Tag Archives: the voice

When is Procrastinating a Good Thing?

When procrastination is a good thing


When is procrastinating a good thing? I’ll tell you when procrastinating is a good thing. When his name is Mr. Mikhail Baryshnikov.

Procrastinating happens. It happens but it never feels good and it never gets any easier.

I was in motion;  working, biking, conversing, but what I had to get done, truly done, was not getting done.

I had sent files to an embroidery and printing store Tuesday morning, only to be told that they weren’t the correct resolution. I spent the next three days, talking to friends, emailing Photoshop, and watching CNN, but nothing transferred those files to a higher resolution.

The printer was only ten blocks from my apartment. It would’ve made sense to walk over on Wednesday, and deal with it in person. In all fairness, though, six of those blocks were of the long variety, and super ass annoying. Can blocks be annoying?

The timing never seemed right; I was either teaching, or Pole-ing. I had lunch dates, dinner dates, and The Voice. Or just maybe I was making excuses, or er, procrastinating. By Friday, I was beyond fed up with myself and CNN, so I took the walk.

I had been in the store not three minutes, when he walked in; wearing a long black distressed leather coat, a black Fedora, and that infamous boyish grin. Mr. ‘White Nights’ himself, Mikhail Baryshnikov.

There are celebrities and then there are, well, others. These others have impacted our lives in ways that is almost indescribable. Indelible. Misha is one of those others.

Watching Baryshnikov on stage, (Baryshnikov on Broadway thank you) equally at ease pirouetting, step ball changing or pop and locking, made me want to dance. His strength, grace, and sheer powerful was a sight to behold.

I saw him dance in a stage production while no longer in his prime, and he still took my breath away.

I was interning at Columbia Pictures when the movie, White Nights came out, and I remember going back to my dorm room with several posters in hand, ready to wallpaper my room with them.

Around this time, my father was dabbling in the restaurant business and was a partner in a place called, Columbus. It was an immediate hit and a popular celeb hangout. It didn’t hurt that De Niro and Baryshnikov were also partners. Oh, sorry, let me pick up those names that I inadvertently dropped.

Mr. Baryshnikov, now 66, walked in, all 5’6 (more like 5’4 now) of him and I became a giddy school girl. I looked down to see if he was wearing his leg warmers. He wasn’t. I held my breath, hoping that he would ask the salesperson a question, so I could hear his sexy Russian voice.

Misha knew exactly what he needed and made a beeline for the boxes of buttons, stacked on shelves against a wall. This shelf happened to be directly behind where I was standing. I am not exaggerating when I say that our tight Pilates (I’m guessing that he practices Pilates) asses were practically touching.

I remained calm, and went about my business, but I did not lose sight of Misha and his frantic search for a button. Was it for a costume for a new show perhaps? Had he found the meditative benefits of arts and crafts?

I finished my business, which took all of five minutes. For a moment, I chastised myself for wasting three days and not coming to the store sooner, but then I looked at Misha and knew that if I hadn’t procrastinated, then we wouldn’t be sharing this moment.

Of course I lingered, I’m a warm blooded woman.

I texted the Girlfriend Mom daughter (because I’m a giddy schoolgirl) to tell her whose ass was next to mine because she and I were recently talking about Misha’s guest starring role as Aleksandr Petrovsky, on Sex And The City. I did have to school her when she innocently admitted that she didn’t know who Baryshnikov was.

She immediately texted back that I should say, “Hi Aleksandr.” I declined. I told her that I wished that he’d mistake me for SJP. It sometimes happens and my hair was looking especially curly with very low frizz. She fired back, “Oh, now you’re going to play the SJP card?!” She was right but it was Misha for crying out loud.

Lingering turned into loitering. I was pretending to sift through a bin of random patches. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Baryshnikov take off his Soviet spy leather coat, and say something to a seamstress (lucky bitch), at the back of the store. I was out of earshot.

He handed her his KGB overcoat and one lonely button. Baryshnikov had lost a button. Mystery solved. I screamed from the front of the store, “No! I know how to sew! I know how to sew! I took sewing in 8th grade in Bell School. Let me sew it for you. Please. It’s no trouble.”

I walked back to where he and that bitch were standing, grabbed his USSR coat, the single button and smiled. “Hey, how about those burgers at Columbus? Weren’t they juicy?”





The Voice Brought Us Closer Together

Voice-shirtsMy boyfriend and I watch The Voice together every Monday night. And Tuesday nights. And Wednesday nights if it’s one of their extra special shows.

He’s become quite the music aficionado. This is coming from the man who didn’t know who Joni Mitchell was when we were first dating. Yes, I judged. And yes, my boyfriend corrected me, when I thought that Joe Scarborough was the NBC newscaster. He’s not, that’s Chuck Scarborough. My point is, we are learning from one another and that’s a beautiful thing.

When we’re watching the singers, he talks about their pitch, melodies and which one of the performers has the most commanding stage presence. I do believe that he’s even uttered the word “Diva” once or twice. My being a musical theater and anything singing and dancing, FAME inspired, dork (and sometime singer myself), it turns me on.

All of this is to say that music is a universal language. How interesting it is when two people come together, bringing with them two entirely different skill sets, tool boxes and cultural references.

