what happened to sleeping in until 8 pm?

Every once-in-a-great-while the stars sync up their cosmic whirling-dervish and align for a brief moment in the black heavens. Under an auspicious sky of void expanses dotted by burning jewels, I find myself lucky enough to do a bunch of really cool things over the course of a weekend for really cheap. This was the case last weekend.

Now although the dollar beers and epic Boggle clashes on Friday surely contributed to a memorable couple days, I’m alluding more to what started on Saturday night. Actually, it all started a couple weeks ago at work, of all places. There I was, staring at my computer screen in my cubicle world listening to the symphony of fax machines, click-clack typing, and ringing phones. I overheard a conversation in the copy room (side note: the only interesting conversations at work happen in the copy room under the false assumption of privacy) wherein this guy revealed he was a drummer for a bellydancing troupe. After much clandestine investigation that involved periscopes and tracking dogs, I managed to find this guy and introduce myself. He gave me the hook up on an upcoming show.

Saturday. So the upcoming show upcame. On Saturday, my accomplice in crime and I wandered into the underworld of tribal dancers. Tucked away behind this little artsy café down by China town (for all DC hipsters reading here, check out the Warehouse Theatre…it’s a cool spot that’s bringing in interesting shows but struggling to really get going) was a little theatre that couldn’t have sat more than 100 people gasping for oxygen and unsuccessfully looking around for the fire escape. It didn’t take long to realize that we were viewing an esoteric art with people who understood and probably followed it religiously. When one of the dancers performed an abnormally difficult pose (aka, balancing a plate of burning candles on her belly as she twisted her body into a contorted ball of aching muscles or gracefully pranced around the stage with two scimitars resting unsupported on her head) the audience would erupt with animalistic whoops that sounded like some kind of hungry whooping crane. But everyone sounded like the same crane…like they’d gone to a belly dancing cheer class.

Aside from any inconsequential feeling of alienation we experienced from the cliquey whoopers, it was an amazing show. Exotic music rattled the creaky wooden posts that supported plain black sheets…a simple backdrop that directed your attention to where it was deserved: the dancers. The first part consisted of a local troupe (DC Tribal) exhibiting their funkadelic freshness, followed by a visiting cadre of more prominent dancers. For all my readers in San Francisco…and when I say readers, I mean reader, thank you Blogmyers-can I get a Hayward in the house…check out Ultra Gypsy perform for a memorable night. For those anywhere near San Diego, Urban Tribal Dancers is the show to hit. Besides the elaborate costumes, absurdly athletic moves, and hypnotic theatrics, I loved how they seamlessly blended in modern elements (especially in the music) with the more traditional. It made me feel like I was watching something being created instead of looking at a 3-D, moving exhibit in a museum.

Sunday. Anyone who’s seen Good Will Hunting or has an inkling of appreciation for conscientious social criticism knows they should read Howard Zinn (i.e. A People’s History of the United States, You Can’t Be Neutral on a Moving Train). I know this, yet still never have. I did get a chance to watch his film biography and listen to him speak, however, on Sunday at the American Film Institute in Maryland. I liked Howard’s story because he didn’t follow the traditional academic path. Instead, he spent a good deal of his youth scavenging around the streets of New York, working at the shipyards, and dropping bombs in World War II. I’m guessing this all contributed to what I liked best about him: he’s an idealist who’s realistic about the possibilities and means of change. It was cool to see someone who was integrally involved in social demonstrations during the Civil Rights Movement and Vietnam speaking about Iraq in 2005. Perhaps my historical imagination is weak, but I oftentimes feel completely removed from the accounts I read in books or see in movies of those tumultuous times, regardless of how recently they occurred. Zinn helped to bridge the gap. The dude is old, but spry and healthy. He has a glimmer in his eye that bespeaks a life lived well. He’s a seasoned speaker with a patient mien who didn’t hesitate to let questioners talk longer than they should have. He made me want to read his books and get fired up about what’s going on in the world.

Monday (we’ll pretend that’s part of the weekend). I watched the Washington Wizards kick the Chicago Bulls’ ass to tie up the series 2-2 in the first round of the NBA playoffs Although they tried as hard as they could to give up their commanding lead in the 4th quarter, the Bulls managed to shoot so horrifically that the Wizards simply had to leave with a win. (Series now 3-2 Wizards, thanks to a last second shot by Gilbert Arenas after they tried their same strategy of giving up a 20 something point lead, but not quite being able to lose). It wasn’t all poor play, however. As a matter of fact, four minutes into the game the Wizards had scored enough points to be en route to racking up 180. That did not happen. That’s good, because I can’t count that high. I got to see miniature blimps, a magician help his counterpart change outfits really fast…over and over, and entertaining basketball. Plus, I had the option to drink my beer with a straw. Gotta love it.

Moral of the Story: I want more weekends where a twenty dollar bill reminds me that the world isn’t a staid complex of mindless masses shuffling to and from lego buildings…and still gets me change.