RAQQIN' THE RETRO: VINTAGE BELLY DANCE COSTUME CARE AND REPAIR

Vintage belly dance costumes and antique stage accessories are a personal passion of mine …to look at, to own and to wear. Fascinating in their staggering variety, they can run the gamut from clumsily constructed home-made affairs to Egyptian, Lebanese and Turkish couture costumes, to ethnic pieces that were not made for stage use, but to be worn as real clothing, for every day use or as ceremonial or bridal wear.

Many of the most well-known belly dance costume designers have been in business for years, and like top street clothes designers, have had different designs concepts and in many cases, full collections for every season. Older Oriental dance costumes were made by hand, and constructed to last literally, a lifetime. Of course, there have always been the cheapie ‘airport special’ costumes, basically souvenirs for tourists- but even those used to be constructed much better than they are now!

More recently, there has been an explosion in belly dance costuming, due to the sheer demand for it as the world-wide popularity of belly dancing grows, as well as the age-old concept of “making a buck”. There is now a wide mid-range of costumes that is not couture, but lacking in the detail and construction of higher-end pieces. Kind of like the stuff you’d find in a designer knock-off shop, which highlights trends, but does not offer quality. This takes many faces- the stones may now be acrylic instead of crystal- and glued on as opposed to sewn on; beading and fringe are done with less workmanship and inferior threads; sizing may be off, etc.

As with vintage designer clothing, most of the professionally made older costumes are fabricated with much more care than their counterparts today. Compare this trend to what’s happening in the world of retail clothing, or even cars, house wares, electronics, heck, you name it… mass production has it’s drawbacks! Though it makes items affordable, the quality in design and craftsmanship is not usually there.

Lately there has even been a trend among belly dancers to return to the glamour and over-the-top design of the older style costumes…. fringe dripping from every possible area on the item. It’s no secret that many older items of belly dance costuming can be had for a song and be made beautiful and serviceable again, through a little loving care.

If you are planning on washing a vintage belly dance costume, or a costume that has been fabricated from antique textiles, mirrored fabric, or one that is hung with heavy coins proceed with care. Many older cabaret costumes were never stored properly-or ever washed, for that matter- and because of the accumulation of sweat or skin oils from the previous owner(s) as well as fabric deterioration due to normal wear and tear or in some cases, exposure to sunlight, the fabric itself may be compromised, and this is especially true of velvets and brocades.

Older professionally made costumes from Egypt, Syria and Lebanon, even after a number of years, are almost indestructible. This is great because they withstand the test of time, but in some cases, the costumes were constructed of so many layers of heavy, thick materials that they may be nearly impossible to alter- even getting a needle through them is tough. And because of the copious amounts of beading, anyone intending to cut into or remove parts of the costume needs to be a cracker jack at re-beading so that the alteration matches the rest of the costume. Lebanese and Syrian costumes especially used a lot of chunky beads and big pearls on the fringe- and if fringe is missing in spots, it may be impossible to find an exact match. You will either have to bead your own with similar-looking beads or replace it entirely. Older synthetic pearls have chipped or flaked or lost their luster, due to shaking and rattling against each other. You can actually paint them with nail polish to make them look new again, but this is a very lengthy and intricate process.

Vintage Turkish costumes are also tricky to restore- many had wires inserted into the tops of bra or on the belts, to reinforce shapes, and these wires may have rusted or poked through the material that anchored them. Turkish fringe, through beautiful in appearance, was never constructed as well or as sturdy as it’s Egyptian counter-part, and may have to be replaced. Turkish costumes from the 1950’s- 1970’s were very fragile, hand-beaded and with many cut-outs, including cut-outs on the brassieres that, as the style of the day dictated, were totally open to show the skin! This spider-web effect is stunning, but because there are no actual bra cups, just an overlay of beads meant to be worn against the breast, they may be impossible to salvage, unless the entire piece is cut apart and carefully placed over a bra-cup.

Non-professionally-made vintage cabaret costumes were often made by hand, with the bra constructed from a regular lingerie bra. This is not to say that some of the homemade jobs weren’t spectacular, or well made. Many of them are simply amazing. But once ten to forty years go by, the older fabric of the base-bra itself may be breaking down and losing its shape. Appliqué designs may be fraying or coming off; coins may be missing due to wear and tear on the threads that fastened them, metal snaps, hooks and closures may be rusted, and the costume’s straps my be stretched out or actually coming off the costume. These older costumes were often hand-beaded by dancer who wore them, and sometimes the beads, fringe and loops were not knotted securely, or the knots themselves have frayed due to time. In many cases, if one piece of fringe falls apart, it will create a chain reaction in the entire row of fringe. Older sequins may have lost their color and sheen and have a clear appearance; some decorative crystal stones may be missing.

