I have my spot on 33rd.  the big median strip where i hoop every saturday morning has three brick pillars about 5 feet high at the intersection where Barclay and University and that other tiny street where the 7 - 11 is all meet.  i have been going there weekly, except for weeks when i have a debate tournament, since i coach debate at connexions high school in west baltimore.

yesterday the wind was whipping and it was january 2nd and my new year’s day had been pretty horrible and the temperature was in the 20’s.  hula hooping is a purge of evil for me, i thought, and i layered up and went out to market.

its always a bit strange to do what i do.  i am like installation art carnival hawk style, hey watch me, i am up on a post doing 30 seconds of tricks with a giant heavy hoop up on a pedistal for the passing MTA bus.

i flirt with women who roll down their window and say, “go ahead now,” or “you sell them?.”  i flirt with men in a deeper tone or often i just exchange hard smiles with people of all sexes colors sizes and car type.  walkers too, pass through in a regular slow trickle.  and in a little ebb and flow, people join me to try out hoops, find the one that is best for them, try out the outrageous huge hoop.  these saturdays are unpredictable even as they have their regular rhythms.

when i got up on the post yesterday, though, i felt drunk and out of synch with the hoop and the post, i felt a sick sensation like i was going to finally take a fatal saturday hoop spill onto the frozen ground below, crack my head open.  i had not had a drink since a touch of bailey’s on new years eve, so it was not actual drunkenness.  i thought at first a few days off from hooping and look what the fuck happens.  it took me a minute to realize that it was an exceptionally steady, cold-slow wind that was doing it.  it was like there was some sort of ice draft coming from a giant fan at the end of 33rd.  it was like hooping in gravy.  every now and then the steady wind would gather into a gust and i almost lifted off the post trying to stay steady.  i started doing tricks anyway.  the trash trucks pass on saturday morning and the drivers and crews of these regular trucks are big fans of me, as i am of them, and so i had to give them some of my newest shoulder rolls and above the head standards.  the old man with the cigar, from his regular post outside the 7-11, held up his smoke in toast when we caught eyes from way across the street.  i threw up my peace sign, we have become good friends, not even knowing each other’s names.  

the wind eventually died down, crept back up, continued to make the morning unpredictable and dangerous.  four hours i lasted, cold as could be, purging that evil.  

at the end of the day the smiles made it all worth it.  i get a lot of support from people in my city who see me do this nutty saturday thing.  they let me know in all kinds of ways that this city needs a hoop revolution and that small packages of joy can be found if we make them.