For the first time in my three years of New York residency, my zip code is not 11211. I had mixed emotions about leaving Williamsburg. Although I had been in my apartment on Metro for nearly a year and a half, I had some of my best experiences there right before I left which made it bittersweet. Monica and Manu spent 2 weeks sleeping on an air mattress in my living room in June.

And Keith had just introduced me to two really sweet spots on my block that I found too late. The iced latte at Oslo and the Sea Turtle at Cheeks Bakery were integral parts of my summer diet. And although I've only moved to Greenpoint and Williamsburg is just a walk through the park away, I really don't go there all that much. It's strange, it's like I go around it and over it and come at it from different angles but am never really just in it anymore.
The move was a breeze thanks to the best Man with a Van in town-Mike. He looked like Shaggy from Scooby Doo and was determined to get everything I own into his little toaster-esque mystery machine and to Greenpoint in one trip. And amazingly, he did. I believe he rode with one hand holding back my laundry basket which was attacking him from the passenger's seat but he made it. He even remarked about how little I had-for a girl. It's because I am the downsizing queen! Gabriel once said to me, "Lauren! You have to learn to separate yourself from your things," when on my first day here my cd collection and car stereo were stollen, and I've taken this advice to heart. Plus I enjoy the sense of mobility and it's just easier to look around and imagine the 3 most important things I would grab in a fire without all that clutter. So it was a fairly painless-albeit sweaty-move that day which we contained to approximately 2 hours.

Since relocating to Greenpoint I've been enjoying the local flavors, specifically the babka cakes from the Polish bakery on Nassau and the coffee and peace at my new favorite cafe which isn't pretentiously packed with hipsters and their glowing apples. And I'm totally going to be selfish and not mention the name of it because I don't want my new writing spot getting bombarded. I have said goodbye to the all night noise that was living across from a car service and above the Luna Lounge on Metropolitan and hello to a sweet little tree-lined street where people sit on their stoops and hang their panties out on clothes lines. The view out of my bedroom window actually involves grass and flowers and someone's tomato garden!

I'm one week into a fiction writing course and am excited about the discipline it will provide in terms of writing regularly, not to mention the free-write exercises that may just prove blog-worthy! Here is one prompted by..."something about me that my parents do not know." And yeah, we're pretty open--I had to dig.

There are only a handful of things about me that my parents don't already know: exactly how much my rent is, that I occasionally smoke a cigarette on my fire escape, that I know more of their secrets than they think. But one particular secret rises to the surface now...that on a perfect spring day in 2000, I shoplifted a tiny tee from Kaughman’s in the mall. Do they know that I got caught? Absolutely. Did they pay the $300 fine that was issued? Reluctantly. But they still believe that the way that pale blue tee got into my shopping bag was purely "accidental."

Thursday afternoon-we had just picked up my prom dress from the gown boutique. I remember this specifically because of the extreme irony of saving $250.00 to buy a dress and still feeling it necessary to steal a $14.95 shirt. It wasn’t about the money, but simply the rush.

I was 18 and for the past three years of high school, shoplifting had become a sport amongst my peers. We saw security cameras and fitting room attendants as extra high hurdles to be cleared; things at which to glance back and laugh as we crossed the finish line that was the border between the store and the mall. The undisturbed hum of the mall existing as our victory song as long as it wasn’t interrupted by the blare of alarms.

But on this Thursday afternoon with my twelve-year-old sister in tow and father waiting to meet me at Gretel’s Pretzels in the food court, I had seen defeat. The security guard approached me near the perfume counter, steps from freedom, and said, “I believe you have something of ours.” I recall rolling my eyes at him and acting completely shocked and offended. He told me to open up my bag and proceeded to pick out the pale blue shirt, which in fact did still belong to the store.

We were escorted into a back office where a sales lady wearing too much makeup and gold jewelry stood with hands on hips. She was there to verify which items amongst my other purchases belonged to their store and which did not. She was the “expert witness" so to speak and she was soaking up every second of it. A stock boy with Dorrito dust on his fingertips was ordered to intercept my father at the meeting spot and bring him here though I presented the excellent point that I was technically an adult and there was really no reason to bring him into this.

