tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28128131223436629482024-02-06T19:16:52.620-08:00Yoga Half-NelsonFrom somewhere halfway in between.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-70278111757762109692009-02-10T20:11:00.000-08:002009-02-10T20:15:18.967-08:00YMCyogA<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0C0E29pnNkgGD4anWdJ803ja-pVq7YiNMAGHDUEF-mwirfe80Hf8GAhAXLJUz_J7eQUagzxTvXiMbMYNRY6ZYgu6epiUZ4GoRQTxcQsXUheUdw4lbBQo5vkT-EMBCKaEouqkOGFOfdQqI/s1600-h/yoga-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0C0E29pnNkgGD4anWdJ803ja-pVq7YiNMAGHDUEF-mwirfe80Hf8GAhAXLJUz_J7eQUagzxTvXiMbMYNRY6ZYgu6epiUZ4GoRQTxcQsXUheUdw4lbBQo5vkT-EMBCKaEouqkOGFOfdQqI/s320/yoga-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301388268804802594" border="0" /></a><br />Restorative yoga #1 and #2<br /><br />I have this problem. It’s the “think before you speak” problem.<br /><br />I have this other problem. It’s the “ Don’t think of pink elephants” problem.<br /><br />Sometimes your problems can line up is such a way that they compound each other, and ruin a perfectly serviceable moment in your day. Your restorative yoga class, in fact. Of course, sometimes destroying something is the precursor to creating from the rubble. And that moment in between? That is presence. Of course, true to form, I didn’t get that right away. As per my wont, let me walk you through the narrative, and note how the perspective changes as we go along.<br /><br />Restorative yoga is stretching and relaxing. OK, it’s more than that, or so I’m told. Ostensibly, it is also a deep, beautiful, spiritually enriching experience wherein you reflect, draw perfect attention to your body and your breath, and exercise the types of techniques that lead to perfect, beautiful awareness and a blissful engagement with the moment.<br /><br />I can’t seem to get the hang of it, but the stretching is nice, I suppose.<br /><br />My problems manifested pretty immediately. I’m just getting back on the yoga horse after a return from the Mitten, a brief illness, and various other obligations. The first restorative yoga class was just that- it got me back into a practice. Still, it was pretty gentle as a practice goes, which is a nice way of saying ‘boring.’ I was OK with it, but when I showed up for the second class, I was expecting a normal class. Some poses and shit.<br /><br />Here we get into the first Yoga Platitude, a phrase I capitalize because I think it would do well to document them, and so I intend to. I’ll explain the theory later, but suffice to say, I’m noticing that there are a limited set of yoga standards that all teachers seem to adhere to, be them verbal sound bites repeated in class, or even just habitual practices that seem to permeate every studio.<br /><br />Here, it was the “End of the Month Restorative Yoga Class.” EVERY studio does this. The last class of the month is always ‘restorative’, and it’s more or less a rule across the board, at least as American yoga goes. I wasn’t expecting it here, though- the YMCA calendar clearly stated a Yoga I class, and I was looking forward to a bit of a workout. It seems as if I have been converted to the American ethic of “yoga as weight loss”, but that seems to be it’s strength, and I’m as malleable as any other consumer. I wanted some exercise.<br /><br />It also doesn’t help that I’m suspicious. The ‘End of the month restorative yoga class’ feels a hell of a lot like ‘movie day’ in a public school classroom. My first year teaching, I swore I’d never be one of ‘those’ teachers, the ones who fired up the VCR, tweaked the shades, sat at the back of the classroom making sure nobody set fire to anything while I graded papers. I would have exiting and engaging lesson plans each and every day, a model educator.<br /><br />10 years later, my movie collection is well into double digits, threatening to cross the hundred mark. And you know what? It’s OK. Sometimes the kids need a break as much as you do, and a good ole’ fashioned nature documentary with excellent footage of death and sex on the African Savanna is just the thing on a Friday. Still, call it what it is. Restorative? Yes. A content-heavy problem-solving inquiry workshop, geared toward active student engagement? Not so much.<br /><br />Restorative Yoga on it’s own feels like a release, a nod to the fact that we all need a day off. Restorative Yoga paired with instructions to be mindful of the ‘most difficult of yoga techniques, the calming of the mind’ feels like you just got a handout of busy work questions to go along with the movie.<br /><br /><br />When the teacher, as we all filed in and began setting up our various little stations, mentioned that it was almost February and that we would have a gentle practice today, I responded in the true colors of problem #1 (think before you speak). I’m sure I rolled my eyes as I said, too loudly<br /><br />“Fuuuuuuck.”<br /><br />I didn’t intend for anyone to hear it. I wasn’t thinking. It was an internal response, made public before I could even consider the repercussions. Unfortunately, she heard. I knew it when she made her announcement.<br /><br />“ So this will be a restorative yoga class. For those of you who wanted a great workout today, well, you’re not going to get it.”<br /><br />I have to, despite my initial flinching, commiserate with her. When a kid complains loudly about what we’re doing in class today, I don’t have the option of saying, directly<br /><br />“Don’t be such a turd.”<br /><br />It would be confrontational. I might be right, but it would single the kid out in front of his peers, and he would take it as a slight, so I’m forced to say, to the entire class<br /><br />“Even if you don’t like touching snails- and that might be many of you- I would ask that you don’t refer to them as ‘fetid slices of extra-terrestrial labias encased in their own crunchy packaging.’ Please. Humor me.”<br /><br />So here I was, feeling funny for being abstractly singled out. I had injected a note of negative energy in a discipline where positivity IS THE LAW.<br /><br />It is something I can’t get over, now living on the west coast. We all know the views are breathtaking, the weather is (mostly) ideal, the food is local and organic, and life is sweet. Still, having grown up in the Midwest, there is a measure of guilt I feel planting carrots in January. It seems an unearned bonus.<br /><br />Coming so recently from Michigan, talking to my mother who is faced with two months of chemotherapy and sub-zero temperatures- not that she’ll be getting out much- I feel guilty without winter- it sucks, but one feels a certain karmic debt is being paid to the planet. It gave us an excuse to bitch, get grumpy, practice being stoic, and generally be real with each other. Nothing brings out interpersonal issues more than being stuck indoors for 5 months at a time.<br /><br />Without it- and living in an earthquake prone area- I do feel a Pompeian uneasiness, as if it is an act of hubris to live in such a gorgeous climate on such unstable land. I would feel better if I were older- if I had already had children that could fend for themselves in a disaster, run for the nearest doorway instinctively, know not to light cigarettes around ruptured gas lines. I could believe that I had passed the buck, selflessly contributed to the profligation of the hairless monkey species we so affectionately refer to as ‘people’, ‘God’s chosen ones’ and ‘stewards of the planet’, actual evidence of our success notwithstanding. We’re the only species to have caused a mass extinction through our own greed, an event that has only happened 4 times in 4.5 billion years, and also the only one that was foretold and ignored. Are we so sure that we should trust ourselves?