As for custom made ethnic or Tribal costumes, many of the fabrics used in their construction are serious antiques. Dancers hunt far and wide for textile treasures to make their costumes special, and though some of the fabric finds are still gorgeous, they are very fragile. Even older cotton pieces may be delicate in condition and have some dry rot, especially if the material was exposed to the sun, dust or elements- think pieces originally used by nomadic desert-based tribes like Berbers, Kuchi or Bedouins. Also, the more lavishly a piece of older material was decorated with embroidery, variously applied metallic strips, buttons, mirrors, or sewn-on appliqués, the weaker it will be, due to age and deterioration of the fibers. This is especially true of antique Assuit, a traditional Egyptian hand-made cotton mesh fabric embellished with designs created from small strips of real silver hammered by hand into the mesh. Coming from the Egyptian village of the same name, the new Assuit is mostly mesh fabric, with silver designs, while the older type of Assuit was mostly hammered silver (with the designs left in the color of the mesh) which made it extremely heavy. Lengths of vintage Assuit are usually astronomically expensive, because the sheer mesh base fabric has become so heavy from the silver decorations, it is prone to rips and tears, plus the fact that as the silver oxidizes due to age, which also can weaken the base fabric.

Other vintage ethnic textiles may have been constructed by hand, embroidered with metallic threads, and large beads or pearls; or hung with decorative shells, beads, bottle caps, buttons, small mirrors or bells, all of which will weaken the fabric due to weight. Many ethnic fabrics were woven by hand or embroidered with material threads that were not commercially dyed, and therefore are not colorfast.

Dry cleaning for antique pieces is NOT recommended- however; careful hand washing, in most cases, should be OK. Make sure to use lukewarm water, and a very mild soap. I myself use baby shampoo. When rinsing, do it thoroughly- any soap residue left in the garment will put the natural deterioration process on fast-forward. When drying your costume or costume piece, roll and pat the item carefully in a towel, then lay it flat to air dry on a fluffy towel. Do not hang it up or the fabric may stretch out; never put it in a dryer, the heat and tumbling action is the kiss of death!

Have a serious look at your antique or vintage costume pieces, maybe do some research on the Internet or ask a costumer or antiques dealer if you can and try to assess the fabrics used on your costume, it’s age and durability. You may ultimately opt not to wash them.

If you have a costume decorated with coins that have tarnished and you want them shiny again, you can clean them individually with jewelry polish (not commercial brass or silver cleaner) applied with a Q-Tip. This is a painstaking process, but will shine up the coins and if you apply the polish carefully, will not stain the rest of your costume. If the coins are sewed on in rows, you can take a piece of heavy paper or cut a length of plastic off a shopping bag, lay it underneath the row of coins, and polish them that way, protecting the material they were mounted on. This works well for both real coins, and manufactured costuming or trimming coins.

Actually, a handy trick I learned from an antique dealer who dealt in estate jewelry is to clean any older items using plain old toothpaste, as opposed to any sort of polish. This works much better for rhinestones and crystals- I use it on all my antique tiaras…and believe me, I own a lot of them!

It works just as well for jewelry made of pot metals or “paste” (vintage faux jewelry) as well as Kuchi jewels or ethnic items made from low-quality silver or mixed=metal alloys. The toothpaste is less acidic and much less abrasive than even jewelry polish, and will remove dirt or tarnish without damaging the patina of the item. I usually apply the toothpaste by hand and gently rub it with my fingers, but you could also use a soft child’s toothbrush to do this. After you’ve shined up the item, rinse it off with tepid water, and pat it dry with a soft cloth.

Care for your vintage costumes and accessories properly and lovingly, and should be able to restore them to their previous beauty, as well as raq them proudly onstage!

Pictured: A 1960's era Turkish costume bra, owned by Zahra Zuhair. This bra was constructed by hand, of glass bugle beads, with the neck-halter made of bugle beads hand sewn onto a thin length of grosgrain ribbon. The bra cups are made totally of beads, it was the Turkish style for these to be worn over bare skin.

OF MYSTERIOUS MOVIE STARS AND EGYPTIAN CANDY WRAPPERS

Aswan, Egypt in 1991 was a sleepy little village. Few of the streets were paved except the Corniche El Nile, where the festive hantour carriages clipped by, their brass decorations clanking merrily in time to the beat of the horse’s hooves. I looked on enviously as they carried tourists to the felucca sailboats docked on the banks of the Nile. It was the middle of the afternoon, about 115 degrees, and the baking heat was making shimmering mirages along the Cornniche. The feluccas looked breezy and cool with little tents for shade set up on their decks, but all I could do was stare at them.

