Tangle

Polyglot Theatre, an Australian troupe, recently introduced their interactive work “Tangle” to New York City. Participants were given skeins of elastic ribbon and encouraged to weave them around 25 poles anchored on platforms. My daughter, Zoë, and I tied one end of thread to a pole and then Zoë danced with the unraveling ribbon as if at a May Day celebration. She handed the ball back to me and navigated her way through the increasingly dense web of elastic. As I followed her into the center of the structure, I held on to my ribbon like a modern-day Theseus. I looped it through other ribbons but didn’t completely let go of my elastic ball. Would I find my way out of the labyrinth without it?

Polyglot believes theater is “child’s play,” but the group also sees “Tangle” as a “metaphor of intertwining lives and intentions.” Of course, an obvious and positive interpretation of the entwined elastic is that we are all connected. But as I crawled and climbed through the net and tried to avoid getting caught, I considered the darker implications of entangling relationships. Yet, the ribbons stretched easily and never ensnared me. And when Zoë and I returned to the outside of the structure, she took the ball back from me and started dancing again. As she waved her ribbon, it rippled through the larger web where I’d looped it earlier and the other ribbons stretched and moved with it. I forgot any negative view of entanglement. When we are all connected, we all can dance.

Tangle

July 29, 2012

Josie Robertson Plaza • Lincoln Center • Manhattan

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Look Up!

It is typical urban behavior to keep one's eyes on the ground; whether rushing down subway steps or hurrying past tourists, city dwellers often prefer a view of pavement to potential eye contact. I'm guilty of this but am often rewarded when I do look up—by the Chrysler Building's crown glinting in the sun or the blossoms finally bursting on the trees or someone smiling at me (or these days, usually smiling at my expectant belly).

Philippe Petit is a master of getting people to look up. In 1974 he walked a high wire between the Twin Towers, an event documented in Man on Wire. Adeet and I recently saw a benefit screening of the film at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine, followed by a question-and-answer session with Petit. Petit's dynamic character is evident in the documentary, but in person he's even more charismatic. He took several minutes to answer each question, his enthusiasm never flagging, and he ended the evening by balancing flowers on the tip of his nose. 

More than one person asked him how it feels to be so close to death when he's on the high wire. He scoffed, "You Americans have a death wish!" and asserted, "I have a life wish!" He claimed he doesn't think about dying when he's wire walking and distanced himself from "daredevils" who scale tall buildings for the mere stunt of it. To him, they're interested only in the death-defying aspect of their work and have no artistry. Petit emphasized that he views his wire walking as an art. When he's on the wire, he wants people to look up and feel inspired. It's poetry, not a circus trick. 

He has plans for another wire walk in Manhattan this fall. It will benefit literacy and various writers will read under the wire while he's walking. When asked where it will be, he responded coyly, "You all know libraries are associated with literacy, so where do you think?" Chances are good it will be in Bryant Park this October, so look up! You might see an artist on wire.

Man on Wire with Philippe Petit • April 15, 2009

The Cathedral Church of Saint John the Divine

New York, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Holi!

At first glance, Richmond Hill's Liberty Avenue looks strikingly similar to 74th Street in Jackson Heights. Both streets boast colorful sari shops, restaurants that dish up curry at recession-friendly prices, and religious goods stores with smiling Ganeshas in the window. But when Adeet and I ordered lunch at Sandy's Roti Shop, we suddenly felt that we weren't in Little India anymore. I enjoyed an aloo pie stuffed with potato curry, a Trinidadian take on the samosa, and Adeet had oxtail, peas, and rice. And instead of the Bengali or Hindi we often hear in Jackson Heights, our fellow diners spoke with a West Indian lilt.

After the West Indies abolished slavery in the 1830s, plantation owners needed a new labor source and subsidized workers from India. The Indo-Caribbean community in Queens continues many of the traditions their ancestors brought west, and Adeet and I came to Richmond Hill to celebrate the Indian festival of Holi, or Phagwah.

Holi is celebrated with a riot of color—revelers streak each other with red, pink, orange, and green powder or splash each other with tinted water. It's fitting that the the festival is celebrated in spring, when nature is again saturated with intense hues. One legend associated with the holiday tells how the blue-skinned god Krishna smudged color on his beloved Radha's fair complexion. Krishna famously cavorted with the gopis, or female cowherds, and today's merrymakers can emulate the god as they playfully "attack" each other with Super Soaker water guns and bottles of baby powder.