<br /><br />This tangent- and I do realize that I just went on a long, serious tangent- Is typical of me, and actually relevant to this small Yoga class and my own problems. Should I even trust myself? Should I listen to my own internal soapbox monologues? I digress, sure, but for a reason. Let’s go ahead and bring it back.<br /><br />So. Class. Begins.<br /><br />We have been issued 3 yoga blocks 3 blankets, and 3 of those couch-cushion things that have some sort of official sounding name, stabilizers or something. They are shaped like the armrests on a piece of furniture that would most likely be referred to as a davenport. I cannot at all fathom why we will need all this stuff.<br /><br />She reiterates the fact that class will be more meditative, mostly for my benefit. I’m trying not to look at her, but I distinctly feel her direct gaze.<br /><br />“You know”, she begins, “Indians consider these meditative mudras the most difficult for Americans to do.”<br /><br />Immediately problem number #2 surfaces. The Pink Elephant is a dark suspicion that she read this somewhere, and has not, in fact, been to India. It’s cynical. I do not know this woman. I have no reason to believe that she hasn’t been to India. She’s a teacher, and must have some knowledge of whatever yoga teachers are supposed to know, right? I’m pretty sure yoga teachers must really like their discipline, and so must have some knowledge of the philosophical precepts behind it, because without them, it would only be so much repetitive posing. But I can’t help it. I have a third problem, and that is to be contrary just for the sake of being contrary, and a large part of this is to immediately disbelieve everything that shakes my eardrums.<br /><br />“Let’s concentrate today on quieting our minds, removing all the chatter that goes on in our heads. “<br /><br />I don’t like the idea. I feel we are getting served a work sheet. Why not think of stuff? I feel as if I am being deliberately placated, that the positivity laws are, if not being enforced, than relying on our collective goodwill to not be critical of the teaching method.<br /><br />And this goes on. And on. Sometimes I feel like blogging about yoga is proscribing what I’m supposed to get out of it. I often find myself taking mental notes during class, and without out a notebook, I just have to repeat all my thoughts to myself to make sure they stick, and that I’ll remember them when I get home. And by doing this, I am somewhere else entirely- my body might be going through the motions, but my mind is occupying a future cyber-sphere. I am not at all present, I’m just thinking and thinking and talking to myself in my head, responding in kind, turning my cynicism on myself and I realize I CAN’T SHUT UP.<br /><br />As this all goes through my mind, we are building blanket forts. Well, not really, but it feels like it. The teacher is instructing us to place our blankets and cushions and blocks (oh my!) in a very specific formation. Some cushions are propped on blocks to make a gentle incline, which we will lay our backs on. Blankets serve to pad the floor beneath our legs and booties, other davenport stabilizers serve as ….armrests. Further yoga blocks are positioned to support our heads and necks, and upon completion of this temporary edifice, I realize we just built floor-level La-Z-Boy recliners. We are instructed to relax.<br /><br />It doesn’t help that I am not the only one smirking at this point. Other yoginis are glancing around the room with that particular Spock-cocked eyebrow, non-verbally sending a social cue around the room that says “ Does anyone else think this is a bit ham-fisted?” It fuels my cynicism, and starts a brand new thread of masturbatory dialogue between me and my inner imaginary me-friend.<br /><br /><br />The mental chatter is unrelenting- every time I try and empty my mind, attempt to stop the chatter, I open a new discussion thread about whether or not I SHOULD be chattering to myself, if it’s in fact ok. It’s with no small measure of embarrassment that I realize this woman is absolutely right- quieting the mind IS a fucking hard thing to do. WHY CAN’T I SHUT UP? Wait, you just yelled at yourself. Can’t you please shut up? But shouldn’t I be thinking? Isn’t thinking about what’s going on a measure of awareness? I am here, now, thinking about it. And talking to myself about it. Isn’t that a measure of how “Now” I am? Wait, I thought that thought a few seconds ago, and I’m still thinking about it. That’s not ‘Now’ that ‘s elsewhere. I need to have a discussion with myself about that. Wait, I’m NOT SUPPOSED TO BE TALKING to myself. Wait, if I keep saying ‘wait’ to myself, doesn’t that mean I’m waiting for something? Is that ‘Now’-ish?<br /><br />This paradox, this idea that I need to concentrate on not concentrating, is spinning me in circles.<br /><br />Still, the La-Z-Boy is soooo comfortable. I DO feel relaxed and- I’m not sure how, exactly- I just surrender to everything. I’m tired of trying to analyze each and every moment, and something just releases. I don’t have to try and shut the voice up anymore, because the voice just got fed up with trying and knocked off for a pint of bitter at the pub. I- and I no longer feel like “I’, anymore, just some physical material that moves molecules around- am…just ……..here. Breathing.<br /><br />I so forget myself that I don’t even realize that I’m completely out of the thread. Somehow, everyone else took a verbal cue to move on to shivasana, and the mass of creative atoms all lumped together and given the name Shumit has failed to register any sort of social etiquette. The mass shakes itself out of the stupor, and tries to reconnect with a name, but the process is shaky at best. After I rather sheepishly follow the other yoginis, placing my blocks and blankets and mat away in the proper receptacles, I head toward my stuff on the bench. The teacher- the one I offended- thinks I am coming over to talk to her, and her face lights up. It’s awkward- I went to get my stuff together, but in a way, I do want to apologize, and as I fumble with my belongings, I try to address this. I can’t think Shumit enough to discern what order I need to put my street wear back on (pants before shoes), and I tell her as such.<br /><br />“Ah-ha!” she says, “So you got it!!”<br /><br />Did I? I’m not sure, but I’m happy that she understands- or recognizes, really- that something happened. Did something happen? I’m not sure of that either, but I know now that it is best not to think about it.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-14920296244151029812009-02-07T09:44:00.000-08:002009-02-07T09:48:08.250-08:00Guest Blogger: The Return of Yoga Cop<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1ATTR87dgt_WKT7QyN8bpdZiX3to-vYv3gpx7bba7zdINZiRrfTTMwzy9ZptAl8N30O1jy2AnM7wVaMzQwiWBPXkCL_uvf8ydxM_VJyB_imlFQ0NQBz6Ox3FDJcIJAlZlovpQGEG40I9/s1600-h/Dolphin.med.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1ATTR87dgt_WKT7QyN8bpdZiX3to-vYv3gpx7bba7zdINZiRrfTTMwzy9ZptAl8N30O1jy2AnM7wVaMzQwiWBPXkCL_uvf8ydxM_VJyB_imlFQ0NQBz6Ox3FDJcIJAlZlovpQGEG40I9/s320/Dolphin.med.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300113626913288738" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Before we take leave of the Enchanted Mitten and head back to Cali, Let's hear from the Yoga Cop again......<br /><br /></span><div id=":nh" class="ArwC7c ckChnd"><p><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><u>FOLLOW UP REPORT...