I was on such a tight, limited travel budget that I could only afford spending money on the barest of necessities. For weeks, I had been existing on bottled water, tamiyya (falafel) and pita bread, saving my funds to visit tombs and antiquities. The one pair of jeans I had was caked with mud on the bottom because I had no extra money for laundry and did my own hand-washing. I had taken the overnight train from Cairo, and couldn’t even afford First Class, which in those days was only about ten bucks and merely meant a train car with regular seats that was air-conditioned. Even taking a short hantour trip for a few piasters wasn’t something I could splurge on.

Instead, I wandered on foot down the dusty road that lead towards Kom Ombo Temple, where there was a makeshift covered market. I figured that would be a fun-and free- sightseeing opportunity. Under woven canopies, Nubian natives and Bedouin nomads sold beaded handcrafts and embroidered cotton robes. Bored-looking camels were tethered nearby, their reins and wooden saddles festooned with colorful woolen tassels, coins and bells. I wended my way past gaily painted parked wooden carts heaped high with sugar cane and melons. The donkeys harnessed to them dozed with half-closed eyes, flicking flies away with impatient twitches of their tails.

Oblivious to the heat, flocks of ragged, barefoot children raced around, chasing each other and playing tag in the sand, shrieking and giggling happily. When they spotted me, an obvious tourist, they clustered around me like an urchin mob, begging for pens and candy, tugging at my clothes.

A little girl of about six insistently grabbed my hand.

Pushing her tangled hair out of her eyes, she said, in perfect English,

“Water for you, lady!”

In the intense heat, it was a great idea, and I let her pull me along down the wagon-rutted road to a small, windowless mud and brick building, it’s façade painted a glaring turquoise, like a public swimming pool out-building. The entrance was decorated with crude, cartoon-like hieroglyphics, splashed on haphazardly in red house paint.

As we stepped through the doorway, it was so black inside that I couldn’t see a thing.

“Maya!” the little girl cried, using the Arabic word for water.

Seconds later, I felt the welcome cool of a plastic bottle make it’s way into my hand.

It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dark, but then I saw whitewashed plaster walls hung with crumbling, musty-looking papyrus paintings. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, as though nothing had been touched-or cleaned- in years. Makeshift wooden shelves held carved soapstone souvenir statuettes; the obligatory busts of Nefertiti and Tutankhamen, fat scarabs, tiny figures of Isis and Osirus.

“See anything you like, lady?” asked a man in a full Saidi galabiyya, a Western-style winter scarf wrapped around his head like a turban.

As I dug in my purse for change to pay for the water, my eyes fell upon a picture on the wall, near a door that lead to the back. It stuck out from the cheesy papyrus schlock, it looked shiny and spiny and wonderful. Even though it, like everything else in the shop, was completely covered in sand, it was a riot of color.

“I like that thing,” I said, pointing at the psychedelic wall hanging, “What is that?”

In broken English, the man explained that it was not for sale; his daughter had made it, years ago, when she was very small. He pointed at the child that had brought me into the shop, indicating that his daughter had been about that age when she made it.

He gestured towards her and said,

“Daughter-daughter!”

So, apparently, he was the little girl’s grandfather.

“Well, it’s the best thing here!” I declared, stepping nearer to examine it more closely.

The picture appeared to be a faded cardboard lobby card from a film. The two girls pictured, one a blonde, the other brunette, both had late Sixties or early Seventies style upswept hair and heavy eye make-up. The girls were staring off to one side, looking worried or concerned, but still fabulous. The photo was sewn onto a frame made of rolled-up, printed foil, which I immediately recognized as Arabic candy and ice cream wrappers.

“Movie star!” the man said,nodding at the picture,

“Women movie, very famous!”

Without thinking, I suddenly blurted out,

“I’ll buy that! How much is it?”

The man laughed incredulously, telling me again it wasn’t for sale. He tried to interest me in a tiny Horus figurine, but I waved it away as graciously as I could .

“Please tell your daughter she is an artist,” I said sincerely, getting ready to leave.

The man held up his hand in the international signal for “wait a minute”, and disappeared into the back of the building, coming back with his daughter, a middle-aged woman, her plump-cheeked pretty face framed by a purple beaded headscarf.

She smiled shyly and cast her eyes down but looked modestly pleased when I asked again to buy the picture.

When father and daughter realized I was serious, we began negotiating a price, but not in the determined way one would when haggling over a commercial souvenir. It was clear that though they thought I was crazy to want the item, they were flattered that I did… but also that they hadn’t even remotely considered it something of value, and hadn’t put a price on it-ever.

For my part, I knew that whatever I was going to pay for it meant foregoing food for a day or two, but I didn’t care. I had to have it!

We finally decided on a fee fair to both parties- equal to four American dollars, and I trembled inwardly with the thrill of possession. The man pried the picture off the wall, where it had been nailed down for years.

