7/7/07 marked a propitious day for
thousands of brides and grooms (including Tony Parker and Eva Longoria in
Paris) and Vegas high rollers
—anyone playing the odds. But I think I had better luck on
6/6/06.
I arrived late to the weekly Prospect Park pickup game, which had recently moved from Sunday afternoons to Saturday mornings. Four games were already in full swing, with shirts v. orange pinnies in each quadrant. I decided to rest in the shade until the break.
I joined the pinnie team in Quadrant 2. The sweltering heat quickly turned my water bottle into a mini-greenhouse, as I chugged mouthfuls of warm liquid between plays. The sun was bright. People ran lethargically in the heat as blurry as desert mirages, united each week by the love of the game.
I exchanged playful trash-talk with this big, brawny guy called Jason. He and I had played together on the same team two weeks ago. He kept stepping on my feet and bumping into me. Eventually I scored an easy goal as we took advantage of our opponent’s weak defense. Jason joked that he had only allowed the goal to “give me something to talk about” when I got home. I laughed.
The euphoria was short-lived. I moved back to play defense. We had switched players with our opponents because they felt our side was too strong. They took one of our good players, who immediately began creating goal-scoring plays. One of their quicker players kept taking advantage of the center as our defense moved to the wings, leaving the guy completely open. I yelled, “Watch the guy in red!”
After they scored two successive goals, I decided to watch the guy in red. And that’s when it happened. I made a move to abruptly change direction. I heard something snap in my right foot. I went down in a flash. I remember a searing pain in my ankle and knew I couldn’t stand up. The game stopped. Everyone surrounded me, obscuring the bright sun as I looked up and saw silhouettes, not unlike the view from an operation table. It hurt. One guy told me not to touch it and not to move. Jason picked me up and carried me to the sidelines. Everyone followed.
I started to take off my sock, but felt a sharp pain. Alex tried to help me remove the sock. “This is hurting me more than it’s hurting you,” he said, as he watched me cringe. My ankle felt limp. The blood vessels in my foot surged as if my heart had relocated to my ankle. I removed the sock after gritting my teeth and feeling pain as something shifted in my ankle that probably shouldn’t have shifted. The tough part, though, would be removing the ankle strap. Maria suggested removing the stirrup and pulling it up on my calf instead. My eyes watered up from the sun, the sweat, and the pain. I didn’t look down, but I could tell by the crowd’s reaction that it wasn’t pretty.
Someone brought an ice pack; Alex placed it against my ankle and used my sock to create a makeshift bandage. I put my arms around Jason’s neck as he carried me the full width of the pitch and placed me gently on a bench in the shade. I felt terrible that he had to carry me. “It’s all right. You’re making me look good,” he said with a grin. Soon the other three games ended and everyone wanted to know what happened. I wasn’t sure how I’d get home. Walking was out of the question.
A nice Brazilian guy (the “guy in red,” in fact) offered to drive us to the LES. I made it home and Natalie went to the store to get me an ice pack, a bandage, and apples. After she left, I fell asleep with my ankle iced and elevated. I read up on ankle sprains and learned the best way to care for a sprain is called the PRINCE method: Protection, Rest, Ice, N (the technical name for the thing in Advil and Ibuprofen), Compression, and Elevation.
Day 1: A lovely swelling
Day 1: Ankle size comparison
Day 1: Since playing soccer, my feet have never looked more attractive
Day 2: Swelling gives way to bruising
Day 2: The swelling has reduced
Day 2: On a positive note, I do like the color purple
I decided to ignore the “R” component. I had tickets for the premiere of the spiegeltent at South Street Seaport and wasn’t about to miss it. After obtaining a pair of adjustable crutches, I donned a dress, wrapped my ankle, and took a cab to Pier 17. The spiegeltent, translated as “tent of mirrors” (and pronounced “SHPEE-gull-tent”), is a European phenomenon dating back to the 1900s; there are fewer than 20 antique spiegeltents left in the world. They’re made of mahogany, teak, stained glass, beads, brocade, velvet, and history (Marlene Dietrich supposedly performed in the particular tent we sat in that night). They seat a bit more than 300 people, thereby offering an intimate and oftentimes interactive theatrical experience. Our particular spiegeltent, shipped from Holland and pieced together in one day, was also air-conditioned.