Adeet and I missed the Phagwah procession, but we followed the parade route to Smokey Oval Park. The streets were littered with bits of white paper and smeared with color. A woman stopped us and asked, "Do you play?" and when we nodded, she smudged pink powder on our cheeks. We paled in comparison, though, to most of the people around us. Even a dog had its white fur tinged with red.

In the park, hundreds of children and adults chased each other and smeared anyone they caught with technicolor powder. Several people ran a brisk business selling baby powder, and clouds of perfumed talc filled the air. A group of musicians danced in a circle and laughed at everyone's antics. Some of the children targeted Adeet, who soon looked as though he'd stood in the way of a Jackson Pollock canvas. A couple of people dabbed powder on my cheeks, but as we were leaving, a teenager exclaimed, "You're too clean!" and sprayed me with purple water. I shrieked and ran down the sidewalk, happy to play along.

Before heading home, we stopped in Anil's Roti Shop for more Indo-Caribbean treats. Adeet ordered a doubles—two rotis filled with chickpeas and tamarind sauce—and I had a currant roll, a flaky pastry flecked with small raisins. Later, when we got back to Jackson Heights, we went to Rajbhog for chai. I think we've discovered the best of two worlds.

To see all of the photos Adeet took during the Holi celebration, please click on my Delikatessen web album.

Sandy's Roti Shop

121-10 Liberty Avenue • Richmond Hill, Queens

Smokey Oval Park

12502 Atlantic Avenue • Richmond Hill, Queens

Anil's Roti Shop and Bakery

125-01 Liberty Avenue • Richmond Hill, Queens

Photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Free Poems

Last Saturday I convinced Adeet we should do our shopping at the Union Square Greenmarket. The lure of fresh-from-the-orchard apples didn't sway him, but when I suggested we buy mergueza lamb sausage seasoned with pomegranates and ginger from the Catskill Merino farm stand, I immediately had his full cooperation. As we wandered the market, we avoided a group of overly exuberant girls brandishing "Free Hugs" signs. But then another free offer stopped me. 

A very young looking man sat at a vintage Brother Valiant manual typewriter, clack-clacking on his classic QWERTY keyboard. He'd attached a sign offering "Free Poems" under his Valiant, though a nearby mug stuffed with dollar bills suggested donations would be appreciated. I hadn't seen any public typing since our trip to Bombay last fall, and I wanted to investigate.  

A woman standing near me had just expressed interest in a poem, and the poet asked if she had a subject in mind. After some prodding, she shyly admitted that she'd like a poem addressing the beauty she saw in the world that went unnoticed by others. She was reluctant to offer any more details, though she did say she was from Maine and now attended college in the city.

About ten minutes later, the college student from Maine had a poem celebrating unappreciated beauty. The poet read it to her, causing her to blush. She seemed pleased when he handed her the typed page, or perhaps she was relieved to no longer be the center of poetic attention.

Adeet then asked the poet if he would write a poem for Flat Stanley. My six-year-old nephew James had sent us a laminated drawing of Flat Stanley with a letter requesting that we take his "flat friend" on an adventure. We had photographed him in Union Square, and I thought Stanley (and James) would appreciate a customized poem. The poet winked at me and asked if Adeet knew Stanely wasn't real. He agreed to write about Stanley's quest for adventure after I assured him it didn't need to rhyme. He then began typing what appeared to be nothing. He explained his ribbon didn't work, so he typed on carbon paper, the words invisible to him until he released the paper. I smilingly asked if he did this full-time, but he's a public poet only when the weather's nice. He spends the rest of his time in film school. 

He wanted to know what I do for a living and laughingly brought up my job more than once as he questioned me about punctuation and spelling. However, I resisted any editorial urges when he gave me his poem; its whimsy made up for any orthographic liberties. My nephew might not appreciate it now, but he will someday. And on the next sunny Saturday, I'm going back to Union Square. Even if I don't get another poem, I'll enjoy hearing the clatter of typewriter keys.

click poem to enlarge

Benyomin Spaner: Poet/Typist

Union Square • sunny weekends

photo by Adeet Deshmukh

Saint Cannoli

According to legend, Saint Gennaro, the patron of Naples, survived numerous persecutions before his head ended up on the chopping block. His tormentors threw him to lions, pushed him into an amphitheater full of hungry bears, and tossed him into a furnace. Sure, Gennaro was tough. But could he have eaten 20 cannoli in six minutes?