</u></span></strong></p> <p><strong>Incident Number</strong> - 08-38417</p> <p><strong>Location</strong> - 200 S. Main Street</p> <p><strong>Date & Time</strong> - 02/07/2009 1000 hours</p> <p><strong>Crime</strong> - Embarrassment of Law Enforcement Official </p> <p>Well, the holiday season was busy, and Officer Garbanzo doesn't need much in the way of excuses to be lazy and an overall slug. I made the mistake of stepping on a scale the other day though, and I need to get moving again! </p> <p>My little sister Chuckette invited me over to watch the Super Bowl with her and her family (I thought the Cards would cover. I didn't place an actual bet so of course they covered). On the way out she mentioned that she was going to Yoga class in the morning, and that the main suspect from the last incident was teaching again. She also informed me that I was a bit off on my age guess, Mimi is apparently 82. Like my ego needed that much more abuse...</p> <p>So, I bucked up and decided to go. The last time wasn't all that painful to anything other than my pride so I thought I would be safe.</p> <p>Um, yeah. Not so much.</p> <p>The class was even more soccer-mom slanted than the first time (sorry Chuckette). No other dudes there at all, not even an old one. I am guaranteed to be the red-headed step child of this class. The good thing though is that you are pretty much always supposed to have your eyes closed and concentrating on your breathing, so nobody will know, right?</p> <p>So, before we even leave our cross-legged position, Mimi has us doing kegel exercises. Dude, seriously. I just never thought I would voluntarily sit in a room full of soccer moms and do such a thing. I mean, think about it for a second. Try to visualize what the room looked like. I am mortified all over again just thinking about it. I don't know if I am progressive enough for this.</p> <p>Then Mimi went into a long discourse about our transverse abdominal muscles (or TA's as all the hip yoga instructors like Mimi call them). This is where the pain began. Who knew there were a jillion and a half yoga poses that crush that particular part of your body? Not me, although I sure do now. Compared to the standard military/police academy calisthenics, they were extremely effective even though they used much smaller movements.</p> <p>Dolphin poses. They sure do sound fun, playful or maybe even cute, no? NO! They aren't. They are hard. They hit pretty much every muscle in your body. So we did a dolphin pose that was like downward dog, which was fun. I couldn't keep up and collapsed to the floor. A couple of times. It wasn't embarrassing or anything though. Shit. Then we did dolphin plane, which is basically a variation on the "front leaning rest". A favorite of mine during boot camp and the police academy. I thought I was past all that stuff, but my old drill sergeants don't have anything on Mimi. As I was sweating, grunting and groaning, doing my level best to not fall out again, there she was, talking through the whole thing. Like she was walking through the park. For some reason, I didn't fall out again. I guess my prior training paid off a little bit.</p> <p>Before I knew it, the 90 minutes was up. I was pleasantly exhausted. After a quick lunch with Chuckette in yuppie-ville, I went home and promptly slept for two hours. I would highly recommend these sessions to anyone with sleeping issues. It flat knocks me out, but in a good way. </p> <p>Until I woke up the next day, that is. That's when I felt like I got hit by a car. Every muscle in my core was sore.</p> <p>I do think that there is something to this though. After practicing yoga (that's what the cool kids say apparently. You don't "do" yoga, you practice it), I feel exhausted, but in a really good way. I have a hard time describing it, but this kind of post-workout exhausted is much more pleasant than anything else I have tried (like running, walking, lifting or swimming).</p> <p>I plan to take some of my tax refund and buy a package of classes. If I do, I will be sure to keep the Banasana up to date with any further ruminations I might have on the proceedings...</p> <p>Until then, this is Chuck Garbanzo signing off.</p> </div><table class="EWdQcf"><tbody><tr><td><br /></td><td><br /></td><td><br /></td><td><br /></td><td><br /></td><td class="bEgJye"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-87315817049131553572009-02-05T20:40:00.000-08:002009-02-05T20:48:52.286-08:00An abrupt end to Paxil.This is filler. There IS and end to the Paxil dialogues, but I don't want to post it, not yet. Frankly, it is too personal. It's too family, too DasGupta, and too emotionally .....something. I haven't even shared it with my parents- the people the post is about- to even think about putting it on the blog. Emotional honesty leads to compelling reading, but family and privacy come first. Another time perhaps. Forgive the gap. I hope to fill it in in the future, but that's between me and mom and dad and bro.<br /><br />That said, let's skip ahead, on to YogaMCA, back here in good ole' California, Yes?Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-50776430204594612542009-01-27T11:25:00.000-08:002009-01-27T11:29:05.959-08:00Paxil Addled Soccer Mom Yoga #8<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpe9j10mu2MkO_wFPgSXXBv-6Cynw6eGmlBHGrkYprKLHz1VmWrxxa3x7ZeDPcgVTsS-wPhrEIEjxQBPZDHWbsjXAn6_6zmPVZON5e6Vdh6BEmVsiu4QIkvYVk2xo9yFRedvwsJNkIrdb/s1600-h/240_yoga+cd+2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 237px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpe9j10mu2MkO_wFPgSXXBv-6Cynw6eGmlBHGrkYprKLHz1VmWrxxa3x7ZeDPcgVTsS-wPhrEIEjxQBPZDHWbsjXAn6_6zmPVZON5e6Vdh6BEmVsiu4QIkvYVk2xo9yFRedvwsJNkIrdb/s320/240_yoga+cd+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296057432764896258" border="0" /></a><br />Today is Madhavi’s class. Oddly enough, it’s the first Indian teacher I’ve come across, California included. In a little Michigan republican town, this is an oddity. There was a total of 6 Indian kids at my high school, population 1200, and here I am with this woman, the first person who can pronounce all the Sanskrit terms correctly, even better than Subramanya né Larry in California Yoga Central. I, admittedly, am waiting with much anticipation; I want to see how much of the standard spirtual dogma she injects in her class.<br /><br />The answer? Little or none. She doesn’t bother with Om-ing or centering or anything- she just says<br /><br />“Let’s start our practice with tadasana, hands on your mat, moving your right leg back into a lunge…”<br /><br />She doesn’t even use a mat herself, and I am thrilled. It is with just a twinge of guilt and cultural self-rightousness that I want her to kick our asses, to do it in proper desi style, to get into some seriously challenging yoga, because it will validate my notion that all the “Spirit of Birdsong Blessings” yoga CD’s might be circumventing the fact that yoga might include a measure of actual work. She compliments me on my practice after the class, and I’m ashamed to say that I felt pretty proud of myself, out-yoga-ing the septuagenarian grandparents on the other side of the studio. A beat later, I think of my mother, at home, unconsciously holding her breast as she walks around the house, worried that she might never see it again, incapable of even thinking about attending yoga class. All of the sudden, I’m an asshole again, feeling proud for being privileged.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-13160407114384362432009-01-26T12:19:00.000-08:002009-01-26T12:21:32.821-08:00Paxil Addled Soccer Mom Yoga #7<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjc1REbV8UYTw1PyQW0j_CS2U1TlwleyZ2j7twkAHJQ2vLRoop4dGelrAd27l0X3tPVRMzHq7PNJsv9_VyjMsoClH4pQTj-KTQQi4H00UR1ydZyu3AK85CVSjCs5_4P0_KQC5njMKuZOp9/s1600-h/guilt.