Roving Woman

Late last Friday night I found myself alone and contemplative with a couple glasses of wine in my belly. When I get this way, it feels like I'm going to explode with words and ideas and affection, so I attempt to record all of my thoughts no matter how random or half-baked or trivial. Fortunately and unfortunately, I very rarely take any kind of concrete action during this state. However, last Friday I did act. And I lucked out. Or did something inside my rib cage know this was going to happen?

Last Friday night I emailed the brother of Connie Converse. Verbose and full of admiration, I explained to him that I would like to make a documentary about her life and music. He responded in less than 24 hours with a blessing and enthusiastic offers of help. So here I go. Now I must complete this project, whether I have the skill or not. Maybe I'll develop the skill along the way. This past week something has clicked. I will go to film school. I already have an appointment with a program coordinator. I will make this documentary. Maybe I will make other things along the way, too. This path just makes sense.

But this isn't just a story of my own self-discovery. I want the average American to know Connie Converse. (Well, maybe not the average American. I'll settle for the ones who actually go see documentaries.) Lately Connie's music has been striking a deep chord with me and I've been scouring the internet for more and more information. I found out about her from Patell and Waterman's History of New York blog. Her story is of interest for so many reasons. Connie - born as "Elizabeth" - Converse was a bright kid, valedictorian of her high school, received a full ride to Holyoke College. After receiving many academic awards in the first two years of college, she decided to drop out and head to New York to pursue music much to the dismay of her very religious upbringing. Connie found herself in Pete Seeger's circle and even appeared on television with Walter Kronkite. However, these were the only small "breaks" she received. She never met anyone, either agent or other, who had the power to push her songs to the front of public consciousness. One wonders how successful and popular she would have been if she lived in this age of self-production and internet publicity...

Frustrated with New York and her lack of commercial success, Connie moved to Michigan where her brother Phil and his wife lived. Phil is still a professor at the University of Michigan, and I found him through the school's website. She worked for a journal run by the University for a time, and only played her music at parties. She had stopped writing new music. In the mid 1970s Connie wrote letters to her friends and family, claiming that she needed to restart her life someplace new. There is speculation that the prospect of major surgery along with a general disappointment led her to pack up her Volkswagen beetle and drive off, never to be seen or heard from again.

Her solemn yet witty personality comes through in her songs, and I recommend anyone interested to get the fairly recent release of some of her material on an album called "How Sad, How Lovely." I don't want to give away everything about her in this first post, so check her out...if only to hear her rhyme "squirrel thing" with "quarreling."

I'll try to keep you all updated on my very daunting excursion in the world of research and documentary film making.

Adios!

A Time to Be Sexy, A Time to Be Silly

If you have had any kind of correspondence with me since I moved back upstate, it is guaranteed that you probably haven't had a full conversation with me without hearing the most amazing word of the 21st century: ZUMBA! An unlikely match, Zumba and I have developed a very close, therapeutic, and passionate relationship. It's an almost cult-like sensation. Or a drug addiction. Once you start going, all you can think of is your next fix (class), wondering if the instructor will play your favorite song, what new dances you'll learn, and whether that one lady in the corner will fart again.

I have been ruminating for a long while on what exactly has fueled the fire behind this craze, as it seems to be catching on everywhere. From the young to the old(er), the larg(er) to the small(er), those without natural rhythm and those who you would guess aren't a stranger to the pole. Zumba is a female-centric dance fitness class using many different genres of music such as salsa, cumbia, merengue, Bollywood, reggaeton, regular hip hop and dirty latin hip hop (my favorite). Some men do venture to the classes (usually one male per a whole room of sweaty females), and I suspect they have ulterior motives. But, hey, as long as they're willing to do the moves, I welcome them. I'm lookin' at you, Mikey.

My sister and cousin introduced me to this wonderful activity. The first time we cowered in the corner, completely clueless and giggly and almost soiling ourselves with how goofy we all must have looked. Everyone seems to have a similar first class experience. Needless to say, we were hooked. The routine I remember most vividly from the first time is that "Apple Bottom Jeans" song, during which one of the steps involves slapping one's own ass (iethe lyric she gave that big booty a slappp). I haven't quite worked myself up to the point where I will willingly slap my own ass, but I'm sure it will come with time. My sister, cousin, and I have progressed light years with our hot moves and are currently waiting for anyone we know to have a party or get married so we can show off...

So, what is the allure of Zumba? Well, my friends, I have theories. Personally, I finally have full use of my hips, and for this I am eternally grateful. It seems that I have spent the past 19 years of my life afraid of them. A lifetime of Catholic school combined with hitting puberty later than all of your peers plus having your only "conversation" about sexuality come from a book called The What's Happening to My Body Book For Girls will do that to you. I did not realize that you could dance "it" out without being trashy...or judged. How ignorant I was! There's something powerful about a group of women taking control of their bodies for their own sake, to have fun and dance and feel good and not worry about what other people are thinking about it. At Zumba, you very rarely notice anyone else doing anything "wrong" or "out of step" since you're so focused on yourself staying with the music and getting that beto timing just right. There's also no incorrect way to Zumba, as long as you're moving around and enjoying yourself, you're doing it. (And for anyone who knows me, you know how much I loathe arbitrary competition!) I've been known to fear/dislike women, but this estrogen-filled enjoyable environment has helped me to commence defeating this terrible tendency.