As part of Little Italy's Feast of San Gennaro, 10 men honored the saint by seeing who could eat the most cannoli in 360 seconds. George Shea, chairman of the International Federation of Competitive Eating (IFOCE), served as emcee. He'd hosted this summer's Nathan's hot dog eating contest and once again flaunted his hyperbolic wit. He intoned that we live in dark times, and cited as evidence "the four horsemen of the esophagus." A man standing near me exclaimed several times, "If that guy were running for office, I'd vote for him."

Gianni Russo, who played Carlo Rizzi in The Godfather, served as celebrity judge. Shea had forgotten to bring a timer, so Russo counted down with his gold watch. He stood off to the side of the contestants to keep his his pin-striped suit safe from flying cannoli debris. The competitors stacked their cannoli on paper plates and poured cups of coffee and milk to wash down the dessert. Crazy Legs Conti, a Nathan's contest veteran and member of the competitive eating circuit, went in as the favorite. He granted interviews beforehand and received the greatest applause during introductions. Conti wore a pair of gloves, and after several minutes of frantic eating, Shea remarked that Conti looked as if he'd been working in a "cannoli garden." His gloves, beard, and dreadlocks were smeared with ricotta. Shea cautioned Conti to clean up the "detritus" or face a penalty. The emcee focused on the rivalry between Conti and Allen "The Shredder" Goldstein, who wore an IFOCE T-shirt and stood to Conti's right. Shea should have looked down the table to Brad Sciullo. After the final countdown, the judges declared newcomer Sciullo the champion. The 21-year-old had devoured 20 cannoli, edging out Conti and Goldstein, who tied at 19. Sciullo never removed his headphones—Apple might want to consider a competitive eating-themed iPod campaign.When Shea announced the winner, Sciullo started to cry. It startled me to see such an emotional reaction, especially since there was no cash (or cannoli) prize, but Sciullo sobbed real tears as he held his trophy aloft.

Somewhere Saint Gennaro cried, too, as he wiped away the cannoli crumbs left in his honor. He hadn't suffered in vain.

Feast of San Gennaro 

Little Italy • NY, NY 

photos and video by Adeet Deshmukh

The Anna Copa Cabanna Show

As a child, variety shows filled most of my television viewing time: The Sonny and Cher Show, Barbara Mandrell and the Mandrell Sisters, The Carol Burnett Show, and best of all, The Muppet Show. These programs informed my idea of what entertainment should be: a glamorous but funny star, à la Miss Piggy, surrounded by talented friends who perform brilliantly but (almost) never steal the spotlight. Where have all the variety show divas gone?

Enter Anna Copa Cabanna.

Anna Copa Cabanna is a self-described Australian go-go dancer, who also sings and plays xylophone. At her recent "Back 2 School" show at the Bowery Poetry Club, she opened with a "Dear Diary" voiceover bemoaning her awful classmates. Swearing she'd get revenge one day as a successful dancer in New York City, she segued into a routine done to Van Halen's "Hot for Teacher." Her four-member troupe, the Copa Cabanna Dancers (Breedlove, Honey Lingus, Mr Miss America, and Tosha Marqee), twirled and jumped around Anna, who tore off her schoolgirl outfit to reveal a white bikini. She'd make David Lee Roth proud.

After the first number, Anna self-consciously tugged at her bikini top, worried that she'd inadvertently flashed the audience. Remember, she runs a variety show, not a burlesque. She then stood at her xylophone and performed Metallica's "Enter Sandman." Of course, the performance drew laughs. But the childlike instrument and Anna's high voice suited the song, making it slightly disconcerting and eerier than James Hetfield's version. Anna also sang original numbers, including "Times Square" ("There's a long-haired jerk playing bad guitar/Says he's a Naked Cowboy/Why is he wearing underwear?"), "Mr. New York," and a rant about someone ruining her dinner at a local Thai restaurant.