Spiegeltent at South Street Seaport
A friend of a friend knows one of the producers, so I had free tickets. It was a hot item, with respectable standers-by asking repeatedly for extra tickets. When Dave brought over four tickets and two wristbands to me, a nosy WASPish woman walked over asking if he had any spare tickets. He said no. She said, “But it looks like you’re holding so many tickets.” I interjected and informed her that we had two tickets for each show, and then hobbled on.
New York City is not handicap-friendly. There are stairs for everything—the subway, those hidden basement restaurants and bars, that fifth-floor walk-up. With crutches, everything became a struggle: people blocking the sidewalks or entrance ways, the elevator that was all the way on the other side of the mall at the seaport (for the bathroom), and the precarious wood-paneled floor of the tent, not to mention its dark corners and crevices.
Inside the spiegeltent
The mixed crowd had a lot of critics and press, along with friends of the producers
Stained glass above our booth
I received some sympathy. The first show, called “Absinthe,” began at 7:30 PM. When the hosts saw me hobble through the entrance, they immediately suggested I sit at one of the private booths for comfort. We chose a booth near the changing room. A trim, older man in a French-cuffed shirt sat there alone. I smiled at him; he smiled back. Dave went to get some drinks (I was so thirsty—walking with crutches is hard work). The man and I began to talk. He had an accent. It sounded French or Belgian.
He insisted I sit on the other side so I could prop my leg up. “It will be more comfortable and you can see better.” I said, “But then you won’t be able to see as well.” He told me he’d be moving in and out anyway, and stood up. I moved over. Dave returned with drinks and the man departed. I commented at how nice he had been. The man returned and we chatted some more. “I am the director of the second show, ‘La Vie,’ so I’m kind of nervous. We are from Montreal. This is the world premiere—the first time it will be shown in this setting. ‘La Vie’ has more of a story line than ‘Absinthe’ so I am curious to see how it works in this small space. I hope you will stay for the second show.”
The lights dimmed and “Absinthe” began. It’s a bit of a cabaret/circus, with different specialty acts: acrobatics, contortionists, two strip teases (which were absolutely brilliant and funny), juggling, and rollerskating (on the smallest surface possible). There’s quite a bit of nudity, comedy, and cussing. As a friend of mine said, “It’s like a debauched Cirque du Soleil on speed.”
The bawdy emcee, called The Gazillionaire, took cracks at people in the audience. He called one woman a bitch, and singled out NY Daily News' Ben Widdicombe as a potential gay. [lifted from Gawker, also present at the premiere]
Circus acts can be mundane and boring, especially with the glut of Cirque du Soleil shows out there. But the performers of “Absinthe” were so finely tuned for each specialty, it was mesmerizing. And some of these people were so fit and sublimely beautiful, it was enough to make everyone hot and bothered, even in the air-conditioned atmosphere. The music, unlike Cirque, was fantastic. They sampled songs from Portishead, Marlene Dietrich, and Donny Hathaway.
An acrobat drops in. I will mention the two women to the left later on (a.k.a. cleavage woman and Kim Cattrall doppelgänger) [again lifted from Gawker; photography was not allowed]
In one act, a woman in a clingy, barely-there sparkly dress and high heels appeared to the right with a giant pink bubble held over her head. She gracefully walked onto the stage and glided along, moving the bubble in swirling motions to the nostalgic tune of “Moon River.” I thought, “That dress is about to fall off.” The right strap barely covered her breast. Still, her costume and body managed to suggest a 1920s flapper girl, simultaneously demure and seductive, hailing from a glamorous, bygone era, rather than the tawdriness that can be found at Scores or in any lad mag. As she moved about the stage with the giant balloon, I began to wonder, “What’s her specialty? Where is this going? Dancing around a bubble can’t be it.” She removed something from the balloon and tossed it to a member of the audience.
And then—as if to answer my questions—in a swift and elegant move, her head was inside the bubble! The audience gasped and laughed. Her levity and playfulness filled the room. That clingy dress fell to the floor with ease, exposing her perfectly pert, unsurgically-enhanced breasts and sparkly-thonged bottom. Then half her body was in the bubble. She kicked off her shoes. She wiggled even more as the music approached its climax. Soon the bubble enveloped her entirely. She writhed in the bubble as it began to fog up and turn opaque. The audience struggled to see what was happening inside the bubble. As the music reached its climax, the woman reached up to the top of the bubble as it stretched to an oval shape. And then “POP!”—the bubble burst, revealing her body fully to us. It was ingenious and titillating.