On a scrap of paper, the man wrote painstakingly in jumbled, block-lettered English:

NAGLA FOUTI SAMARA ABOUD 2 MOOVIE STAR

I carried the picture back to my tiny, three star hotel room, and cleaned each point of the candy wrappers painstakingly, with a Q-tip. It took a long time.

During the cleaning process, I noticed that the needle, which was used to sew the photo onto the foil, was still embedded in it, stored there carefully. You can actually see it if you look closely on the left of the picture, at the level of the blonde girl’s ear. Also, barely visible at the bottom left corner of the photo, there is still a nail left attached, that had held the picture to the wall of the souvenir shop.

Before I departed from Upper Egypt back to Cairo, I carefully slid the picture into some cardboard I cut from the side of a Canada Dry soda box. Once I got home, I saved up to have it framed, spending far more than the amount I had actually paid for it!

For years I have tried to find out what film this still photo came from, as well the correct names of both actresses. I have Googled many spellings of the girl’s names, both as the man wrote them and in other variations. The closest match I can find is an Egyptian actress named Samara Ahmed, but when I see her picture on line, there isn't really a facial resemblance and I don’t think she is old enough to have been in whatever movie this picture was from.

But even if I never find out that information, I still enjoy this artifact every day. Along with a Bedouin hamsa that had a red plastic 1950’s gumball machine charm of a cowboy wired to it- purchased for virtually nothing on the same trip- this picture is my favorite Egyptian souvenir ever!

CD REVIEW: GOLDEN ERA OF BELLYDANCE VOL. ONE : TAHIYYA KARIOKA

The phenomenon of repeating trends and the cyclical nature of pop culture is such a given that we’re all familiar with the phrase “Everything Old Is New Again”. This applies to art, fashion, cinema and yes, even to the world of belly dance.

While the general public has always had a rather dated and archaic view of the art of belly dancing ( veiled dancers wearing jingling coin costumes with big skirts; women who turned their husbands into “sultans” with the drop of a hip and the wink of a heavily made-up eye) fashion trends in Arabic music and dance have moved light years beyond that tired old cliché.

Recently, cabaret-style oriental dancers have favored minimalist, fringe-free haute couture costumes , and those dancing in the realm of Fusion have taken vast liberties both stylistically, conceptually and in costume choices.

In the past few years Arabic dance music- Oriental , shaabi style or otherwise -has been almost thoroughly Westernized, utilizing everything from traditionally “western” instruments such as piano or synthesizers, to crazy samples to musical influences that include hip hop , Bollywood, Brazillian, Electronica, New Age, and on and on.

While all this is fun to dance to ( not to mention thrilling, experimental and modern) sometimes it seems as though it would be nice to go back to the elegance and simplicity of a by-gone age, a time that nobody dancing today has experienced. What I am referring to Egypt’s Golden Age of Belly Dance, which was the fertile, creative period spanning the early 1940’s to the late 1970’s.

The Golden Age produced a veritable galaxy of stars, and preserved their artistic contributions both in film and on audio recordings. We’re talking films like the classic black and white “Tamer Henna” starring Naima Akef to later movies like the sassy 1972 Suad Hosni vehicle “ Khalli Balak Min Zou Zou”, and many other films which featured radiant dancers such as Samia Gamal, Tahiyya Karioka ( her name is spelled many ways, phoentically) and towards the latter part of the time period, Soheir Zaki, FiFi Abdou, Nagwa Fouad, Nadia Gamal, and many others.

We still see their legacy today- many of them have signature steps or combinations named after them; all of them starred in numerous films as well as appearing live on stage, all over the world.

Some singers that became internationally famous during that era were Om Kalthoum, Asmahan, Fairuz, Sabah, and Ahmed Addewiyya; and their work still sounds as fresh and wonderful as the day it was recorded. The same rings true for composers of the day, many of whom also did double duty as singers as well as acting in the movies: Farid El Atrache, Abdel Halim Hafez, Mohamed Abdel Wahab.

Though many younger dancers are not fully aware of this rich history, many are starting to return to the glamorous, smooth belly dancing style of yore: by using music that sounds less modern and more traditional, and by simplifying movements to straight Oriental; and there also seems to be a resurgence in the popularity of retro- costuming: fuller skirts, more fringe. These days, with the internet and Youtube, evidence of this period- and invaluable research on the time itself- is only a mouse-click away.

How wonderful that Hollywood Music Center has recently embarked on a large, multi- disc project entitled the “Golden Era Of Bellydance”! This series of CD’s will concentrate on the music of the artists of the Golden Age period. Though the music is not the original film scores, it is faithfully reproduced by the Ferqat Al Tooras Orchestra, featuring musicians like Aboud Abdel Al, Ahmad Fouad Hassan and Mohamad Al Arabi. The instrumentation is old-school: naid, oud, accordion, kanoun,walls of cellos. The orchestration is acoustic and reflects the feel of the era, and the traditional arrangements are truly stellar.

