Day 7: A Song That You Can Dance To

Ok, so.  There was a scene in Eat, Pray, Love when Julia Roberts is dancing shoeless in some awesomely lit little dive somewhere in Indonesia (the night she meets Javier Bardem) and this song came on and it was WONDROUS.  ( I realize I just lost all my film cred… if I had any) 

It was WONDROUS because it instantly brought me back to my early days in Seoul-  when I’d dance unabashed with fellow expats (usually, the lovely Ms. A, sometimes the lovely Ms. C, Ms. M, Ms. J., another lovely Ms. A and another lovely Ms. M) and we’d be forced to stay out late because the silly subway trains would stop come midnight.    Dancing unabashed is not something I do—but in those early early morning hours in places like Club FF or some similarly sketched out club- I’d see the underbelly of Seoul, see the mass of Koreans dancing- trying to dance, rather—and would realize they didn’t really know how to dance either.  Which made it actually enjoyable- it wasn’t (most of the time) about looking sexy or looking coordinated even- just about enjoying the space with your friends and sometimes (sometimes) enjoying the music.  I didn’t ever hear this song in Club FF, but, I suppose that’s besides the point.

But, back to Marvin Gaye: I love Marvin Gaye. 

…

When I was around 10 or so, I got my hands on a grimy cover-torn book someone had left in the street on Tragic Hollywood Deaths (or some similar title)—along with wanting to read every biography in my library, I also wanted to be able to list off how every famous person had died.  As I remember (this is singularly from my recollection of this book, so if I am wrong, just tell me.  I want to be Wikipedia-free in this entry), Marvin Gaye was shot by his father- I guess he’d come between his mom and dad in a spat and got in the way of one of his dad’s bullets.  Except—when I was little, I’d always confuse his death with Sam Cooke’s, also shot dead, but not by his dad and about 20 years earlier.  I remember wondering why all the pretty talented people died so tragically.  When I picked up that book on the street, I thought it’d be filled with murder/suicides of old ugly producers or sound engineers.  But then I read about Natalie Wood and Rudolph Valentino and didn’t know what was what.  

As a bonus, I’ve just discovered Bobby Bland (how did he slip through the cracks?!)  As he won’t be occupying a future day of music, he’ll serve as Marvin Gaye’s post script.  Just, WONDROUS: 

My Doppelganger Must Be a Bitch. Doppelganger Stories #1 and #2.

Story #1

Some weeks ago, I passed by a lovely restaurant on my walk home from work.  (I’m currently residing in Ann Arbor, MI) I like walking down Washington Street, especially around sunset as everything takes on a majestic golden hue, even, somehow, on the snowy gray days of late.

I have a habit of intensely looking into restaurant and bar windows, I like to study the décor and lighting—and sometimes I forget that there might be people inside that might look back at me mid-chew or mid-sip and I further sometimes forget that what I’m doing might be potentially rude or even creepy.  That aside, this particular restaurant had gorgeous orange walls and fancy tablecloths and so I completely did away with any thought toward public decorum.

While marveling at the mix of exposed brick and earthy tones and heavy curtains and general lack-of-people, I inevitably happened upon the few people in the back who were glaring at me in the safe distance.  One of them made a gesture indicating that I knew her.  Maybe it was a wave, though it looked more like a lazy attempt at one, the kind really in-love-with-themselves-types make, so I didn't pay special attention.  Until I noticed a second later as I was just going out of view that she flipped me off and the rest of her gang seemed to half-nod in approval.  They must have thought they knew me.  Surely, groups of people don't go around to  restaurants half-waving and flipping off people they don't know through windows, right?

Right.  So my estimation: my doppelganger must be a bitch.  To know people like that and for them to respond like that, it must be so.

Story # 2

I was at Bab's on a Saturday night. Lovely little basement bar not too far from story #1.

I would not recommend going there on weekends.  It transforms from its usual quiet and romantic self to a chaotic and unfortunate place, packed with UM cattle of the college girl/boy looking for a quick thrill variety.


Anyhow.  Muscled my way through the UM throng up to the barman.  A very artfully disheveled hipster with an ironic UM hat brought my drinks and excitedly/yet somehow lazily let me know that he thought for sure I was one of his colleagues in his architecture program and wasn’t that something.

No. It wasn’t.  It only proved story # 1’s conclusion.  My doppelganger must be a bitch.

Or even worse….a hipster.

Oh God.