What’s hotter than thrusting yourself in a balloon and removing your clothes? I don’t know. [lifted from Gawker]
In the next act, as if to reward the ladies in the audience, a man wearing pajamas approached the stage. He lifted himself gracefully onto a set of iron rods with pads on them, jumping up into handstands and arches using one hand only. As he did so, his pajama top gave way to reveal one of the fittest bodies I have ever seen. Dave and I laughed as we watched the older women in the front row gasp, smile, and whisper to one another. The aforementioned Kim Cattrall look-alike in a green dress just couldn’t wipe a huge grin off her face. Her friend, sporting much cleavage in a short black number, put her hand over her open mouth during the entire performance. And yes—in case you were wondering—he was worth it.
Olaf Triebel has a body built for one thing. That’s right: balancing
The striptease woman did another comical, genius number that I’ll keep to myself. A comedy routine consisting of a man, who looked like Borat with long hair, and a woman in a huge 80s hair frosted wig danced onto the stage. The announcer described them as “La Petite Merde” (yes, “Little Shit”), ex Cirque du Soleil performers from Reno. And then there were the two female acrobats. They moved in unison, showing incredible strength and graceful movements that almost seemed inhuman. Impossible to describe justly, it’s something that has to be seen to be believed, an artwork of the human form that can never be completely replicated or sustained.
A scary striptease; again, pure genius
Moulin Rouge in living color; the two amazing acrobats are to the left in white
Dave snaps a photo with his Canon SLR
Intermission for “Absinthe”
The break between shows meant a laborious journey to the loo on the second floor of the Seaport Mall. I had to hop up and down some stairs on my left leg. It took a good fifteen minutes to get back to the tent, when I felt someone’s hand rest upon my back as I hobbled by. “What on earth happened to you?” said a man in a familiar Scottish accent. It was Mark, one of the producers, whom I had met on the Federer shoot in Los Angeles. I gave him a quick rundown of my footy accident, and then he shuttled me along quickly since the next show was about to start.
“La Vie” took us on a trip to purgatory. Each person received a lottery ticket as he entered the tent. The audience is transported on a flight through the afterlife, where we feel no pleasure or pain (I wished, as I looked down at my throbbing ankle). Our guide, a bald, supercilious Frenchman, guided us through the files of several case studies, not unlike the Japanese film “After Life.” As one of the creators described it, “La Vie” is “dark” but also “life-affirming.” The characters interact with audience members during and between each performance. There’s a bendy girl who gives an intriguing performance in a straitjacket, set to the tune of Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” There’s an incredibly attractive and fit man who performs out of a wheelchair (which I was tempted to steal so I wouldn’t have to use crutches anymore). He was so good-looking that I saw several women AND men whisper to each other in astonishment. We are told he was the young CEO of an airline company, and that in order to increase profit margins, he approved the use of substandard materials to build his fleet. 154 passengers died in a plane crash as a result.
The acrobatics in “La Vie” aren’t as dazzling as “Absinthe,” but the eight performers are much more versatile. The wheelchair man put “Dancing with the Stars” to shame as he performed an acrobatic tango with three different women. Our French guide, who looked a bit tubby, surprised us all in some of the most athletically challenging numbers of the evening.
In the end, I’m not sure what the departing message was about the afterlife and our earthly passions and foibles, but we were thoroughly entertained. The shows made me contemplate the range of possibilities that make the human body so wonderful, especially in the light of my injury. After exiting the biergarten, I noticed a lighted sign across the water showing it was 76 degrees. The night was perfectly still and beautiful—the price to pay, I guess, for dreadfully hot summer days. The bad balances out the good, and sometimes making the joyful stuff possible. There is no pleasure without pain; the alternative is a purgatory here on earth, in which one feels nothing and therefore knows nothing worthwhile. Or, maybe I was just high on painkillers and absinthe.
We took a cab to Blue Ribbon and enjoyed a very late night meal. I was famished from my day’s whirlwind adventures—the highs and lows—which began at 8:30 AM. Was it worth hobbling around around on crutches to see the shows? You bet. Life is indeed a cabaret.
Labels: art, football, New York
(Men probably withdraw because you’re willing to read this tripe)