The first disc in the series is “ Golden Era Of Bellydance,Volume 1: Tahiyya Karioka”. From the opening strains of “Ha Akbalu Boukra”, you will be transported to a by-gone era of dapper fez-sporting men in tuxedos and glamorous dancers in costumes complete with shoulder epaulets, pin-up hair do’s and belly-covers.

This disc also features one of the best versions of Farid El Atrache’s famous “Leyla”, whith an amazingly slinky intro; awesome renditions of “Al Hobbi Kidda”, “Sahara City” and Om Kalthoum’s lovely “Al Atlal”.

All of the pieces on this fantastic CD sound retro, but have none of the crackles, pops and glitches of the original recordings. They are also all in the three-to six minute range, making them perfect to easily incorporate into routines.

Whether you just want to listen to beautiful, vintage- sounding Arabic music or are planning on dancing to these songs, this CD is a must…and I can’t wait to hear the others as soon as they come out!

Order this CD: http://www.hollywoodmusiccenter.com

Pictured: 1940's-era Tahiyya Karioka

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!

Happy Holidays to everyone, and wishing you lots of love, good fortune, health, wonderful dancing and crazy crazy adventures in the New Year....NEW DECADE!

Love,
Princess

EVERYTHING'S COMING UP ROSES: DANCING INTO THE NEW YEAR

I was singing “Auld Lang Syne” at the top of my lungs along with the car radio as I sped down the deserted, pitch-black 210 Freeway in the early morning hours, towards Pasadena.

A mere couple of hours ago, it had been New Year’s Eve 1996. I had flown in from the East Coast earlier that day, and spent the night- including the customary midnight count-down complete with a champagne toast- dancing my ass off at my regular gig, Moun Of Tunis Restaurant in Hollywood. In the couple of hours it had been 1997, I had also just completed a show at a private party, but I was excited- I was going to dance in the 108th Tournament Of Roses Parade!

My belly dance troupe, Flowers Of The Desert Arabian Dance Company, was going to be performing as part of a float whose theme was world peace, ethnic diversity and cultural unity. The float’s sponsors had envisioned kind of a rolling, flower-studded version of Disneyland’s “It’s A Small World” attraction, but instead of the puppets and dolls that many floats feature, the dancers were going to be real people.

The Rose Parade is annually seen on television by more than 32 million viewers world-wide, and though I had always enjoyed watching the parade and it’s early morning riot of colorful flowers, baton-twirlers and innovative, clever displays, I had never experienced it live- let alone been a part of it!

Every float in the parade portrays it’s own theme, and they are custom constructed weeks in advance of the event, parked in huge refrigerated warehouses while hundreds of volunteers painstakingly glue on flower petals, leaves, ferns, seeds and other natural bits of flora. Since I suffer from hay fever, I had taken the precaution of fortifying myself with Benedryl, so I wouldn’t be sneezing and wheezing my way down the long parade route.

I finally arrived in the designated area for the parade’s performers in the pitch black of the wee hours. Of course, in the pandemonium, it took me ages to find a parking space, and even longer for me to find the float I was affiliated with and the rest of my dance troupe.

It was utter chaos: in the gathering masses, I pushed past police barricades, entire families who had been camped out on the street for days to get a good viewing spot on the parade route, television cameras and news crews doing pre-parade coverage, staggering drunks, fire trucks, and tourists with huge mobile homes who had come to watch the big game, which kicked off directly following the parade.

The throngs of other parade participants probably numbered in the thousands. There were huge high school marching bands packed so closely that their tubas and trombones were clanking together; cheerleading squads from across the nation were practicing their moves next to equestrian groups with trick-riders dressed as cowboys and caballeros, and of course, The Budweiser Clydesdales, whose extensive, semi-truck-sized transportation trailers practically formed a maze.

The Clydesdales and other horses were all beautiful, and their riders looked festive, but their presence, along with the mounted police also meant that there was a ton of horse shit on the street, and so I had to pick my way very carefully in the dark to make sure I wouldn’t get any on my Hermes sandals or the hem of my voluminous skirts.

Trying to locate the other Flowers Of The Desert, I encountered acrobatic troupes, soap opera stars, vintage car clubs with members dressed as 1950’s teenagers, astronauts from Nasa, all sorts of military regiments, troupes of Ballet Folklorico dancers, Victorian Christmas carolers, and what seemed like zillions of Disney cartoon characters whose plush costumes and over-sized fake heads I used to think of as claustrophobic, but now envied cause I was so damn chilly in my own skimpy cabaret costume.