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 209px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjc1REbV8UYTw1PyQW0j_CS2U1TlwleyZ2j7twkAHJQ2vLRoop4dGelrAd27l0X3tPVRMzHq7PNJsv9_VyjMsoClH4pQTj-KTQQi4H00UR1ydZyu3AK85CVSjCs5_4P0_KQC5njMKuZOp9/s320/guilt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295700022471926658" border="0" /></a><br />Having both your mother and your counselor in the throes of cancer makes it very easy to ‘set an intention’ – as all yoga teachers are apt to say- at the beginning of class. I don’t need to thank myself for bringing me here. I don’t need to share my practice with anybody. I’m here because I need to take care of myself, if only for the reason that I have done a poor job of this in the past, and if I die before my mom, I will have failed her terribly. Shit, I’m at home again, borrowing her car to come to class, reliant on her careful family planning and my father’s financial savvy, again, after years of being gainfully employed. Maybe nobody sets up their mats by me because I emanate guilt.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-28543189798242460882009-01-22T17:54:00.001-08:002009-01-22T17:54:32.072-08:00Paxil-Addled Soccer Mom Yoga #6I find, even as I like to poke fun at Greg, that I really like him. He goes out of his way to be friendly to me (no pun intended) and even suggests that I might like to attend the retreat coming up this weekend. He doesn’t do this to sell the studio, at least I don’t think he does; he’s complimenting me on my practice, suggesting that I will find more challenging yoga at the retreat. I’m trying to downplay the role of ego in my life, but it does feel good when someone strokes it. I’m as bad as a cat in this respect.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-47437427169322945472009-01-20T09:47:00.000-08:002009-01-20T14:44:28.387-08:00Paxil-Addled Soccer Mom Yoga #5<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNgCDDc4PEkIl-StSN_6FHr9wAMoqmnzZlAMrruhLFKiiXP-9zrMGNI8fVUHTJsBS_WwuHMiYn9duko874iyc7MZvK_vDF8gTOJKd7_7C38KW-50_9SsgH_AbcwYg5qR1fG3OOibqNGTrP/s1600-h/shielding-lotion.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 174px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNgCDDc4PEkIl-StSN_6FHr9wAMoqmnzZlAMrruhLFKiiXP-9zrMGNI8fVUHTJsBS_WwuHMiYn9duko874iyc7MZvK_vDF8gTOJKd7_7C38KW-50_9SsgH_AbcwYg5qR1fG3OOibqNGTrP/s320/shielding-lotion.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293434674821441554" border="0" /></a><br />Greg Friendlyberry is the teacher today at the yoga studio. His name isn’t Greg Friendlyberry, but it is truly similar. He is heavy on the Namaste, maybe overly-friendly, but I’m finding I no longer mind.<br /><br />I don’t know if it is a consequence of Paxil® or just a nod to the fact that worse things can happen than slightly ridiculous New-Age Starbucks SUV-piloting suburban soccer moms all chanting ‘OM’ in different keys, but I find I don’t care about it anymore. I still can’t say ‘Namaste’ and bow in a pseudo-spiritual 'the-light-in-me recognizes-and-honorsthe-light-in-you Om-Shanti-Shanti-Om let-me-thank-myself-for-my-practice' sort of way, but if everybody else wants to do it, that’s just fine with me. They can even play that “Sounds of Nirvana” CD, the one with a tinkling faucet, a few carefully placed sitar notes, and a Casio-constructed orchestral background. It’s silly, but soothing in a way. I even like the aromatherapy candles.<br /><br />All that said, I was still a little shocked- well, mildly surprised might be the more appropriate Paxil grammar- by Mr. Friendlyberry’s shivasana at the end of class. It was just normal at first, falling into that half-conscious state of supreme relaxation, but after a minute or two, I heard a sound I could only describe as exactly like stirring ground beef in a bowl with a wooden spoon. It turns out, this is the exact same sound of someone lathering their hands with goopy lavender hand lotion. I break shivasana etiquette and open my eyes, only to be looking up Greg’s shorts, as he is straddling me in the method of someone spotting a weightlifter in the gym. I really don’t know what to say or do, so I just close my eyes again, hoping he isn’t planning on molesting me in a spiritual way. He smears the lotion on my shoulders, which is just plain weird, but I play along, figuring supple shoulder skin isn’t too bad a consequence for not screaming “WTF are you doing!?!”. I figure it is over after a minute, but no, he then cups his hands over my ears, and the lotion has the effect of hermetically sealing my satellite dishes off from the world, and now I feel terribly odd, cut off from the rest of the world for a moment. He finishes by rubbing a lavender-scented bhindi on my forehead- the religious locale that ash is rubbed on when you enter a Hindu temple- and frankly the Paxil takes over. I figure this is the suburban ceremony, and as long as he removes his crotch from my direct line of sight, I will go along with it.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-69669647544774729402009-01-17T16:18:00.000-08:002009-01-17T16:20:30.757-08:00Paxil-Addled Soccer Mom Yoga #4<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAWJFafZi3jWCHRpdhFwnL64Klvnegjghm_ZOrGp1wRvmZnhkWZaOurrzPPpxh_gda-0arXA9V_B7jZ4aW_zxe5zQBFMVq4Q2cdYNYDcRp36U2cjUe9qHj8VSdUVwsQNMJib4hyphenhyphenc_iZH0R/s1600-h/fake_for_real_memory_game_530__.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAWJFafZi3jWCHRpdhFwnL64Klvnegjghm_ZOrGp1wRvmZnhkWZaOurrzPPpxh_gda-0arXA9V_B7jZ4aW_zxe5zQBFMVq4Q2cdYNYDcRp36U2cjUe9qHj8VSdUVwsQNMJib4hyphenhyphenc_iZH0R/s320/fake_for_real_memory_game_530__.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292421843850284002" border="0" /></a><br />I’m sitting with my mother in our normal 11:00 tea session, usually when I roll out of bed. I haven’t shaken California time, not because I haven’t been in the Mitten long enough, but because the medication makes me sleepy. We are just chit-chatting about nothing, dealing with dishes and dinner plans and the locations of food stuff in her kitchen.<br /><br />“Mom, where’s the milk?” *, I ask.<br /><br />“In the pitcher on the top shelf of the fridge. There’s Splenda® in the cupboard.”<br /><br />I should mention that my father is diabetic, and my mother has been on a perpetual diet- one that gets thrown out around noon every day- ever since I reached an age in double-digits. As a result, everything in our house is fat-free, sugar-free, and flavor-free. I’m also 35, getting uglier by the day, worried about my dating prospects, and currently rubbing generic Rogain® ( the Meijer’s Thrifty Acres substitute) on to my growing solar panel. Even the tea we are drinking is a British version of Lipton. I realize, sitting at the counter with my mother, that I’m drinking fake tea with fake milk and fake sugar, watching the fake gas-powered fireplace, growing fake hair, feeling fake happiness with my fake mood, preparing to go to fake yoga, and fretting over the fact that my mother might have to get a fake boob. I tell her as such, and we laugh, the only real moment born of plastic parts.<br /><br />*Being a family of both Anglo and Indian stock, we take milk in our tea on both sides of the Raj**. We don’t want lemons, and if you are a waitress, please ask before you dump a bunch of coffee on top of it. It’s TEA, damn it, and that’s important to us. Just sayin’.<br /><br />** “Raj” meaning “king”, it refers to the British occupation of India from the 1800’s until Partition in 1947.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-18089699099302869812009-01-17T15:12:00.000-08:002009-01-15T15:17:25.523-08:00Paxil Addled Soccer Mom Yoga #3<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgViJV2i1tEGshyjF6FN6xRLxGTnPziAbX1x0kHipzcdvM9H183ZiYwp5S1pq6uwlQUFEX9ywp2qZGjO5fpb34OGFDsEWmp8cMbWcH5ONbk8pgbMRq9JdrxZVDgTo49_wlGFM1dvoOxWMiK/s1600-h/guy-with-fat-belly.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgViJV2i1tEGshyjF6FN6xRLxGTnPziAbX1x0kHipzcdvM9H183ZiYwp5S1pq6uwlQUFEX9ywp2qZGjO5fpb34OGFDsEWmp8cMbWcH5ONbk8pgbMRq9JdrxZVDgTo49_wlGFM1dvoOxWMiK/s320/guy-with-fat-belly.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291663137090159810" border="0" /></a><br />I play with my belly. Often. It is subconscious, and something my ex often chided me for, as I would pull it out in the middle of formal dinner parties.