalk with a raised hand. Voila. Taxi stand. But right off the highway is a canopied (glass?) stand with a large sign, “Taxi” around the corner (but out of sight of) Hustler’s doors. I’ve never seen someone standing in it, and I’m always looking whenever I pass. And I just have to think that it is the loneliest taxi stand, without a person and more so if someone’s in there. There is no hiding your nocturnal activities if you’re standing in this glass box with a glaring sign,-Hey, I’ve just been enjoying some gyrating, pole happy tits, fantasy is over and now I need to go home… if you are trying to be discreet. And if you weren’t in Hustler and just need a cab, people will probably never believe it. I’m waiting for the day I see someone waiting in it,  to imagine all the stories that accompanies standing in the taxi stand in front of Hustler on the West Side Highway. What probably bothers me is that it is a scene set for a character who hasn’t walked onto the pages yet. 

Have any other lonely taxi stands, or thoughts on this one?

Share on Facebook

• Still obsessed. Bianca and I are dragging JPLogan back down with us. Bra-ha ha!
• Retired the heels for an elegant lower (still feminine) pair so I don’t feel like an AT-ST being jostled by Ewoks.
• Finding my own… one teacher who has been trying to correct a bounce I have in my steps has resigned that it is “just my style” and plans to include it in his choreography. I should ask him to call it the Nova (our salsa vocab is now 3 words: the Nova, the fire hydrant and the BJ Dive).
• Partners come and go… don’t get your salsa thumping heart attached. 
• In the spirit of true Sinvergüenza, JPLogan, Bianca and I danced salsa in a synagogue, Deity Lounge, now bar/lounge in Brooklyn. Priest, synagogue…what else is left in this blasphemous dance? (I hear the veterans laughing while shaking their heads: poor, innocent girl..)
• As I was practicing by myself at a social last night, Bianca’s fire hydrant guy swooped my arm up in the middle of a song and started dancing with me. The song was almost over, and his body language was not threatening, so I didn’t fight for my hand back. Never, never have I danced with a guy that instead of facing me, spent the entire time looking at himself in the mirror as if his reflection was his partner. I was this little ornament on his arm, like a piece of jewelry he was enjoying looking at himself wear. This is narcissism to an extreme degree, true to its etymological roots, Narcissus . Luckily it lasted all of 1.5 minutes.
• I have been told that I am being held back a grade in salsa school. That’s okay, soon I’m transferring hands to a new teacher so he wants me to feel his style for awhile. 
• I’m consulting the salsera oracle, grandma, to see if she can help me find the pulse of the 2’s and 6’s that are alluding me. My offering to the great oracle? A six-pack of bud-light.

Share on Facebook

So of course I didn’t know who C-mixto and this big nerdy looking guy were fussing about in Cielo last night when the big guy kept exclaiming, “Yo! It’s Leroy! It’s Leroy!”

Bruce Leroy (Taimak) of the cult classic, The Last Dragon was taking in the beats of Alex Pearce and Cielo last night in NYC. C-mixto said Roc would appreciate a post on it. Him and his crew seemed way cool and I respect that he got down to the beats too. 

You can also see him get down with Janet in her abstinence promoting video, “Let’s Wait Awhile”

To refresh your Last Dragon Memory, check out the fight scene:

Share on Facebook

Q&A with Alex Pearce | Dance.Here.Now. @ Cielo – Thursday, July 2nd

Check out the interview on www.rhythmism.com

Share on Facebook

UPDATE: Forgot to thank avid Urban Odyssey reader, DIVAFISH for showing me the article!

Share on Facebook

Fans of House music (which is very much odyssey travel music): Cielo and DJ Alex Pearce are a nice match. The club is spotless (with a swimming pool smell that doesn’t seem to bother me); it’s cozy (not like a an over-hyped coliseum (like the old Twilo)) and has the best lighting and sound system I’ve experienced in a club. The music is thumping, but not piercing.

