Corndogs + Avocados

This is what happens to husbands who try to humor their wives with an outing she would love.

The other night, after work, I drove, hungry and tired but excited, 25 miles in about an hour and a half through traffic to meet Darin at the Curbside Café Too—great eatery right outside the Presidio where Darin’s office is. I spied him in the dark and pulled into the minuscule parking lot of a seedy Travelodge where he hopped in. 15 minutes later we had circled all the blocks within a quarter mile radius with nary a parking spot in sight. Now we were running late, tired, and really hungry.

Darin and I approached the situation differently.

“You know, these tickets were free. We could just go home.”

I shot daggers at him out my eyes.

Time was short so we headed for Cowell Theater. As we drove into the Fort Mason complex Darin said, “Oh this is where I had that awful lunch with my boss! Some vegetarian joint. I would rather seppuku myself than ever eat there again.”

We parked and walked into the information office inquiring after dinner options. As (Darin’s) luck would have it, the only place open was Greens Restaurant, the nasty veggie place that had made him want to disembowel himself.

Reason prevailed, however, and Darin’s intestines were not sacrificed.

But there was an hour wait, I know, even to eat grass. Our last option was their depleted take-out sandwich counter. I left with an avocado sandwich, and my good sport Darin with $18 worth of brownies and pastries.

The tiny theater was nearly empty except for a few individuals, all of whom work with Darin.

“Uh-oh. This doesn’t look good if the only people here are from my office because they got free tickets.”

More folks did, eventually, show up.

So the show alternated for the next two hours between dances performed only by men and dances performed only by women. I was of course enthralled and those of you who know Darin well should be on the floor laughing right now knowing that it was all he could do to not scratch his own eyes out.

I can’t blame him. The women wore wrapped embroidered skirts to the floor, western shoes occasionally peeking out from underneath, embroidered shirts and fabrics and scarves wrapped differently for each performance. The footwork was always the same. Left – right – left – right – left – right. A medium-slow constant shuffle. Hands moved out in front of them, then down to their sides, then out in front, then down to their sides, always with a sort of lazy hula twist of fingers at the top. They danced in a line, in a circle, in a line. The most exciting move, performed very rarely, was when they dipped, bum to heels for one beat, not messing with the left – right pattern. Lighter than a Japanese Noh performance, more conservative than a Polynesian dance, somehow somewhere in the middle. The accompaniment was their singing, sometimes joined by the yangshin (Asian hammered dulcimer) and the dranyen (Bhutanese banjo). Every melody sounded pretty much the same, up and down, mostly down. The women wore expressions of what looked like boredom, with one or two occasionally smirking at each other.

Beautiful costumes (not my picture obviously - snaked from the internet).

The men got all the spunky steps. Accompanied only by a cymbal that the master chanter would clatter and clang together, the men would hop out on stage on one foot, swirling knee-length skirts, embroidered aprons and shirts and elaborate masks sometimes standing two feet higher than their heads. Clang! chatter chatter chatter chatter chatter chatter chatter chatter Clang! They hopped on one foot. The hopped on the other. They hopped in a circle. They hopped in a line.

We saw this dance performed, same costumes and instruments.

Now, I am in no way trying to belittle the dancing. Truth is… I totally loved it. At first I couldn’t get into it, but after 45 minutes I found the women’s dances wonderfully soothing and the men’s movement mesmerizing. I would have bought a CD of the women singing if there had been one. But you have to admit that sometimes being low on sleep on a weeknight after a long hard day at work with very little food in your belly and looking forward to waking up at 6AM the next morning can fog one’s enjoyment of just about anything.

My favorite part of the program was the write-up on “Dance of the Ging with Drums.” You might be familiar with the scripture in Ephesians 6 encouraging one to put on the breastplate of righteousness, take up the shield of faith, and so on. Well, in the Bhutanese spiritual tradition Jyungpo Nyulema (demons) create obstacles to meditation. They may take on all sorts of terrifying forms, but in reality are our own ego, caught endlessly by the hook of hope and fear. The great treasure revealer, Pema Lingpa saw three kinds of spiritual warriors called “Ging.” Luckily for us the Ging, emanations of Padmasambhava, can find the nasty Nyulema anywhere with their sticks, and then, not very unlike the saints of Ephesus, they catch them with the cook of kindness, beat them with the stick of wisdom and tie them with the noose of compassion. Then they beat the drums of happiness.

I wonder if the school I work at would allow me a stick of wisdom in my class…

Girls, many of you are thinking, “Cool! How culturally enriching!” Boys, many of you are thinking, “Darin’s a champ.” You are both right. Bless Darin’s enduring heart.

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