<br /><br />I only mention this because I was resting my paws on their natural mantle during shivasana (the resting corpse pose) when the teacher suddenly tried to smother me with a yoga blanket. Was I that unwelcome?<br /><br />I didn’t realize that paws-on-belly is code for ‘cover me with a blanket’ something not done in California. I consulted Em, and she confirmed that this is common practice in colder climates, as it is often difficult to prevent icy gusts slipping in under the door, and consequently chilling the studio. People like blankets after yoga. Still, it was shocking. They seemed like such nice people before they tried to kill me.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-23244215340667289202009-01-14T17:49:00.000-08:002009-01-14T17:51:38.123-08:00Paxil Addled Soccer Mom Yoga #2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1Af0rplK9UYqybCZN0DDMqrhDWQnOxSkdwevPmyvDYjPUl65FOWC3AQkLH97sLWRGFqt0jbPZh7eeYpSsntx8x1ho7OvvuG5LyIJOghPF5nFDWvJuX31dwYBK_WhUThQSk_hk5oRDsxo/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1Af0rplK9UYqybCZN0DDMqrhDWQnOxSkdwevPmyvDYjPUl65FOWC3AQkLH97sLWRGFqt0jbPZh7eeYpSsntx8x1ho7OvvuG5LyIJOghPF5nFDWvJuX31dwYBK_WhUThQSk_hk5oRDsxo/s320/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291332227474670338" border="0" /></a><br />The yoga studio is, as the Yoga Cop described so eloquently, a soccer mom yoga deal. I’m no spring chicken, but I am unfailingly the youngest one there, and usually the only guy. The conversation- if you were to transcribe it- seems innocuous enough; what the best high schools are, the advantages of X university over Y college, etc etc, but on paper it lacks the subtle cadence of suburban mothers verbally competing to have the most talented child. I think most of the patrons wonder why I am here, and if I set up my mat on one side of the studio, they unfailingly all set up their mats on the opposite side. This is our routine.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-78561674669082119232009-01-09T16:37:00.000-08:002009-01-09T16:44:08.882-08:00Paxil®-addled Soccer-Mom Yoga: Practicing “Enchanted Mi(chigan)tten” Style<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_SXlcAaYun_HfD6fDHYsntQiSo1i8KakOoDdXLWtoqdUWO2uM2GXKsORT236_SyfrUK0c_DLcAnELtJyctP3kF-gt1xeQC0ynC2kZ0WTdnG4zWE6_CbWjxHDY2EeDbTLQH6Sm_1CQEJbU/s1600-h/Paxil.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_SXlcAaYun_HfD6fDHYsntQiSo1i8KakOoDdXLWtoqdUWO2uM2GXKsORT236_SyfrUK0c_DLcAnELtJyctP3kF-gt1xeQC0ynC2kZ0WTdnG4zWE6_CbWjxHDY2EeDbTLQH6Sm_1CQEJbU/s320/Paxil.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289458019028846274" border="0" /></a>I am back in suburbia, Metro-Deetroit to be specific, in the little, almost entirely white, predominantly republican town I grew up in. There are manicured lawns, albeit under a thin crust of icy snow at the moment, a dearth of bike lanes, and SUV’s larger than beejeezus (this is the heart of the auto industry, for however long it lasts).<br /><br />I have been doing yoga with soccer moms, at the very same studio our friend the Yoga Cop visited. Still, before we get to that, I should explain how I got here.<br /><br />Mom has breast cancer. She, in her own words, “got off easy”- it hasn’t metastasized, and the worst-case scenario is that she will need a mastectomy. That said, it is a scary ordeal, being confronted with mortality, for both me, the son, and mom the….well, mom. On top of this, my high school friend’s mother has a mass in her abdomen, and the prognosis doesn’t look great. His father died of liver cancer only 18 months ago. On top of that the Zeeb- my counselor and friend, and my best friend’s counselor and friend- has undergone, in quick succession, a diagnosis of diabetes and a stroke. He rallied from these with incredible strength- regaining his language skills in less than a month- only to find a blockage in his colon two months later. When they opened him up, they found a mess of cancer all throughout his abdomen, a sticky spider web of malignant slime-mould permeating all of his internal organs. The doctors say he’s got 6-12 months.<br /><br />I don’t mean to laundry list a sob story- I just need preamble how and why I am now doing yoga with Midwestern suburban wives of auto executives in a haze of anti-depressant medication.<br /><br />What with residual pains from the shingles-which I mistook for a giant lung tumor- a smoking habit that I am having similar success kicking as our president-elect, and a propensity towards hypochondria when I get stressed out, I convinced myself that I, too, had cancer. I’d call up my high school buddy in the throes of a panic attack, detailing my symptoms, explaining exactly how and why I was going to die, researched thoroughly on the internet. He advised me to take care of it, get a doctors appointment, and, for fuck’s sake, go and see my mother. I was all for guidance at this point, incapable of thinking clearly for myself, so I booked a plane ticket, fully expecting that mom and I could at least occupy the same room in the oncology ward. Who says mothers and sons don’t do things together anymore?<br /><br />So I came home. To support mom, of course, but also to clear up my issues. ‘Fess up, if you will. I hastily bought health insurance and set off on the plane, shooting pains and swollen lymph nodes all part and parcel.<br /><br />Mom’s second surgery was still a few weeks away when I arrived, so I scheduled an appointment for myself, figuring that would give us both time to arrange our shared hospital room and perhaps decide on a television viewing schedule, as she favors programs featuring Welsh choirs while I go for crime dramas. I anticipated conflict over the remote.<br /><br />Suffice to say I was being, if not melodramatic, than at least highly paranoid. I won’t elaborate too much, only say that I got chided by the doctor for poking my lymph nodes with enough fear and force and regularity that they became, duh, swollen. She took blood, poked me in what I assume was a medical way, and decided that I was freaking out. Because I was freaking out, she decided I was depressed and anxious, enough to prescribe Paxil®.<br /><br />I can’t describe exactly what this drug feels like, although it is eerily similar to taking Threraflu, or any other haze-inducing cold medicine. It is not good, it is not bad, it is just…… zero. It is a curious detachment. Becoming anxious or panicked is simply not an option- whatever brain center was previously responsible for this has been completely deactivated. It can best described by my experience coping with driving in the snow.<br /><br />I had borrowed dad’s car ( and make no mistake, living at my parents’ house means being 16 again, whether I like it or not) and the roads were terrible, bad enough to start fishtailing on a particularly precarious incline. It was a major road, the closest you can get to a freeway, and a collision would likely mean blood and death and spilled, lacerated organs. You’d figure, being as there were only stalwart aluminum railings that would, should you hit them, only serve to bounce you back into oncoming traffic like a billiard ball, that I would be concerned.<br /><br />I wasn’t concerned. I wasn’t able. That curious, mandatory calmness didn’t let me.<br /><br />I have to say it probably helped. I didn’t panic, just adjusted and regained control of the car. Still, I was alarmed at my detachment at the situation. OK, that’s not true. I didn’t feel alarmed at all. I had some sort of abstract perception that I SHOULD be alarmed, but …….nothing. Zero. I just thought<br /><br />“Well, this sure seems dangerous. I suppose I should do something.”