In the past, it has sometimes shocked me all of the crap that my boyfriend doesn’t know. And in return, I sling my crap at him, which often leaves me scratching my head and wishing that I paid more attention in school, instead of practicing my autograph on the cover of my social studies book. (Cover courtesy of my mother and her adeptness with a brown paper bag)

Naively perhaps, I thought that everyone knew who Joni Mitchell was. Sorry, last time I’ll bring that up I promise. I am sure, although I’d have to ask him, which I’m not about to do because I’m too lazy, that he would’ve assumed that I knew what a “put” option was, as well as how hedge funds work. But alas, he would’ve made an ass out of the both of us.

I spent my entire life living with, and surrounded by, people that were in the creative arts; writers, actors, musicians, dancers, performers, onstage, offstage, on camera or behind the camera. Living in Los Angeles for as long as I did, cut me off from the outside world. It is not only possible, but it is almost a foregone conclusion that living in the city of angels stunts one’s growth and limits one’s peripheral view. It did with me.

It was all that I knew. As short sighted as it may have been, I had no reason to look outside the compound. When I met my boyfriend and his kids, I thought, “What the hell is this? Don’t you guys have headshots? A resume? Who’s your agent?”

It has taken me a long time to adjust, transition, and accept the fact that not everyone is in the entertainment business and that everyone does not know what I know. When I moved back to New York, it all hit me square in the face.

At times, it takes a lot of restriction on my part not to yell at boyfriend, “How can you not know that Streisand dated Don Johnson and that they made a record together?” (enjoy)  Sometimes it’s as if we speak two entirely different languages. I’ll say, “It’s a writing gig. (beat) No, I’m not getting paid but it’s great exposure.” My boyfriend will cock his head. “I don’t understand. Why would you do anything for free?” Other times, he’ll explain that  he has to, “Do the due diligence first, and see what my return will be on the 1039. It’s in the pro-forma.” My eyes will roll back into my head.

It’s about patience, tolerance and non-judgement, which no human being is an expert at. I’m not always on my best Kabbalah behavior, so when my boyfriend doesn’t know what a Movie of the Week is, I want to open a can of, “what rock have you been living under” on his tight Portuguese ass.

This is what I’ve learned. We do not know the same shit and it is a blessing. I keep my mind and heart wide open, and I learn. And just because my boyfriend doesn’t know how debilitating it can be when your muse doesn’t show up for her appointment when you’re trying to write, it does not make him any less of a person.

I’m choosing to focus on what we do have in common. The Voice. There’s also sex. We have that in common as well, which is also a universal language, but that’s another post for another time.




I was lounging on my couch the other night, alone. I can’t remember where my boyfriend was and I decided that now would be a good time to clip my nails. I didn’t have time to get a manicure and they were annoying me something fierce.

As I watched List It Or Love It, or some such nonsense, I clipped my nails, making sure that the pieces didn’t fly around the room, ending up on the coffee table. And then it hit me, this was exactly the kind of thing that annoys me when my boyfriend does it. He’ll clip while watching mindless television, like MSNBC or Wipeout and then I’ll find a clipping or two on the floor the following morning.

However, because no one was around to be grossed out by my clipping, I believed it to be perfectly acceptable. Some activities are meant to be performed when alone. I wrote more extensively on the subject here

And while we’re on the subject of mindless television, I will admit that I’ve done my share of judging. Back in the day, I wouldn’t be caught dead watching mind-numbing dreck like The Bachelor, but that has all changed. Before I knew it, both my boyfriend (you heard me) and I were watching it. I know all about the guilty pleasure excuse but it did simultaneously make us feel both dirty and giddy.

In a way, I admire my boyfriend for owning this, ‘guilty pleasure’. We were both in awe of how Sean could kiss a gaggle of women, telling each of them that they’re awesome, and that he had feelings for ALL of them. Is it us, or is that just whack?!



While I’m coming clean, we’re really excited for the premier of The Voice, which airs tonight! Now this is a show. Talent, humor, and straightforward entertainment. Of course I’ll miss Cee lo with his short-ass arms, and seeing Christina shove her boobs into sausage casings-like outfits.

I’m betting that the integrity of the show will remain in tact. Did I use the word ‘integrity’ referring to a reality/contest show? I believe I did.

This brings me to my last confession, American Idol. I’ve only been watching it because The Voice wasn’t on. I am not a hater. As a matter of fact, I hate hate, but I’m about to get all up in that Nicki Minaj’s grill.

She’s 30-years old, and has been on the scene since 2010, with the release of her first studio album. And yet, she loves talking trash. She sounds idiotic, especially sitting next to industry vets like Keith, Randy and the butterfly herself, Mariah.

A side note that might be cogent. I learned how to play the guitar several years ago, so that I could sing and play one song, that I wrote, for my solo show. After that brief moment in time, I fancied myself a guitarist. “No, Dani,” someone should have said to me, “You are not a guitarist. You learned four chords and know one song. This does not a guitarist make.”

Nicki is disrespectful when she critiques the contestants. I believe that it’s for shock value more than anything else. She’s not always constructive in her criticisms, and the contestants are the ones who suffer.

What I get all jazz hands about are the cutaways to Mariah’s reactions to Minaj’s conceit and drivel. Mariah’s perfect Pilates posture and her subtle eye rolling make me smile. This butterfly has been there, done that. From a young mixed-race girl who sings in Glitter, to a no make-up Mariah in Precious. NM could learn a thing or three, if she would shut her pie hole and think before she speaks.