Finally, I found my girls, resplendent in a glittering array of ethnic dance costumes, from Saudi thobes to silk pantaloons and Ghawazee dresses. They were clustered in a tight circle, huddled together for warmth. It was so damp I could literally see their breath as they greeted me through chattering teeth.

There are strict rules for Rose Parade participants. One of them is that since there is nowhere to change, you must arrive in full costume. More importantly, another rule was that no performer is allowed to bring anything with them on a float: no food, water bottles, purses, or even jackets. Hence, the goose bumps on all the participants who were dressed scantily, like the poor majorettes and us belly dancers.

I had my house key and a couple of bucks concealed in the bra of my costume. But while the other Flowers were clutching their chiffon veils around them in an unsuccessful attempt to retain body heat, I’d had the foresight to wear a raggedy old hoodie sweatshirt for pre-parade protection. I figured I would ditch it at the very last moment before the parade started at 7:00am.

Unfortunately, that was still a couple of hours away. Even in my hoodie, it was freezing! Not only that, I was becoming ravenous, and sure I wouldn’t last throughout the long morning without a bite to eat.

Deciding it was time to take action, I asked a friendly- looking parade official if there was anywhere to get warm, and he directed me to a Red Cross station set up specially to serve the parade performers.

“You can’t miss it,” he said, looking me up and down and then snapping a picture of me with a disposable camera,

“It’s right around the corner, a big mobile home- you can get warm in there. They have coffee and snacks for everyone in the parade.”

I asked the other gals if they wanted to look for it, but they were concerned that we would miss our cue for the parade’s line-up if we left. For me, the bone-chilling dampness and the antihistamines I had taken, combined with my jet-lag, multiple- gig fatigue and growing was taking it’s toll, and I informed them I was going to look for snacks and coffee, and would bring some back.

Heading off in the direction the parade official pointed me in; I wandered down a residential street as dawn broke, in search of warmth, caffeine and hopefully a sandwich.

I was almost crying with relief as I spotted the large trailer, right where the guy said it would be. I trudged up the rickety, portable aluminum stairs of the mobile home, gathering up my sequined skirts so I wouldn’t trip.

As I stepped into the cozy trailer, I closed my eyes in contentment as I felt the warmth envelop me. I couldn’t believe that the place wasn’t packed full, it was so cold outside. Happily, I smelled fresh coffee.

I grabbed an apple off the counter and bit into lustily it before making my skirt-swishing way to the bathroom to check my make-up in the tiny, fluorescent-lit space. Even though it had been on all night, my lipstick was intact, and my whole face was so bright and glittery that I was satisfied everyone, even in nosebleed seats of the bleacher stands would be able to see how glamorous and exotic I was.

Someone had thoughtfully left some perfume out on the sink counter, so I helped myself to that, too, splashing it on generously. As I stepped out of the tiny powder room, holding my half-eaten apple, the door slammed, almost hitting a gentile-looking older lady in a Christmas sweater.


“Oops! I’m so sorry!” I called out as I plopped down onto a couch, making myself at home.

“ Do you guys have some coffee for me?”

My request was greeted with silence, but I didn’t care since it was so warm in there and I was busy finishing up my apple.

“May I have some coffee, please?” I repeated.

After a long pause, a man’s voice asked solicitously,

“Sure, how do you take it?”

As I looked up to answer him, suddenly things came into focus. Neither the man or the woman in the Christmas sweater were wearing any sort of Red Cross name tag or identification… in fact, there was nothing in there at all even remotely connected to The American Red Cross, no posters, no literature, no visible signage.

There was a tiny, staticy portable TV showing pre-parade coverage, framed family photos on the walls, and some pillows and an afghan covering another couch suggesting it had been very recently used as a bed.


A large Golden Retriever with a holiday-themed bandanna around it’s neck was snoozing on the couch near where I had sat down, and some copies of Reader’s Digest and a half-completed knitting project lay on the table.
The man was elderly and kindly looking, wearing a football jersey and he had his arm around the lady in the Christmas sweater.

I gulped, realizing that I had stepped into a private motor home!


And then it came to me what I must have looked like: an escapee from a mental hospital. I was a blatant, un-abashed trespasser with a sense of grandiose entitlement, and bleary in my Benedryl haze, my face caked with over-the-top, garish make-up, I was a lunatic clad in a revealing belly dance costume topped by the kind of a dirty, ripped-up, gray sweatshirt that would be featured in Bag Lady Vogue if such a publication existed. Not only that, I was holding the core of the recently devoured stolen apple in my hand and I reeked of the lady’s perfume.

“Oh my God, I’M SO SORRY!” I spluttered, my face turning crimson in embarrassment.

The couple tried to keep straight faces- apparently, they had understood exactly what was going on the moment I crashed into their trailer, and were waiting to see how long it would take me to catch on.