<br /><br />Although there was no physical or emotional reaction whatsoever, I did recognize the fact that this should be scary, but only in the same way that reading a newspaper article about a homicide in an adjacent neighborhood is scary. I understood that there was danger, and that I could be subject to it, but it was not at all immediate, the type of bowel-twisting fear we are all wired to feel in such situations. Being unable to feel spookiness, it was again academic.<br /><br />And so here I am. Mom’s surgery is in a few days, and I’m trying to fill time. Being as all my shooting pains disappeared after I stopped repeatedly fingering my lymph nodes, I decided it was time to step up and start being proactive about my health. I’ve signed up for a month at the local Yoga studio, and I’m taking Em’s advice, trying to make it every day, maybe twice a day, although this dependent upon when I can borrow the car. It’s odd, playing the role of a teenager again when I’m in my thirties, but there you go. Hopefully, I can use the time to reconcile all my issues with this little ugly hamlet I grew up in, maybe realize that everything I hated about this town was borne of adolescent angst, within me rather than rooted in some imaginary avarice of the residents. I’m crossing my fingers on this one, but only because read somewhere that this might bring me ‘luck’, something a Paxil patient can only understand on paper.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-55588502454892769492009-01-07T14:41:00.000-08:002009-01-07T14:47:32.428-08:00Guest Blogger: Chronically Fabulous<span style="font-style: italic;">Coming to us from fabulous Colorado, CF articulates her feelings better than I can, actually.....<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Proud to be a Yogi from Muskogee</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">By ChronicallyFabulous (author of the blogs <a href="http://chronicallyfabulous.blogspot.com/">“Chronically Fabulous"</a> and the upcoming "TheYogaExperiment"[link forthcoming])</span><br /><br />Confession: I’m an All-American Yogini.<br /><br />I’ve been practicing and loving yoga since 1994 – before wannabes like Madonna made it trendy. I’ve studied yoga at studios all over the US and Europe, with “famous” instructors. I’ve taught yoga to students who were inspired to begin yoga by my teachings. I know the names and the terms and the videos and the buzzwords enough to establish some old skool “street cred” – or is that “mat cred?”<br /><br />So here is my confession: I hate sitar music, I’m not learning Sanskrit, I’m converting to any branch of Hinduism, I’ve never been to India…. And what’s more, I’m not interested in any of the preceding things.<br /><br />I’ve been conflicted about my indifference to India for quite some time. I am of course aware of the ugly history of White Americans appropriating and reselling the cultural riches of other races while leaving those who developed the ideas to languish in poverty and obscurity. And even I have had moments where I have been horribly embarrassed by “American” trends in yoga, such as every yoga teacher brand-naming their yoga teachings, and of course the advertisements for new yoga-themed consumer products (Nike YOGA SHOES …..People who feel that the lower their body fat, the higher their spiritual awareness…Alanis Morrisette shrieking, “thank you India” on Top 40 radio….Russell Simmons headlining yoga events….Excuse me while my spirit barfs)<br /><br />Plus, there comes a time in the American yoga practitioner’s life when s/he is supposed to make that great spiritual pilgrimage to India. To pursue a deeper, more authentic experience of yoga, and of course, also to be able to show off to the students back home and be accepted into the cool yogi clique (in a deeply spiritual way, of course.) Was I going to stay stuck in a gym-class-yoga mentality unless I booked that (very expensive) airline ticket?<br /><br />The problem is, the glowing reports of American teachers returning from their passage to India did nothing to increase my desire to visit the subcontinent. A composite report from my former yoga teachers: “I spent a month studying yoga in Goa with Guru X and I got malaria and dysentery and worms, I had explosive diarrhea every night, I was held prisoner by militants, all my luggage was stolen, my Guru sexually molested me….. but it was a deeply spiritual experience that you just can’t understand until you go there, I urge every serious yoga student to experience it for themselves.” Umm……gee, I can’t wait…..<br /><br />The flip side of White cultural appropriation is White starry-eyed Orientalism. Now that I’ve been in the yoga community long enough, I have discovered that many of the tenets that I believed were part of the ancient Indian wisdom of yoga are actually American ideals. For example, I was taught that yoga is by definition non-competitive, a sign of the Eastern wisdom that was above grasping American competitiveness. Imagine my surprise when I found out that in India, Yoga Competitions are commonplace, where yogis compete publicly for awards for the best physical pose. I was taught that yoga is about “listening to your body” – a phrase you would hear in nearly every class in the US in the past 10 years – about being respectful of your own limitations and never straining or pushing to injury. So imagine my surprise to read the many accounts by Indian yogis of how their beloved gurus would force them into extreme, muscle-ripping poses in order to show off and attract more students.<br /><br />If we can be embarrassed by American yoga’s cheesiness and excesses, then we can also be proud of the American aspects of yoga that we take for granted: the preponderance of women in a discipline that was until recently men-only; the democratic spread of yoga to all who are interested in a book or a class, without having to make a lifetime commitment to a guru; and the expectation that a teacher/guru will keep his dick in his yoga pants, or face a lawsuit. I think all of these trends are truly spiritual progress. Also, in America we don’t drink our own urine (a trend among certain Indian practitioners, and proof that there IS something out there that tastes worse than wheatgrass.)<br /><br />So I’ve come to peace with the fact that the yoga I practice and love is a truly American style. Thank you India, and thanks to all my teachers who have braved international travel to study, re-package, and water down this great art for people like me.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-18193299072280930212008-12-27T17:20:00.000-08:002008-12-27T17:22:27.766-08:00Shootin' Guns with Yoga CopYes, it's true, Chuck Garbanzo has volunteered to take me to the shootin' range. I figure since he did something he wasn't apt to do, I should spend a little time in his world. So, until my trigger finger scratches that itch......Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-89670750336086082042008-12-20T14:17:00.000-08:002008-12-20T14:18:40.601-08:00Clips for you<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVS5ZbTQI3WR6VyOzUzxxdmuwWOjBKJWeoijy12C0nlDR8lMHYA7AP4NmQlei5CP8OMAmyyXUIFYHuioJjcef83IWDa3DqkMlMbZKUtJzjZ5Xkc5Hco2DB6kVf-iV0HX06qYUm8Z4HocjJ/s1600-h/ogden.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 203px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVS5ZbTQI3WR6VyOzUzxxdmuwWOjBKJWeoijy12C0nlDR8lMHYA7AP4NmQlei5CP8OMAmyyXUIFYHuioJjcef83IWDa3DqkMlMbZKUtJzjZ5Xkc5Hco2DB6kVf-iV0HX06qYUm8Z4HocjJ/s320/ogden.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282000223278186642" border="0" /></a><br />Sent to me by a fellow yogi, this clip of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qtWcb0bcA-A" mce_href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qtWcb0bcA-A">Ogden the innappropriate yoga guy</a> is spot on.