My last post sparked conversation with fellow NYC blogger Lame Adventures who mentioned wanting to live in NYC after falling in love with the movie West Side Story as a child. Coincidence! I just thought about wanting to post that dance at the gym scene last year after having to rent the movie when missing the screenings in the city for the 50th anniversary. I couldn’t find a decent clip though.
I like the beginning dance scene where Maria spins around in her white dress and transports magically to the gym where the whites and Puerto Ricans are dancing. This dancing is bad ass. I love Leonard Bernstein’s orchestration because it captures the feel of sexy adolescence.
Yes, I remember sexy adolescence. What perky bunnies we were. We had parties all the time when I was growing up in the city and sometimes boys from rival groups would intrude on the neighborhood turf and there’d be a ruckus — good times, good times… Overall, the kids I grew up with were good kids from good families. You know, shit just happens sometimes living in the city.
In this scene, that blonde girl kicks ass dancing — in fact it looks like she could kick some serious ass ass. I just think the whole damn thing is sexy. I like the way her friends check her out and stop dancing to watch her dance, and when they all slow down and dance close together, yeah.
I could only find a 10 minute video which is long — so just drag over to the 1:57 minute point and you’ll see what I’m saying:
I had planned to write about the crushes that I’ve had on the men in the Hasidic community on Bennett Avenue, or on how erotic armpit odor is (hey look, it has raging pheromones in it, I think – or something like this). But as I was getting ready to broil my meat, thinking of phone calls I had to return after eating, I thought about one woman on the list, and how she was the first woman who had affectionately called me a bitch. Now this was back in 1993. Because I am mad corny, or shall I say, incredibly corny, (okay, really, I’m not that corny) I was absolutely taken aback when she casually said in the most laid back, sexy voice, ‘Okay bitch, so I’ma call you back tomorrow aight’. ‘T-tomorrow – oh, okay’, I stammered. I’m thinking, she called me a bad word but in an affectionate tone. Does this mean, like, I am her bitch, or is it a new way of saying honey, or baby, or dear? Did she mean to offend me? Should I get on the A train to her house and invite her downstairs for a round of fisticuffs? This apparently is some newfangled way of speaking that I haven’t been acquainted with as of yet, I figured. Maybe when she calls back tomorrow, I’ll show her I know what time it is and say ‘Why, good morning to ya bitch! How are you today? So, bitch, what’s on the agenda?’
Since then I’m everybody’s bitch. ‘Bitch! You drank all my Jack Daniels’ – ‘Hey bitch, what’s up,’ they all say. And I’m down with the program today, reciprocating this term of endearment with the utmost jocularity.
Peace out bitches!