“The Red Cross trailer is next door,” the man said, deadpan,

“But you can still have some coffee…and we promise not to tell anyone what you did if you take a picture with us!”

At that, we all burst into laughter, even though mine was pretty sheepish. Turned out they were formerly from Pasadena, but now lived in Idaho, and in town for a few days to visit friends, see the game and watch the parade. They said that they had made the pilgrimage to Pasadena every year for the past decade. Luckily, they were thrilled to see a glamorous- though very disoriented and sleep-deprived parade performer- come crashing into their world. We posed for a few photos, and then amidst more laughter, I left to find my sister dancers, who wondered aloud where I’d been for so long.

“Why didn’t you come to the Red Cross trailer?” they squealed. “It was awesome, everyone was so nice!”

I started to tell them, but then we got rounded up in the appearance order for the floats along with all the other performers, because the parade was about to begin.

At 7:00am, The Stealth Bomber flew over downtown Pasadena, creating an earth-shaking sonic boom, which kicked off the festivities that year. As the floats revved their motors and the procession started, we rounded the first bend on the route, and there was literally a wall of television cameras.

The sound of the crowds in the stands and on the streets was beyond deafening. The bands were all playing different songs at the same time; spectators were screaming and yelling and there was incessant bleating from those plastic souvenir parade horns that vendors sell to kids on the streets during events such as this.

After about forty minutes, my hip sockets felt like they were ground to dust and my feet began throbbing from the constant dancing. My face hurt from non-stop smiling and both my arms were sore from waving.

People cut out of the crowds, zipping from the sidewalk to the floats running up and offering Dixie cups full of water for the all the performers. About halfway through, parade spectators who were obviously locals were holding up large, hand-lettered signs that read slogans like

“ONLY 1.5 MILES TO GO!” “THE END IS NEAR!” and “HANG IN THERE!”

By the end of the parade route, I was completely exhausted, spent, utterly finished. I was so tired I didn’t even want to get a VIP close-up look at any of the other floats; I just wanted to get home and go to sleep.

But in spite of my sore cheeks, I was still grinning ear-to-ear and laughing to myself, because I couldn’t think of a better way EVER to start the New Year!

HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM BEYOND

The Holiday Season itself is always a bustling blur of parties, family get togethers, gift-shopping, decorating and celebrating...and this season is no different. But there is also always an under-current of craziness, too. This may involve family dysfunction, anxiety and seasonal depression, or monumental events... and not always the good kind.

This year has been stressful for many, due to the economy. Personally, though I have been well, a lot of weird things have happened around me. A close friend fell off her roof the day after Thanksgiving. Thankfully, she will be OK, but she has a long road of recovery ahead of her. My neighbor's dog was hit by a car yesterday. She too will be ok. There has also been a lot of death around to me this year...but it seems that many deaths of those close to me have always been a constant in my life.

To me, The Holidays have always been a time to remember people I have loved who have passed away... and this year in particular, as a new decade is about to start, I am reminded of a heartwarming but completely unexplainable and yes, paranormal incident that occured just when the new century was dawning.

In 1999, during the days leading up to the Millennium, like many people, I began reflecting on life: historical events I had witnessed, personal goals that I had achieved and the things I had accomplished. But what seemed to really dominate my thoughts were the many significant relationships I had with family and friends. I was blessed with so much love, nurture and support. I thought of the many special people who were there for me not matter what… who shared their lives with me, gave me affection and influenced my creative and artistic endeavors.

One of these special individuals was my friend and mentor, the late Zein Abdul Al Malik.

Zein was a male belly dancer of prodigious talent. Well over six feet tall and lanky, he had piercing green eyes and performed draped in luxurious folkloric garb, and wrapped in antique Assuit, balancing a huge brass tray with a full tea set and candles upon his regal head.

Zein began his career in the San Francisco Bay Area in the mid Seventies, dancing with Jamilla Salimpour, and went on to live in Morocco and Saudi Arabia, where he resided in one of the Royal palaces. He lived and breathed Oriental Dance, performing and teaching and doing research.

After we met in 1990, he took me under his wing- me, a beginning baby belly dancer with barely any skills- but somehow he saw my potential and nurtured me. Zein would have me over to his apartment- a wonderful, mysterious enclave of inlaid North African furniture, luxurious plants and relics from the Middle East. He’d make me mint tea in a silver Moroccan teapot and we’d spend hours together while he showed me steps and technique, discussed belly dance traditions, and watched vintage clips that he’d taped from the television in Saudi Arabia, featuring Golden Age Egyptian movies which starred famous Oriental Dancers like Naima Akef, Samia Gamal, and Tahiya Carioca. Zein also helped me select costumes, heartily encouraged my dancing, and got me my very first dance job (at Hollywood’s Moun Of Tunis Restaurant, where he worked) where, when I am actually in Los Angeles, I still work today.