I take my class at a VFW post in the middle of nowhere, and our instructor often likes to point that out. "IN NASSAU WE GET CRAZY! SEXY AT THE VFW!" What's not awesome about a group of middle-aged white women gyrating to raunchy songs sung completely in spanish, the lyrics of which they have no idea? Try to come up with an answer, you'll be hard-pressed. Pitbull, you have so many fans up here. Sure, there are classes in gyms in hip places like Manhattan and Chicago and Troy, but I prefer the rural setting with pastel blue painted rifles mounted to the wall. It makes me feel American - the good kind of Amerrican. In the proud, "I do what I want / I'm having fun / I'm bettering myself" kind of way.

Zumba has, believe it or not, helped me with my comedy. By learning the way my body moves and by making it move in ways it didn't think it could, I'm able to tap more into the physicality of a joke and creating characters. Also, and more obviously, it's a damn good work-out. It's the only time I've ever gotten that pukey pain in my side other than running the mile in gym class or during various middle-school sports. And that pukey pain in the side signifies progress and physical fitness! My sister and my cousin look even more awesome than before and I think we all feel more confident in ourselves as well. It's the satisfaction of knowing we're doing something good for our bodies - and, to be a little risque, our future/present significant others' as well... *cough cough* (If this were 3 months ago, I wouldn't have even felt comfortable making that joke!)

It is possible that my favorite part of class is spending time in the same room with the brassy, enthusiastic, sometimes gruff instructor. Again, if you know me, I'm sure you've heard me lovingly imitate: "STEP! STEP! HIP HIP HIP!" It's entertaining and inspiring and hilarious - and she knows it. Her eye contact and encouragement really help her students in getting out of their comfort zone to let it all out.

The rap and hip-hop music makes you feel powerful.

The reggae makes you feel happy and optimistic.

The latin music makes you feel attractive.

The combination of the almost hypnotizing music plus the endorphins of collective exercise makes you feel phenomenal.

Who doesn't secretly want to have a designated place where they are demanded to shake what their mama gave them? And I mean e v e r y t h i n g, without being self-conscious. Every person has that desire. Every person in the world who I want to be friends with, at least. I happen to think that it's more fun to shimmy you have a little jiggle to your wiggle. But that's just, like, my opinion, man.

A Poestenkill Haiku

The barn hides in night

Jackie makes lasagna soup

I think up big things

That's the view from my bedroom window. When the snow subsides and the temperature warms up a bit, I hope to venture out there behind my house into the wilderness. What will I find? Will there be space enough for a hootenanny? How many dead bodies will I find hanging from the beams? Will I even find a way inside? I like to think there will be a loft of forgotten hay that now belongs to friendly woodland creatures who will greet me whenever I go to explore. I hope it'll be just difficult enough to get inside, that I have to force open the door with the heel of my booted foot. Earning entry will make it much more magical. Note to self: buy some boots.

I have officially been living here for a month. And I have to say, I enjoy my current level of domestication. I like having a queen-sized bed even though half of it is empty, save for various remotes, books, and pillows. I like cooking chili and chicken flautas and every other upcoming meal. I like living two minutes down the road from my sister, brother-in-law, and nieces. I like living two minutes down the road from free food. I like living with my good friend who makes homemade bread. I like that I have digital cable. I like that my whale drawings are hanging in the living room next to my friend's awesome multi-colored tin stars. I like that we have two fish named Jane and Orson. I like that all of my books are in one place. I like that my Ol Dirty Bastard autograph is finally framed and hanging. I like that I can have my older niece over for sleepovers where we can build Lego ninja castles and watch Aladdin. I like that I can reconnect with the people here who I've always wanted to get to know better. I like that I have the solitude and quiet to create when I want to. I like that I have time to watch movies. I like that I can sing and cry while I drive in the rain.