Any variety show star knows she's only as good as her guests, and Anna's friends didn't let her down. Breedlove demonstrated he isn't only a talented Copa Cabanna dancer (and not afraid to wear Spandex), but also an accomplished singer. His "Love on the Telephone" was one of the evening's highlights.

The "Hula-Hoop Harlot," who deftly twirled multiple hula hoops around her arms, neck, torso, and legs to musical accompaniment, gave one of the night's most popular performances. She displayed considerable dexterity and timing, and didn't let a recording glitch throw her off balance.

Another audience favorite was Rachel Trachtenburg, star of her own morning show. The 14-year-old musician accompanied herself on the ukulele as she sang Syd Barrett's "The Gnome." Her mother, Tina, and a friend illustrated the lyrics with whimsical cut-outs on a felt board. Rachel also sang an original number urging New Yorkers to get along with their pigeon neighbors. The pigeons should feel lucky to have such a charming ambassador.

Some performances ended up more miss than hit. Lady Starlight's black-light dance didn't inspire a strong reaction, perhaps because so much of it was in the dark. And punk band The Homosexuals made only a brief screen appearance, despite their billing as special guests. 

There was a considerable amount of self-aware kitsch in the evening's performances, which at times recalled the talent show scene in Donnie Darko. But hipster irony didn't overshadow the performers' considerable talents. Anna and her friends proved it's possible to put on a sincerely good show, even when dancing to "Xanadu."

The evening ended with Anna back in her schoolgirl outfit as she and her dancers cavorted to Adam Ant's "Goody Two Shoes": "Look out or they'll tell you/You're a superstar." It might be too late.

Anna Copa Cabanna

poster from Anna Copa Cabanna's MySpace page

videos by Kate Deshmukh

Unforgettable: Bollywood in New York

New Yorkers aren’t immune to star power, but anyone ogling, gushing, or asking for autographs is immediately marked as a tourist. Indifference, even when feigned, is considered the proper response to a celebrity sighting. This blasé approach wouldn’t translate in India, where people openly and unabashedly worship their Bollywood actors—literally. In Bombay I saw pictures of the god Krishna displayed alongside photos of heartthrob Hrithik Roshan.

Adeet and I recently had the chance to join in the idol worship. A troupe of some of India's most popular Bollywood stars performed in New York as part of the “Unforgettable” tour. Amitabh Bachchan, his son Abishek, daughter-in-law Aishwarya Rai, Preity Zinta, Riteish Deshmukh, and Madhuri Dixit, danced and lip-synced for a sold-out crowd at Long Island’s Nassau Coliseum.

Thanks to the generosity of our friend Deepak, Amitabh Bachchan’s makeup artist, Adeet and I had backstage passes for the event. We wandered past tables piled with costumes and admired larger-than-life puppets propped against the wall. Dancers adorned in fake jewels and Day-Glo leotards ran past us. One of the production coordinators asked if we were hungry and led us to a room with a buffet table filled with samosas and tandoori mixed grill. Bollywood catering!


After we ate, Adeet and I passed Preity Zinta rehearsing her dance moves in the hallway and then found ourselves standing outside the stars' dressing rooms. Suddenly Aishwarya Rai Bachchan was standing in front of me, so close I could see the vaccination scar on her arm. A thick layer of glittery makeup set off her famous eyes and her hair fell in curls down her back. Adeet commented, “I thought she’d be taller,” but he also remarked that she looked just as beautiful in person as in pictures. We were both enjoying the very un-New York experience of acting star-struck.

Abishek, however, looked slightly less handsome close up, but my judgment might have been influenced by my husband’s own Bollywood good looks. He looked serious, while Aishwarya appeared bubbly and happy.

That evening marked the 61st anniversary of India's independence. Before going on stage, the stars stood in a circle and held hands as they sang their national anthem. Amitabh’s rich baritone carried the song, especially during the final "Jaya hē" ("Victory to thee"). The actors then paused for a prayer thanking God for their final performance in the States and the tour's success, despite some glitches. Sometimes even divine intervention can’t prevent technical difficulties.