“Did he drive you here today young lady?” the plain-clothed security guard asked.
“Well, yeah, I mean, we all came together,” I replied rolling eyes harder than ever before.
“Well then we’re going to have to inform him.”

I imagined this situation arising before-a criminal walking that fine line between minor and adult- and security guards scratching their heads and pondering whether to inform the parent or not. I imagined it being a valid point when discussing the protocol followed to fully humiliate girls who steal tiny tees from Kaughman’s. Perhaps an answer found after flipping to the back of a case-study handbook for Kaughman security guard trainees.

My dad entered and appeared confused. I repeated the story, the lie, that I had improvised upon being interrogated. I had simply gotten disoriented in the disgracefully messy fitting room (accusatory glance at the sales lady) and thought that this shirt was one of the ones I had already purchased that day. How did the tags get torn off? Good question. I suggested sabatoge.

I also suggested other factors to blame such as the heap of clothes on the floor, the unoriginality of the fashion industry and how so many tiny-tees look the same, the excitement of picking up my first prom dress, and the high-dose of allergy medication I had swallowed before entering the mall. I had been feeling a little dizzy, overwhelmed, pre-menstrual? and simply made a mistake. My father believed me. My mother did too and defended me to the store manager on the phone the next day. I mean, why would I steal a 15 dollar shirt? No one could really answer that question. To this day they all think it was a silly mistake.

Between the fine, the hassle, and the embarrassment, Kaughman's managed to cure me of my kleptomanic bouts. I never stole a single thing again...except maybe... some hearts and wireless internet.

I'm going to Savion Glover's show "Invitation to a Dancer" on Thursday night and will be in the company of five dancers from my hometown as well as my dance instructor of 13 years who are taking classes in NY this week. I love the full circle aspect of this since the last time I saw Savion (in NYC) was back in 1998 when four other girls and I ventured here for this same reason, saw Savion Glover "Downtown", joined him onstage for a little tap jam after the show, and were complimented by Marisa Tomei who happened to be in the audience that night. It pretty much made our year.

Seeing this article about Savion in the Times today reafirmed not only my excitement for Thursday night but also the feeling that Savion totally gets it. The article talks about the show but also discusses tap festivals and how he finds them "increasingly impersonal and business-oriented, adding that they do little to develop the artistry and intellect of aspiring tap dancers." I was feeling the same way about a year ago when my week of classes and residency at the Tap City festival left much to be desired.

Attempting to crane around rows and rows of inadequately staggered tappers to see the instructor in my "Hollywood Tap" class and then nearly flying across the room when someone's maxi ford turn went awry didn't exactly make me feel like Ann Miller. And when the residency I had chosen was interrupted for the fifth time by a visitor (famous international tapper/Creative Director/Tap City intern?) and the Japanese tappers/tourists in the class left the floor to get their cameras and take pictures of it all I realized that I had been anticipating something way more serious. It cost serious money. It required offical registration and checking-in. But the classes were overwhelmingly crowded, impersonal, and unfulfilling. Except of course for Jane Goldberg's soft-shoe class which I blogged about back in March. It was the best/only good part of the week for me. And it figures-Jane will not be teaching the class again this year. Bad move Tap City.

So even if Savion and I are coming at the festival angst from slightly different reasons, I feel kind of reassured by aligning my discontent with his and like my intuition was spot on in feeling that something is amiss in Tap City.

Savion continues to be the biggest name in tap, and yet probably the most humble. When Savion was asked to comment about the lack of his name and proper credit on all of the Happy Feet posters and ads for which he did all of the tapping for main character, Mumbles, he stated: “My job was to be a stunt man" and “I was just so excited that someone was putting dance in the movie. I didn’t ask any questions. I was just going on the strength of tap-dancing — someone wants tap-dancing.” Remember this post?