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-58254805283835202662008-12-15T15:20:00.000-08:002008-12-15T15:28:17.290-08:00Of Mice and Pants<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0jEbkxmc9Hkp9ZyRHicR49BgI_Psj-6wpi-5QPYjXFlLAZJNScZ004FLyNJ8VcGtZPnylTpaSXmWIJGt7-nozUGwk4SOM_MC5rq6CJPLYwh-URQltvugebl2oyh4Dlf9Lee6JONUl5F1_/s1600-h/mice2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 285px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0jEbkxmc9Hkp9ZyRHicR49BgI_Psj-6wpi-5QPYjXFlLAZJNScZ004FLyNJ8VcGtZPnylTpaSXmWIJGt7-nozUGwk4SOM_MC5rq6CJPLYwh-URQltvugebl2oyh4Dlf9Lee6JONUl5F1_/s320/mice2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280162565031649634" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">So I'm in an odd situation, running back and forth between coasts. I'm relying on reruns to keep the blog rolling, and so, here goes an old standard, a tale of rodents and death and pants...<br /><br /> </span><span>I fell in love with brushed-cotton pants in college. Let me say right off the bat, I am not a ‘clothes’ person. Those who know me will attest to this fact. I am happy to wear the same T-shirt for days, even weeks in a row, providing no telling stains occur (wasn’t that spaghetti sauce there last Thursday?). I also feel the need, being as I’m bearing my wardrobe soul, that I am not a disgusting slob. I bathe two, sometimes three times a day. I even wash behind my ears occasionally. It’s just that I’ve worked out this system of organization that requires a knowledge of :<br />A) Where my pants are, and<br />B) What they contain AT ALL TIMES(i.e. keys, wallet, breath freshener, pencil eraser, quarters for laundry, pennies for fountains, get-out-of-jail-free card, etc., etc.)<br /> This is a serious commitment. I know few people that have the kind of bond that I do with my pants. I have even bought equipment to accentuate my pant habit. I have a pant key-ring, a pant belt, even a specific pant hook, where I hang my pants everyday. I can’t go to sleep at night unless I know that my pants for the ‘morrow are prepared for what the good lord sees fit to send my way. I keep my lunch in my pants, a wilderness survival kit in my pants, and an extra pair of pants in my pants.<br /> I was not always this concerned about my trousers. I used to have less responsibilities, less commitments, less keys, and, in general, less experience in life, not knowing that is always prudent to be prepared, and that, to be prepared for life, you must have all your necessary accessories and accoutrements firmly secured to your pants. I had procured the brushed cotton pants I was wearing the day of the Incident at my catering job in college. We often left out clothes at work, and just changed when we got there. Eventually, because of rampant pant-theft, we moved over to a systematic-pant placement system. One guy, about 6 inches taller and 10 inches wider than me had left his pants there some weeks ago, and then decided the food service industry wasn’t doing it for him. These were the pre-pants system days, and so I was always on the lookout for a good pair. Granted, I had to roll up the cuffs several times and wear a belt, and I always felt slightly naked as the pants in question floated around my chicken legs in roughly the same proportions as the walls of the Carlsbad caverns around float around a spelunking cable, but they were quality trousers nonetheless, and, being a broke college student, who was I to say no to a posh pair of free pants? I kept them and wore them often. The fact that I wore them often is central to this story; however my affinity for pants is not. In essence, I told you that story so that I could tell you this one.<br /> I was wearing these very pants on the Day, a late afternoon in early April. I had an early schedule. Teachers are expected to do five classes a day, with three off-periods, one for planning, one for conferences, and one for lunch, although no one I know adheres to these guidelines. We have nine periods in the day, and I finished my last class seventh period. Meredith, another biology teacher, had the room for eighth period, so I usually left her to her devices and Xeroxed the materials I needed for the following day.<br /> The copying room is one floor below me, on the mezzanine level. It’s called the mezzanine level because it is technically illegal to conduct class in the basement of a public school building. See, semantics are your friends! The science copy room is right next to Bruscato’s Grotto. Bruscotto is the AP English teacher and probably one of the most sarcastic people I’ve ever met. Her door is the last on the hallway, and she loves to make fun of me whenever I try and borrow a pencil or use the English department’s scantron machine. Considering the abuse she hurls at me, I’ve learned that it’s easier to just go back upstairs and borrow an eraser from someone who doesn’t delight in humiliating me. I’ll grant you, it is kind of funny, albeit mostly for her, and I usually just roll with it, but some days I just don’t want to deal, and this was one of them.<br /> I unlocked the door to the copy room, let myself in, and let the door slam shut behind me. I wasn’t in there more than 10 seconds before I heard a frantic ‘blam blam blam!” on the window. It’s art deco glass, difficult to see through, but I could still identify Bruscotto’s silhouette. I figured she was bored and looking to antagonize me, so I ignored her.<br /><br />BlamBLamBLAM!<br /><br />“Shumit! Come on, you have to help me!”<br /><br />She was panicked and something was amiss. I opened the door.<br /><br />“ There’s a mouse in my room.”<br /><br />She pronounced the word mouse with clenched teeth, sort of like a ventriloquist, but without any masking of lip motion.<br /><br />“What do you want me to do about it?” I asked.<br /><br />“Well, you’re the biology teacher.”<br /><br /> Notice how ‘biology teacher’ is used as a thin cover-up for ‘exterminator’. I guess the logic is, you work with animals, you must actually like them, right? Therefore I can ask you to pull some pied-piper maneuver and dance your fellow ‘people’ right out of my classroom. I think people assume that because you study the mechanics of existence that you have a ‘respect for all life’ and are willing to put ‘greasy little vermin’ in a cage and make some sort of ‘leaning situation’ out of it. I understand that some scientists choose a particular species and make a career out of studying them in minute detail, but we’re high school teachers. That’s like breeding mosquitoes; no fun and a dumb idea.<br /> I went into her room and she pointed out the hole from whence the mouse had come, and its trajectory along the floor. The hole was cartoon-perfect: it was bored out through the baseboard, a Tom-and-Jerry half-circle, with gnaw-marks around the edge.<br /><br />“Well, aren’t you gonna go get it?”, she said.<br /><br />I think she expected me to pull out my “Honey, I Shrunk the Kids” machine, the pocket version that all good biology teachers carry, grab a sharpened toothpick, now the size of a spear in my shrunken hands, and get in there and slay the evil dragon-mouse in it’s lair. I looked at her blankly. She blinked a few times. During this silent negotiation, the mouse chose to stick its furry little whiskers out of the hole, and Bruscotto saw it. She screamed and bolted out of the room, just like a 50’s sitcom.<br /><br /> Exit English teacher #1.<br /><br /> Lacking any better ideas, I grabbed a roll of masking tape from her desk and taped up the hole. I fished her out of the hallway and assured her that the mouse no longer had access to her room, or method of recourse. She begrudgingly accepted this, and I finished my copies and headed back up to my room, just as the kids were leaving for the day.