Adeet and I had seats in front, off to the side of the stage. We usually had an unimpeded view, except when effusive fans tried to rush past us. Before each actor emerged from the wings, film clips played on giant screens. Then, in a Purple Rose of Cairo moment, the actor from the screen appeared on stage, ready to entertain thousands of screaming fans. Riteish Deshmukh, known for his comic roles, opened to a dance routine involving oversized dollar bills. (Wouldn't euros have been flashier?) When fans screamed, "I love you, Riteish!" he quickly responded, "I love you, too."

Abishek arrived in a caged platform that swooped over the crowd before descending. When he danced across the stage and encouraged the crowd to clap along, he appeared much more animated than he had backstage. Aishwarya appeared for her first routine wearing black pants and a silver bustier-type top. Although still attractive, her outfit seemed oddly unflattering. In later numbers she looked radiant in traditional Indian clothes.

Aishwarya took a few moments to make a pitch for the Green Globe Foundation, which hopes to provide villages with solar-powered lanterns. Her somewhat awkward appeal won’t lead to a public speaking tour anytime soon. She then introduced her mother-in-law, Jaya, who encouraged us to do our part to help reduce global warming and to donate a lantern.

Between the actors' routines, singers Vishal and Shekhar sang hits such as "Om Shanti Om." The song is ubiquitous in our Jackson Heights neighborhood, and I joined in the English refrain. The crowd kept the security guards busy as they left their seats to dance, and two especially exuberant women near us were eventually banished.

Amitabh is a firmly established deity in the Bollywood pantheon. Dramatic music accompanied his film montage, and the emcee made declarations such as, "The Indian the whole world recognizes." (He is instantly recognizable with his dark hair and white beard. But what about Gandhi?) The crowd didn't question the hagiography and roared when the actor took the stage. 

Later Amitabh joined in some song-and-dance numbers, but for now he was more thespian than entertainer. The dance troupe got to rest from the relentless, near-manic choreography as Amitabh recited lines from his father's poem "Agneepath" and his film Deewaar. Although I couldn't understand the Hindi lines, I appreciated the resonance of his deep voice.

Despite the crowd's obvious adoration of Amitabh, the audience gave actress Madhuri Dixit one of the evening's most enthusiastic responses. Some women sitting near us left as soon as her performance was over—nothing else could surpass her. Madhuri danced gracefully, and even when Aishwarya joined her, she demanded the most attention.

For the final numbers, Preity joined Abishek for a “rock-and-roll” dance routine. She twirled expertly, evidence that her hallway rehearsal had paid off. I especially enjoyed one of the closing dances that featured Amitabh, Abishek and Aishwarya (see the video clip below).



The evening’s performance lasted four hours, but I hadn’t grown tired of it. As a child, I frequently enlisted my two younger brothers to join me in a dance line, my choreography consisting mainly of high kicks to Simon and Garfunkel's "The Boxer." For years, my family staged elaborate lip-sync performances every New Year’s Eve. Perhaps that's why I have a fondness for Bollywood, with its "Let's put on a show!" enthusiasm, flashy costumes, fervent dancing, and yes, lip-syncing.

When the lights went up, I turned to Adeet and said, "I never need to go to Las Vegas." How could anything there top the spectacle we'd just seen? But as much as I enjoyed the elaborate extravaganza, my favorite moment had occurred backstage. Jaya hē, jaya hē, jaya hē.

Unforgettable Tour

Nassau Coliseum • Long Island, NY

"Unforgettable" poster from: http://www.theunforgettabletour.com/home.html

photos and video by Adeet Deshmukh

Dumplings vs. Dragons

Which is a greater accomplishment? Consuming dozens of dumplings in two minutes, or racing a 40-foot boat across a lake?

On Sunday Adeet and I witnessed two very different competitions at Flushing Meadow Park as part of the Hong Kong Dragon Boat Festival: a dumpling eating contest and a boat race. We arrived just in time for the high noon dumpling-off. Emcees whipped up the crowd in both Cantonese and Mandarin, punctuating their Chinese with an occasional "Let's have a round of applause!" Sandy the Seagull, the Brooklyn Cyclones' mascot, did his part by soundlessly but enthusiastically hopping around the stage.