Turns out there is a guy who has been asking (and getting permission from) various clubs and DJs to lay on the floor in a body bag with a sign that says “Step on me” with a modestly drawn happy face. In Cielo he was situated right under the bar to capture high traffic. Everything on him is covered in the padded body bag, except his nose. He has pale skin, (not sure if it is make-up to make him look like a corpse), but I swear I detected a pleasurable grin under his cloak.

Now who is this guy that asks to be stepped on? Bar talk theories:

• An S&M enthusiast
• A performance artist
• A graduate student doing his thesis on group attitudes and behavior on masochistic requests

As I watched girls climb on top of him to order drinks, their heels digging into his stomach, I saw his back arch and torso cave in. Was it to adjust to the weight or was it a pleasure groan? I refused to step on him. Ain’t going to get that type of service from me, stranger. At least not without an introduction.

Share on Facebook

C-mixto thought it romantic to whisk me away to Brazil a few years ago. Rio to be exact.

If you’re never been to Rio, here are three points to consider before going:

1. If a woman traveling with your man, be very secure in yourself (I mean your looks and your relationship).
2. If you’re a man traveling with a woman you’re not crazy about, reconsider your travel plans; you will not be able to hide this once you land.
3. If you’re a man traveling solo or with other guys, you probably already know what’s up, hence why you’re going there to begin with.

One night, dining along the shores of Copacabana, C-mixto suggests we go dancing. To the “biggest club in Latin America”, he claims. We hail a cab, get in, and C-mixto tells the driver our destination. The driver begins to drive, but with hesitation.

“Eh, sir,” he says in a mixture of Portugese and Spanish. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” C-mixto says.

“But sir,” the driver says, glancing at me nervously. “Are you sure you want to take your señora there?”

“Yes!” C-mixto affirms. “We like dancing.”

The driver shrugs his shoulders and delivers us to our destination, shaking his head one last time before he leaves.

This place was grand. Full bar, open dance floor… C-mixto and I got right to it and made our way through the crowd and started to dance our best to the whatever semi-decent music they were spinning. But then I noticed something special about this crowd. The person to my left, right, front, back and every other possible angle were women. Where were the men? Lined outside the perimeter, taking their pick of the girls like grocers at Hunts Point. 

“You took me to a brothel?” I cried in disbelief.

Here’s what’s worse. I fit just right in-outfit, look and all. Nobody told me that only ladies of the evening wear red toe polish (decent ladies opt for clear and white). My toes were as red as the windows of De Wallen, Amsterdam.

C-mixto must have touched my shoulder or waist at some point (we were still trying to act normal and continued dancing), because like Agent Smiths, bouncer Johns came storming in, separating us with heavy hands.

“No touching!” they yelled in Portugese. “Not on the dance floor.”

“But it’s my girlfriend!” C-mixto explained.

“Yeah, you and every guy here.”

Mortified and feeling dirty  (but laughing because that shit is funny), C-mixto and I made two or three pathetic gestures at finishing the song, feet apart, then shamefully walked over to find a place to strategize our next move. I was both fuming and intrigued, like a spy broken into a forbidden place to take notes. The tables were all filled with ratios of like twelve girls to one or two guys. C-mixto got looks like, Okay, so you found your pick, why stay, though I don’t know why you’re only taking one.

Surprised I had to request that C-mixto take me back to the hotel? His mind was probably torn between sincere sadness for the plight of these girls, but also the pleasure of swimming in a sea of beautiful mixed women of every size, color and variety your heart could ever desire. Cosmic race indeed.

When we finally left, passing the Copa strip at twilight, we were solicited by a street variety of what was indoors. A woman stripped open her blouse, bared her breast, and asked C-mixto if he wanted some. C-mixto swears it wasn’t really a woman.

Rio has other charms, of course; this is just one story. You can’t dispute that Rio has a lot to offer.

Share on Facebook