GLEAMING EVERY CUBE

The Block Party, annual of course but more fun than years past, didn’t really pop off until Mister Frazier, mayor of said block and my super to boot, tucked in his shirt to reveal an LCD beltbuckle which read: MISTER FRAZIER… MAYOR… (718) 555-2938…
“It’s so nobody will forget who I am,” he grinned, and handed me a Heineken. The neighborhood kids were still lined up to bounce inside the inflatable castle he rented, so I doubted they would and said so. S. and L., housesitting yoga zone half down the way, showed up on a fluke to play volleyball with spry under-three-footers, all game and hustle. Corliss and Jane came, too, Coronitas in tow. But both just barely missed the Aunt Jackie dance contest, much protested among participant 14-year-olds, ’cause “that’s a Harlem dance” – though curiously no one was against the “Chicken Noodle Soup.” Guess MTV2 play neuters your regional appeal – and soon, if not now, Aunt Jackie will finally get her passport into Brooklyn. Or at least my neighborhood, fierce and loyal. Biggie lots, still – get money – that perennial summer bbq love. New dancehall I didn’t know. The babies splashed in the plastic pool. A team of teen girls brought their best moves, choreographed, and all wore a different color neon “I Heart NY” shirt – that’s that old-new, now new-new – slapping each other high fives between handclaps. I think they spent all summer getting their collective swag down for “Get Me Bodied.” Even your girl was impressed.
You missed a good block party. Corliss and Jane and I sat on the stoop into dusk, lighting smokes for our new boyfriends from four doors down, cringing when any baby on a bike took a spill, making new friends, waving to nice grandmoms who set up lawn chairs on the sidewalk across the street. Waving up to the nice grandmom who couldn’t leave her apartment but still leaned out the window as far as she could to bounce to the boom of the Transformer-sized speakerbox on the end of the block. Bodega had a sale, by the way, and still made a killing. We were drunk off Chik-o-stix and neighborhood love. Please summer don’t ever change.
— House music: ’90s house music – and ’90s house dance moves. They’re everywhere I go. I found a dance teacher who only teaches em, for one – my “Percolator” is not there yet but it’s close. For two, the other night, at the benefit for our girl Kumari’s nonprofit Dance for Peace (more on that in a bit) – I was BEDAZZLED by one dude, clearly an old-old-old NY house head, 7 feet tall and sweaty in his bad white tee, voguing/popping so hard every prominently defined mini-muscle in his neck was isolated with a little twitch – he was the most fabulous house mover I have ever seen, even better than any movies. Even better than “Party Girl.” And he was surrounded by a whole crew of house-dancing chicas. I was up there with them, I do declare. Privately doing my thing. Also, crazy breaks w/homeboys from Rock STeady Crew and a surprise non-dancing appearance by “Hot Abs” (aka dewbee jammin from days yore – oh my I’m so tired so more and better on that Dance for PEace non-profit – your favorite non-profit – soon. I’m just now catching you up from two weekends ago.