The contest was divided into heats, and men and women competed separately. Some women in the first round looked more like workers hurrying through a too-short lunch break than contenders for the dumpling purse (a $1,000 first prize). Others, though, demonstrated classic competitive eating strategy as they sprinkled their wontons with water, making them slippery enough to swallow without the inconvenience of chewing. The men ate ravenously, but their gusto didn't match the graphic gluttony of Nathan's Fourth of July hot dog eating contest. At Nathan's, contestants sent bits of bun flying, but I didn't see any dumpling debris here. Perhaps the dumplings' small size made the contest seem somewhat demure by comparison. 

After the men's first round, Adeet and I felt too hungry to watch other people eat. We went to the makeshift food court and bought a steamed pork bun, sticky rice wrapped in leaves, and noodles. We tried getting a bubble tea, but the vendor apologetically uttered a sentence I'd never heard before: "I'm out of bubbles." We settled for plain watermelon juice, which was delicious and refreshing, but I would have appreciated a discount for the lack of bubbles. The drink cost $5, the same price as all of our food. As we finished our lunch, we overheard an emcee announce the number of dumplings devoured by the men's winner: 66. The only thing Adeet and I had managed to finish in that time was our bun. 


Next we moved on to the boat races. No emcees stirred up the spectators, but a young boy standing near us did cheer on his father, who unfortunately finished second to last. Adeet and I didn't root for any one team but enjoyed watching the boats skim across the lake. Drummers in each boat kept rhythm, and rowers matched the tempo as they pushed their oars through the water. The narrow boats had little decoration except for the elaborately carved prows. As the boats glided past us after each match, we caught a close-up of the grinning dragon heads.

As we left the park, we passed a group of well-toned, muscled racers performing stretching and balance exercises. I wondered how the dumpling eaters had warmed up for their contest. However, I couldn't dismiss the dumplingvores' accomplishments, even if I questioned their training regimen. I knew I didn't have the stamina for dragon boats or dumplings.

The Hong Kong Dragon Boat Festival
Flushing Meadows Park • Queens, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

The Mount Sinai of Mastication:Nathan's Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest

I skipped the fireworks this Fourth of July. Pyrotechnics would only pale in comparison to the fanfare and spectacle of Nathan’s Famous International Hot Dog Eating Contest. Part Coney Island sideshow and part sporting event, the contest served up an all-American tradition of celebrating dubious accomplishments.

Adeet and I arrived almost three hours early, only to discover a large crowd had already beat us to the sidelines. We stood for an hour behind the press area, lamenting our limited view, when police removed several barriers and allowed us close to the stage. Now I hoped we weren't too close.

George Shea, the event’s emcee and chairman of the International Federation of Competitive Eating (IFOCE), recalled the old-school barkers of Coney Island's heyday. Sporting a boater and dapper suit, he demonstrated a flair for hyperbole as he welcomed revelers to the “Mt. Sinai of mastication.” He maintained a steady stream of carney banter, breaking character only to encourage donations to emergency food programs, after accepting a "check" for 100,000 Nathan's hot dogs made out to the Food Bank for New York City.

Musicians, trampolinists, dancing hot dog mascots, and even a marriage proposal distracted us from restlessly fixating on the giant countdown clock. Cheerleaders held our attention by firing T-shirt guns into the crowd, but the ESPN cameras that zoomed over our heads whipped up the most enthusiasm.


When Shea introduced the contenders, he enumerated the gluttony of their competitive eating careers—hard-boiled eggs, shoo-fly pie, oysters, cranberry jelly, Spam, jambalaya—ad nauseam. He flirted with the two female contestants, Sonya Thomas and Juliet Lee, and announced each competitor with exaggerated gusto. However, two men received the most attention: last year's victor, Joey Chestnut, and his main rival, former six-time winner Takeru "The Tsunami" Kobayashi. Chestnut possessed the champion "mustard belt," but Kobayashi looked like the true hot dogger, with his mustard-yellow and ketchup-red hairstyle.

The eaters engaged in various pre-gorge rituals. Crazy Legs Conti pulled on a pair of gloves and stretched his jaw, while Pete Davekos tied on a bandana sensei style and waited stoically. Most of the contestants appeared relatively fit, though none possessed the physique of Juris Shibayama, who flexed his body-built muscles. Kobayashi hugged most of the competitors. I wasn't prepared for what came next.


