Five Pounds of Books and a Belly Dance
September 25, 2004
I bought three pounds of books today. Paperback books. I didn't buy them by the pound, but I know what they weigh because, after I bought them, I stopped by the office--the one I have keys to--and weighed them on a postal scale.
I didn't go to the office for that purpose; I just stopped in to use the bathroom, which, as anyone who's ever spent a day wandering around New York City can tell you, is a scarce commodity. Having a key is key.
When I got there, my spine felt so torqued from lugging the books around in my shoulder bag that I decided to weigh the stupid thing. The bag is always heavy, and I always carry it. Slowly but surely, it's turning me into a lopsided hunchback. When I put everything on the scale--bag, books, and all--it exceeded the scale's 5-pound limit. I removed the books and placed the bag--with just the usual day-to-day crap--back on the scale, and it still exceeded the limit. That means that every day I sling more than five pounds of junk over my shoulder and walk around like a monkey-boy. I carry a bag because, as a diabetic, there are certain things that I need to have with me. These things don't weigh that much on their own, but the problem is that, once you have a bag, you throw all sorts of stuff in it. Before you know it, you're a regular Santa's little helper.
My plan to lay low this evening was nearly diverted when I went to the coffee shop down the street. The barista informed me of a party being thrown at the bar around the corner. She handed me a flyer and said, "Open bar." So I finished my coffee and decided to take a peek.
The bar was jam-packed, and I could barely squeeze beyond the entrance. There was a band, but I couldn't see them. Only the very edge of the vibraphone was playing a mix of Middle Eastern belly dancing music and burlesque bump-and-grind. A masked girl performing a striptease was easy to see, however, because she was doing her thing on the bar. It was hard to tell if her ample boobs were supposed to keep falling out of her top the way they did. The way she kept pulling the loose scarf back over them made it seem like the peep show was unintentional. On the other hand, the way her face was covered to conceal her identity made it seem like she knew her boobs would show. Who knows? Either way, it wasn't all that interesting. Judging by the hoots and hollers from the young crowd, however, I was alone in my assessment.
I'm just a jaded old codger who's seen one too many strip-tease acts in his time. Having lived with a dancer for several years, I'm sure I’ve seen more than one too many. Not that I’m totally immune to everything I see. Recently, I was eating lunch at an outdoor cafe, where a girl was seated next to me. As she wrote in an orange leather-bound journal, she slipped off one of her gold sandals and curled her toes around the table leg. I’ll be remembering that long after I’ve forgotten the bar top belly dance.
Despite my lack of enthusiasm for the burlesque show, when I saw people in the audience snapping photos of the dancer, I decided I should take one for the blog, but then I realized that I didn't have my camera with me. I'd taken it out of my bag to lighten my load. Oh well. Don't worry, I'll put it back.