The cool part about Savion speaking his mind on festivals is the mere fact that he does and doesn't cater to who he may be upsetting in the tap scene which is and has always been a scene steeped in race and gender politics, cliques and opinions. It is also an art form very steeped in tradition and respect which Savion clearly honors and never compromises. The article wraps up with Savion acknowledging the "essential spiritual side of tap" and saying...“It’s homage. It’s respect and prayer, every time I hit the floor.”

A List Of Things About Which I'm Excited
in no particular order...

It's National Tap Dance Day!
Jane Goldberg has finally launched her site which is so captivating it made me late for work yesterday, there is a Tap Extravaganza scheduled for Sunday night at 7pm at FIT, and tomorrow morning I will break out my tap board and do the Shim Sham Shimmy for breakfast.



Keigwin and Company show coming up! It's called Hot Night, Summer in the City and I have two hot little tickets in my possession. I love this company so much that I can't believe I haven't written about them yet. This will be the fourth K & C show I'm seeing since last fall when Jane and I discovered them together at Dance New Amsterdam. Here I saw some of the pieces that I will remember for the rest of my life, undoubtedly attempt to emulate, and which were accompanied by the best music that I immediately loaded onto my ipod. Then came the Keigwan Kabaret at Symphony Space which was so hilarious, sexy, surprising, and fun that I almost went right back the second night. Bonuses included Murray Hill as the host and my first taste of Mike Albo whose book: Hornito, My Lie Life I have just begun. I saw K & C again a week later at Skirball where they were joined by Chris Elam's company. A brilliant piece called, "Bolero NYC" choreographed by Larry Keigwin and Nicole Wolcott debuted at this show and involved fifty or so "pedestrians" found by an open casting call-moving about the stage in a visually pleasing tribute to life in New York City. They are amazing! Go see them before they go on tour this summer.

This Book!
No one belongs here more than you.
I love Miranda July.
I would love even more if I hadn't just missed seeing her read from this utterly amazing collection of short stories on not one, but two coasts. You know how you sometimes may look at someone's tour schedule-perhaps a favorite author or band or presidential candidate- and make-believe with yourself that since you missed them in (city of residence) you will just hop on a plane later and beat them to (next destination on opposite coast). It will be easy and prove your admiration. Well I actually had the potential to do this and DIDN'T. "Didn't" looks so funny capitalized-I just verified it on dictionary.com. The website where you type a word in the search box to see if you are spelling it correctly and the first sentence that comes up on next page is: "Are you stupid?" under the Google Ads, even before the definition. I always feel so verbally abused like dictionary.com is an alcoholic step-parent slapping me on the back of the head.

Anyway, I was in San Francisco on Wednesday, May 16 when Miranda read at Modern Times on Valencia street and was doing nothing in particular but wasn't yet in the know. After returning to NY, opening the Amazon package, and not putting the book down since (I have the pink version), I learned that I missed her on Tuesday at 192 Books, that there is still a date left--tonight at the NY Public Library!--but it is sold out. I've blown it. I'm chasing Miranda July around the country and am not quick enough. Not to mention, I feel like the title is personally taunting me now. But don't you blow it too-get the book and go to her websites. I laughed out loud on the subway while reading "It Was Romance."

LOST Season Finale knocked my socks off! I have only one television show that I call "my show" and that is LOST. In fact this past season is the first that I actually watched on the television as opposed to DVD. It was so satisfying and suspenseful and tricky. It was like a roller coaster ride punctuated with little advertisements during which I ate miniature cookies. I can't wait until next season to have some questions answered and I even went on to the LOST website and purused the message boards. I am officially one of those people--except I didn't post--so that redeems me a little. It's was tempting though, theories about the island and "Jacob" are flying around and people with screen names like johne_locke were fighting about who's in the casket. I can't wait until Season four.

And finally...my Swiss Miss just called and said she will be coming for two weeks in July! Just when I begin to unbearably miss her, she manages to plan a trip. Iced coffees and burlesque shows await us.