After Shea led the crowd in a countdown, Kobayashi tore through buns with ravenous efficiency and shoved hot dogs into his mouth. Others had red liquid streaming down their arms as they devoured buns dunked in juice. Some jerked their heads back, forcing the food down and fighting the gag reflex, but Chestnut's entire body twitched. Crazy Legs' face took on an unhealthy pallor and the veins in Chestnut's forehead throbbed menacingly. Only Kobayashi looked as if it weren't an entirely unpleasant experience. His face didn't betray any pain, only a determined concentration as he continued cramming hot dog after hot dog. Although I hadn't eaten anything all day, I started to feel queasy.

The contest clearly centered around Chestnut and Kobayashi. Shea shouted out their scores as first Chestnut, and then Kobayashi, took the lead. When the ten-minute competition ended, each had devoured 59 hot dogs. After a quick consultation, Shea declared a tie breaker: the first to eat five hot dogs would go home the winner. Both men ate with ferocious speed, but as Kobayashi pushed the last bit of bun into his mouth, Chestnut had already finished.

I had rooted for the Japanese Kobayashi, fascinated by his cool demeanor and charmed by his hair color. He accepted the second-place trophy graciously and when his translator asked him if he had anything to say, he thanked everyone in English for their love and support. Unfortunately, he also lifted up his shirt, flashing his distended belly. Shea presented Chestnut to us as an American hero and led the crowd in chants of "USA! USA!" Chestnut held his mustard belt aloft, clearly relishing his second victory over Kobayashi.

As the crowd dispersed, Adeet and I made our way to the boardwalk. We passed the abrasive barker at "Shoot the Freak" and stopped at Gregory & Paul's food stand for lunch. Adeet ordered a slice of pizza, and as I considered fried clams and knish, I knew I had only one choice.

I managed to eat half a hot dog, which I washed down with lemonade (no dunking). Maybe next Independence Day I'll eat a whole one, after I cheer on Kobayashi to reclaim his mustard belt. That is, if I can stomach it.

Nathan's Famous International Hot Dog Eating Contest
Coney Island, NY
photos and video by Adeet Deshmukh

The Iron Triangle

Somewhere in City Hall I imagine a giant list labeled, “Develop This!” Times Square? Check! The Bowery? Check! Harlem? Half a check! As the checkmarks in the Manhattan column begin adding up, the civic cleanup crew turns their sights to the outer boroughs. Coney Island? Wouldn’t you rather have a new condo than a sideshow? Willets Point? Why not build a convention center to battle what Mayor Bloomberg disparages as blight?

Willets Point, Queens, also known as the “Iron Triangle,” is NYC’s largest stretch of junkyards and auto-repair shops. The city charges that the area, just past Shea Stadium and the new Citi Field, is contaminated and has proposed a redevelopment plan that would replace existing businesses with a convention center, hotel, school, and other “exciting retail and entertainment offerings.” Years of spilled antifreeze and petroleum have undoubtedly left the Iron Triangle polluted. But to dismiss it as "blight" is to ignore the neighborhood's needs—the city has turned down requests to install sewer lines—and to overlook a vibrant commercial community.

When Adeet and I visited the area this spring, we felt as though we’d taken the 7 train to another country. A rooster darted in front of us as we walked down an unpaved road that was both dusty and filled with pools of standing water, prompting us to exclaim, "It's like India!" We hadn’t yet noticed the sign for “House of Spices,” manufacturer of Laxmi brand Indian food products. Then we saw the goddess of good fortune casting her gaze over the chop shops and scrap yards, and we knew it was like India, or at least some place far removed from the rest of the gentrified city.


Auto-repair, parts, and paint shops occupy much of the Iron Triangle's 13-block vicinity, but another economy, contingent on the body shops, thrives in the midst of the mufflers and motor oil. We watched as women carrying black plastic bags filled with DVDs scouted for potential customers and overheard a mechanic murmuring, “Nice, nice,” as he flipped through a selection of bootlegs. Mister Softee dodged potholes, and customers arrived for ice cream as soon as he parked. I bargained bilingually with men selling mangoes from the back of a van but declined their offer to peel the dusty fruit for me. I’d wait until I could get home and wash it. Two adolescent boys stood near the mango sellers, each one with a cooler full of drinks for sale. A woman grilled meat outside a body shop, but workers interested in a sit-down experience could dine at Master Express Deli & Restaurant. And we spotted the rooster again, this time with a pair of hens.


