On Parade, Candidates Get Exposure and Advice "We're seating you near the fish tank," a Jewish leader warned William C. Thompson Jr., "but that doesn't mean you're sleeping with the fishes." A few hours before he was to march in the West Indian American Day Parade on Monday, Mr. Thompson, a former New York City comptroller, was mingling with Hasidic leaders at a bakery in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, hoping to scrounge up a few votes before the mayoral primary next Tuesday. Mr. Thompson was among friends - he enjoys considerable support among Jewish voters - but he could not escape jokes about his standing in the polls. While Mr. Thompson, the Democratic nominee for mayor four years ago, consistently places near the top of a crowded field of contenders, he has struggled to become the front-runner, even with the support of powerful politicians and labor groups. "I like it when he's a little down," said Chanina Sperlin, a leader of the local Jewish Community Council, "because then he'll go way up." After a few bites of honey cake and a cup of coffee (black, no sugar), Mr. Thompson hit the streets. "Let's do this," he said. One of his first conversations was with Eli Rosen, a doctor, who chided Mr. Thompson for looking at the ground as he walked. "A mayoral candidate needs a little energy," he said. Joseph Mochkin, a real estate developer, reminded Mr. Thompson that the word "mayor" sounded in Hebrew like the word for "one who illuminates." "If you want to be mayor," he said, "you've got to shine like a light." At one point, Mr. Thompson's admirers posed a question. Was the honey cake better in Borough Park, they asked, or Crown Heights? Mr. Thompson, practiced in pleasing crowds, paused for a moment. "Yes," he said. No, Christine C. Quinn did not steal the new white blazer she was wearing, even though the department store security tag was still attached. "I have a receipt!" she said, laughing. And no, she was not discouraged by recent polls suggesting that she had ceded her status as front-runner in the Democratic mayoral primary. "The mood hasn't changed at all," she told reporters. I'm going to fight over the next eight days, and I'm going to get into the runoff, and I'm going to win. No doubt about it: Ms. Quinn, the City Council speaker, was feeling resolutely chipper on Monday. With the exception of a few hecklers, most people along the West Indian American Day Parade route gave Ms. Quinn a warm reception. There were plenty of people who called out "Christine!" and wanted to pose for photos, or exchange kisses and hugs. One supporter even hunched, acting like a makeshift table, so she could sign an autograph on a piece of paper on his back. She also had the honor of riding in the float headlined by the loquacious Marty Markowitz, the Brooklyn borough president, who could not stop gushing about her throughout the two-mile, two-and-a-half-hour journey up Eastern Parkway. "Christine Quinn is out there to say hello to everyone," Mr. Markowitz said repeatedly through a bullhorn. Time for a woman - c'mon! Christine Quinn - mayor! At times, Mr. Markowitz, who is leaving his position at the end of the year and not running for any office, sounded downright nostalgic. "I'll miss you more than you'll miss me," he told the crowd. Forget Miley Cyrus. The de Blasio campaign has its own signature dance move: the smackdown. Here's how it's done: Put your right hand in front of your face, palm facing you. Circle your hand around your head, as though you were pretending to smooth your hair. Lick your fingers, slap the ground, and then jump back, shouting, "Smackdown!" while thinking happily about your commanding lead in the Democratic mayoral primary polls. Bill de Blasio and his family - his wife, Chirlane McCray; son, Dante; and daughter, Chiara - performed the dance over and over at the West Indian American Day Parade. Mr. de Blasio credited the choreography to his cousin, Vinnie Wilhelm, who also served as dance coach. Along the parade route, women hugged Mr. de Blasio and asked to take pictures with him, but often they then looked over his shoulder and asked eagerly, "Where's Dante?" The 15-year-old, with his distinctive Afro, has become a bit of a campaign sensation since being featured in his father's first campaign commercial. "Get that boy over here!" one woman cried, before taking Dante's hand and saying, "Good for you. You made me vote for him. Volunteers on megaphones tried to rev up the crowd. As the group neared the end of the route at Grand Army Plaza, one shouted, "Bill de Blasio, the Robin Hood of New York City - taking from the rich and giving to the poor!" Joseph J. Lhota insisted he was not lonely. Granted, he was the only Republican mayoral candidate at the West Indian American Day Parade on Monday. For a time at a breakfast before the parade, he sat by himself.