But I miss New York City. I miss Broome Street. I miss walking everywhere and I miss the West River and I miss the trek back to my apartment along Lafayette and I miss the contemplation and I miss the homeless man who shouted out that we were all lesbians and I miss that one connection made while walking through St. Marks and I miss 16 Handles and I miss hoping for handholding and I miss the terrible writing in the Park and I miss the singing Van Morrison in the Park and I miss the expensive quesadillas and I miss the scary early morning trips to Brooklyn to make a film for strangers and I miss the Wonder Wheel and I miss the mechanical vomiting plastic man in the glass box and I miss crawling out on the rocks and I miss the kiss on the cheek in front of the Cyclone and I miss the films about our dead God and I miss the trip up 5 flights of stairs to store our frozen meals so we could go to a movie and I miss the taking shots out of NyQuil cups and I miss the only trip I ever took to go to a club and I miss the hidden manischewitz in water bottles and I miss the failed karaoke trip to K-Town and I miss the head-down-walking listening to "Say That You Love Me" on repeat stomping home and I miss the anticipation and I miss the dinners and plays with geniuses and I miss the glow of passionate professors and I miss the tipsy tromping through late night streets going home from parties we didn't want to go to and I miss getting recognized in the dining hall and I miss the grumpy book sellers yelling at me and I miss looking for books recommended in the same library where lives ended and I miss the unspoken understanding of like minds and and I miss arroz con pollo and I miss Angel delivering our pizza made by Mohammed and I miss getting nervous before everything and I miss unexpected hugs and I miss the 10-hour shifts and I miss the distance between me and infinite trouble and I miss the winter coats and hats and fogged glasses and I miss my bed being buried in research and I miss staying in a little box while everything continued on the outside and I miss afternoons in bed with the sun throwing shade through my downtown blinds and I miss the excitement of lunches and I miss the seaport and I miss the sailboats and I miss being on the edge of big things and I miss the winding streets of the village and I miss the noticing people around Washington Square that you see everyday but don't know their name but seeing them is a comfort all the same. Even if they're wearing leggings as pants while it's 20 degrees out. What I miss the most is the people. The people I know and the people I haven't met yet. And the people in between.

But, I will be back. Oh, I will be back. I just had to take a break for a while, city. But I will visit you and someday, after I have a healthy dose of adventures in other worlds, I might be back for good. We'll see. There are no answers to these questions. Just sit tight.

Set my compass North, I got winter in my blood.

In T-minus 30 minutes I am off to live in Poestenkill, NY, where I have my very first growns up apartment all ready to be lived in. Back in Poestenkill, where the water runs cold, the barn is in my backyard, and the historic army tank is across the street. I'm ready to get back and experience my roots as an adult (of sorts), but things like this make me sad to leave the Big City. But, like he said, I'll be back! You can bet your stars and garters on it.

It's My Party (and Bill Murray Will Crash it if He Wants To)

A friend just recently informed me of the fact that Bill Murray has been seen - on numerous occasions - at random NYC house parties and bars. He shows up "like a ghost," has a conversation, does the dishes (at house parties only) and leaves.

Please oh please, in my last month living in NYC - Lord, let me meet Bill Murray!

For more pictures, see here.

Best Resource for old tyme radio shows EVER.

These broadcasts have gotten me though many a lonely lunch time in the dining hall.

I laughed.

Which is rare. Bravo, good sir, bravo! I'm sure the man himself would have been amused.

Insomniacal Reflections

During a recent deep and personal conversation with my friend Courtney B. Vance, I had a great idea for a maternity t-shirt. I'd like to share it with you all. If you want one for your special someone, let me know. We could work something out...

Real cases, real litigants. Here, in our forum: The People's Court.

Well, today is my first day working at The People's Court. Let's hope this "internship" isn't an elaborate ploy to get me in the studio, just to find out that my freshman year roommate is sueing me for that sock I accidentally stole. It was stuck to the bottom of my rug! I promise! I don't even have its mate!

Either way, I'm very excited. All of the people seem laid back but very efficient and productive. I was told that when I don't have many things to do, I can work on a special People's Court-related project. I've been thinking about what I might want to do, but if anyone has any ideas let me know! I want to take advantage of my time there.

Broome 4 Boobs!

Dear lovely Blog Readers,

It's a loving member of your community, dropping a line to let you know that I'm attempting to do the NYC Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in October. I'm walking with my team, "Broome For Boobs" (which includes 3 other students and a professor who all live at the NYU Residential College @ Broome Street). Together we are going to raise $10,000!

And, guess what? I'M MORE THAN HALFWAY TO MY GOAL. I have vowed to raise $1800 and I am currently at $1200. All summer I have been doing bake sales in Washington Square Park, writing letters, putting out change jars, hosting events, etc. I've never done anything like this before, so I'm getting rather excited. PLUS, MY PARENTS DON'T THINK I CAN DO IT! Seriously, help me prove them wrong! If you or anyone you know would like to donate, please visit my personal page at: http://info.avonfoundation.org/goto/andreakannes and DO THE DEED. Please, it means the world to me...and boobies.

Thanks so much,

Andrea

P.S. I am also selling "HELLO MY NAME IS" stickers to put on the back of my Walker T-shirt. If you'd like to put the name of a loved one, a survivor, draw a picture, write a favorite quote on one, let me know! They're only $5. Follow the above link to donate then leave a comment with what you want written, or just e-mail me if I know you and you want to write it yourself!

Pictures with Large Things Part 2

I know you've all been waiting for it, and the time is finally here. After getting through the first week of my last semester, I finally have a free insomniac minute to post the rest of my Pictures with Large Statues. And you'll see it's been WELL worth the wait. I've also thrown in a few snapshots of the coolest playground I have ever laid my childlike and evergreen eyes on. It had Pirates, Vikings, Dragons, big slides, little slides, medium slides, rock walls - everything you could ever desire playing on or around as a youngin'. Notice that my default stance (one arm up leaning on something with the same side leg elevated or crossed over the other) is very interesting mix of a Tiger Beat Boyband photo shoot, a creepy dude you wouldn't want hitting on you in a bar, and the very charismatic Captain Morgan. I try, folks, I try.