Like much of Queens, the Iron Triangle represents a diverse population. Latino and African American businesses border South Asian and Korean shops. Many of them demonstrate an eye for industrial aesthetics. Salvaged car doors serve as billboards and stacks of tires double as fortress walls. Rims look as if they’ve been lined up for target practice, their metallic bull’s-eyes glinting in the sun. If this were the Lower East Side, the mechanics might be awarded gallery space.

Earlier this month, with the mayor issuing threats of eminent domain, two Iron Triangle business owners agreed to sell. If the remaining companies are forced out, another gritty, unique New York community will disappear. I wonder, though, if the rooster will stay behind, strutting down new hotel halls, leaving a trail of oil and dust.


The Iron Triangle

Roosevelt Avenue near 126th Street

Take the 7 train to Shea Stadium

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Queens for a Day

The annual Queens LGBT Pride Parade marched down 37th Avenue in Jackson Heights this afternoon. Adeet and I watched most of the parade from our corner, joined by a number of children, parents, and senior citizens. I overheard women chatting in Spanish, mentioning that they'd just come from Mass, and a little girl exclaiming over a rainbow made of balloons. Although Vegas-style show“girls” provided plenty of camp, it never crossed the PG-13 line. This was family-friendly flamboyance.

Activists waved placards thanking Governor Patterson for his recent order to recognize same-sex marriages performed outside of New York, and many people chanted for marriage rights. Several marchers held signs equating immigration and gay rights. That message should resonate in Jackson Heights, one of the NYC neighborhoods with the highest number of immigrants (per 2000 census data). It makes sense to me that immigrants struggling for housing, employment, and voting rights might be sympathetic to the gay community's campaign for fair health care and family rights. However, the crowd seemed most taken by the parade’s elaborately dressed drag queens; looking glamorous and female may prove to be a greater outreach tool than political statements.


Latinos made up the majority of the parade population—both as participants and spectators. A group dancing to a recording of Mexican pop star Thalia's "Amor a La Mexicana" grew loud applause, as did a troupe of "Aztec" dancers. Even the parade's sole South Asian group slipped in some español, perhaps capitalizing on a linguistic coincidence. Their acronym, SALGA (South Asian Lesbian and Gay Association), can mean "come out" in Spanish.


The rest of Jackson Heights' diverse demographic did join in the party, especially closer to 74th Street's "Little India." We saw women wearing hijab taking pictures of befeathered drag queens and men in kufis craning to get a glimpse of the divas. Today, at least, we were all Queens.

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Qu'est-ce que c'est?David Byrne's "Playing the Building"

Clanging radiators and whistling pipes are more often the soundtrack to insomniac nights than to downtown art openings. But David Byrne's new installation, "Playing the Building," transforms the noise into music.

The installation is on the second floor of the Battery Maritime Building, at the corner of South and Whitehall Streets, in Lower Manhattan. It's an ideal setting for the experiment. The 9000-square-foot space has the feel of an abandoned warehouse, the type of place where one might expect to hear mysterious creaking and clanking. The requirement that visitors sign a waiver before entering gives the sense that the building might be slightly dangerous. However, the skylight running across the ceiling is reassuring; strange noises are less disconcerting in sunlight.

The room's centerpiece is the organ, which looks like a mad scientist's gift to Philip Glass. It sprouts wires and tubes leading to the building's pipes and columns. Striking the organ's white keys pumps air through the tubes and activates clapper mechanisms attached to the pipes. Adeet and I lined up with other would-be industrial musicians for the chance to play. When it was my turn, I experienced a momentary disconnect between the sounds I was hearing and the keys I was playing. My brain still expected to hear typical organ sounds, not the mechanic humming and banging of the infrastructure. As I watched others play, I started to imagine all old buildings with master organists hidden away, playing the furnaces and plumbing.

Later, at a reception on the main floor, people drank bottles of Grolsch from paper bags and ate hot dogs messy with ketchup. We saw David Byrne standing off to a corner, by himself, looking slightly uncomfortable. He made his way out of the room and headed back toward the installation. Perhaps the building had more to say.

photo and video by Adeet Deshmukh