Appropriate music for Middle Eastern dance was hard to find back in those days, and Zein made me copious amounts of Arabic mix tapes- remember, there were no CD’s back then- with the cassettes featuring everything from classic live Om Kalthoum performances to the latest in Egyptian pop and Algerian Rai music. Every cassette he made me had a special cover that he thoughtfully put together by hand, too- featuring Middle Eastern clip art, photocopies of vintage Turkish cigarette boxes and pictures of famous belly dancers like Nagwa Fouad and Soheir Zaki.

Tragically, Zein died about five years after I met him. By that time, we were close friends and because of his encouragement, we were also gigging together regularly. I was absolutely devastated. I remember speaking-or rather blubbering through a speech- at his memorial, my face wet with flowing tears, but I don’t remember a thing I said. I thought of him often, so many things reminded me of him. At gigs when I felt pre-show jitters, I would think of the way he used to calm my nerves through humor right before a show. Wrapped in a turban and wearing a brocade galibiya, shimmying to warm up, with his ever-present Marlboro in his mouth, Zein would sense my anxiety, catch my eye, make an exaggerated coquettish gesture then and whisper in a feminine falsetto,

“How’s my hair?”

Somehow, our private joke never got old, and always made me laugh. Whenever he did that, I had a great show, entering the stage with a huge grin on my face. Even though Zein has been departed for years, I always think of him just before I go on.

So…fast forward to New Year’s Eve 1999, at five minutes of midnight. Of course I was at a belly dance gig, in a dressing room, wearing a brand new costume- my first costume for the New Millennium.

The dancer I was working with that evening asked what music I was going to dance to for my first dance set of the century.

“I don’t know, “ I said, pawing through my CD binder, “I’m so sick of all my music!”

My gig bag was full of the usual belly dance accoutrements: stray finger cymbals, perfume, hair accessories, mis-matched sequin armbands, loose aspirin tablets, safety pins. Suddenly, something fell into my hands, a small plastic case. Though my suitcase was always chaotic, there was a method to my madness, and it was always re-packed before every show. The little plastic box was definately an unfamiliar object that I didn’t remember packing. Recognizing what it was in the dim dressing room lighting by the feel of it alone, I wondered how it got there.

“Hey, no way, there’s a cassette in my dance bag!” I cried, kind of amazed.

“You still use cassettes?” the other dancer asked incredulously.

“Well, no, not for years”, I answered, dumbfounded, “I have no idea what it’s doing in here!”

“Well, maybe we can dance to it,” she said, “What is it?”

I glanced at the clock- it was now one minute before midnight. Thinking we’d better figure our music out, I turned the mystery cassette case over in my hands. The cover featured a black and white drawing of a 1920’s flapper lounging in a champagne glass.

In hand-lettered Art Deco font, it read:

“HAPPY NEW YEAR! LOVE, ZEIN”.

As the clock struck midnight and the new century began, I got chills.


***

Photo Of Zein Abdul Al Malik from the cover of Arabesque Magazine, January/February issue 1994

AN EXCERCISE IN SURREALISM PART TWO: MORE FUN WITH KEYWORDS!

Happy Holidays!
We all need a breather during this hectic season, and we all could use a laugh or two! On November 8, 2009 I posted an article on some of the insane “Recent Keyword Activity” that was leading ‘net surfers to my blog. “Keywords” are the phrases people type when searching for information on the Internet.

As I noted before, the bad spelling and broken English in the Recent Key Word Activity wasn’t even the best part- it was the pure, unadulterated psychosis of the phrases... not to mention the fact that people are actually spending their time searching for this obviously extremely important information!

So, as a follow-up to the first post, I’m sharing ten more of the decidedly kooky Keywords!

The new Top Ten phrases are here… saving the best for last. single Every single phrase is copied exactly as it appeared on my Web Stats.


#10. ORIENTAL MUSIC FANTASTICA JUST TO BELL (Lebanon)

#9. DO EGYPTIAN DANCER NOSE PIERCENING (USA)

#8. TIRBAL MAKE UP AND DOTS FACE (Italy)

#7. DRESSING ROOM OF VEGAS SHOWGIRL PANTYHOSE (Poland)

#6. GRANDMA PRINCESS OPTICAL ILLUSION (USA)

#5. WOMAN WOMAN FAKKING (Yemen)

#4. GLAMOUR BAG THE STATUS BELLY (Korea)

#3. CRAZY TEACHERS MINE SKIERT (Austria)

#2. LADY ANSWERING CELL PHONE IN MENS TOILET (New Zealand)

#1. NUDE LADY WITH LONG PANIS (India)