<br /> We liked to bitch and complain, Meredith and I, as we were new teachers feeling our way around the system. As we were in the same place at the same time, just after her last class, and as the room was void of children, we unofficially reserved this slot to do just that. She cleaned up detritus from her lab, and I organized my labs for the next day, all the while blowing off steam. It was a ritual, one that I had become accustomed to and fond of. We also parlayed with other teachers, and this day Faraj, another English teacher, came by. She wanted to borrow a video from me, an ocean documentary with Marlins in it, as she was teaching ‘the old man and the sea.”<br /> Now at the time, I kept all my files and videos on the floor so that we had more counter space to do labs. I don’t do this anymore for reasons that will become painfully clear, but at this point in my career, there they were, so I hunkered down to my milk crate to try and find the item she was asking for. I was in the corner of the room, and my brushed cotton pants had relaxed the rolled up cuff that I had put in it at the beginning of the day, hitting the ground and just barely tucking itself under the sole of my shoe. While flipping through my files, I felt a disturbance in the force around my ankle, one with slightly furry undertones. It was a peculiar sensation, one of trespassing coupled with fuzzy cuteness. I probingly touched my ankle, over the top of my pants and I swear I felt the odd and singular sensation of a life form just underneath brushed cotton, yet pressed up against my stylish tube-socks. Despite the uniqueness of this sensation, I was unconvinced that the evidence could support an event so ludicrous. But given the data, I had to consider this as a possibility.<br /><br />“Hey Guys?” I said. “I think I might have a mouse in my pants.”<br /><br />It’s worrisome to watch people’s eyes bulge in disbelief, especially when you are the subject. I grabbed my pants just under the pleats, as if I was just about to curtsy to the queen, and started shaking them vigorously, while jumping and dancing around in circles, trying desperately to dislodge the potential mouse. Like quantum physics, it was still potential at this point- I didn’t have enough solid evidence to claim that the existence of the mouse was a plausible theorem, rather than merely hypothetical at this point. At any rate, it must have looked ridiculous, and the soundtrack was of me screaming “OK! OK! OK!” in a desperate attempt to placate my self, to convince myself that everything was OK, that I didn’t really have a rodent in my trousers, and that the image of my colleagues staring at me in wide-eyed incredulousness was only a bad dream that I would laugh about in the morning. The mouse didn’t fall out, I was still confused as to whether this was really happening, and then…<br /> Everybody has had a visit from the plumber, the cable guy, any mechanical specialist that actually makes more money than an educator. Being self-employed, I guess you can wear what you want, but I guess the old stereotype is true. We’ve all spent some time in the kitchen with the fix-it man, and wondered why, given all the options, they would choose pants that exposed parts of their flesh that is considered taboo. I want you to do something for me. Take your hand right now, reach around to your backside, and gently place it at the top of this unnamed anatomical feature.<br /><br />Now guess where I found the mouse.<br />As I can’t show my derriere at work, and you are familiar with my penchant for belts, gizmos, and securely fitted pants, the mouse was still below the boundaries of my waist, unreachable by conventional means. Now I had proof though, It was on, I surely was rodent-infected and my worst suspicions were confirmed, I think it was evident on my face, as both Meredith and Faraj’s eyelids peeled even further back into their skulls.<br />“OKOKOKOK!” I shouted. “I think I have to take off my pants!”<br /><br />Exit English teacher #2.<br /><br />Meredith stood by me, though. Well, near me. She stayed in the room, at any rate. I undid my belt, stripped off the pants, held them by the waist and shook. A little brown mouse tumbled out, rolling end over end on the tiled floor of the classroom. I think that when I reached back towards my backside, I must have, in my panic, hit the mouse pretty hard, because it was clearly wrecked; it’s ribcage smashed, only able to breathe in thin, painful sheets. It’s legs were clearly useless- after the momentum of the tumble, after gravity had settled it, it wasn’t going to skitter off anywhere. I would imagine that if my students were in the room that they would gingerly pick up the mouse with a spatula, gently place it in an aquarium lined with soft bedding, and place a nourishing carrot next to it, in the hopes that their effort would somehow inspire the little guy to find the strength to heal itself. Meredith and I both knew the truth, though. This mouse was going to die. It was unexpected, this kinship I suddenly felt for the mouse. We had shared a pair of pants, after all. This is considered grounds for marriage amongst your own species. We shared trauma, me and this creature, probably the most bonding event between two organisms. And, thinking about this, and my role as a professional biology guy, and the look that Meredith gave me, I knew what had to be done. I grabbed the thickest textbook I could find, held it parallel and aloft over the wheezing mouse, and released. I don’t know if it makes me a better, more sensitive human being, but I did at least flinch at the sound of the thump. I left my room, punched out in the main office, and let the maintenance staff know that there was a dead mouse underneath the textbook on the floor of the room, and went home.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-30022427018505309072008-12-11T08:04:00.000-08:002008-12-11T08:07:01.592-08:00Jogging With Rod<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcvyyIEHfP3i5FyDoaeO5BEhaob97mITAClgGZ_lyhaqtYj7i2MWqCS_5cl6gvLEvcxTSjI0PHF6vkJspVdZKK08CdeXdn6Xqpp5-KYH8Tv8Vqh-JalyEwDYQbYUi68cH-_zk6XKYFu183/s1600-h/blagosucks9oj.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 173px; height: 202px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcvyyIEHfP3i5FyDoaeO5BEhaob97mITAClgGZ_lyhaqtYj7i2MWqCS_5cl6gvLEvcxTSjI0PHF6vkJspVdZKK08CdeXdn6Xqpp5-KYH8Tv8Vqh-JalyEwDYQbYUi68cH-_zk6XKYFu183/s320/blagosucks9oj.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278564637933460114" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">This, admittedly, has nothing to do with Yoga, but it's so timely that I had to put it up. It was from my old teacher blog, about the day I inadvertently went jogging with Mr. Blagojevich...<br /><br /> </span>I bike to work in the mornings, and I’m fond of stopping at different places to get breakfast. At the bakery the other morning, the woman in front of me asked me if I wanted to go ahead of me, as she was getting a slew of food, and I merely wanted the three-cheese bacon soufflé and a cup of earl grey, as I am wont to do. I recognized her, she was a parent of one of my students. I remembered her face, I think she may even be the parent of a student I have currently. I could picture her in my classroom, talking animatedly at parent/teacher conferences, but I couldn’t connect her with her kid, and, even stranger, I couldn’t recall the emotional direction of the conversation, only the timber. It was intense, but was it bad intense or good intense? Did she think I was a great teacher, or was she distraught at her kid’s performance? Even worse, did she blame me? I didn’t say anything.<br /><br /><br /> This happens a lot. The first year I taught, on the south side, there wasn’t any real danger of running into any of my students, as it was a neighborhood school and I didn’t live there. I was a first-year teacher as well, so I just hadn’t accumulated a lot of former students. Things are different now, though. At the school I’m at, kids come from all quarters of the city, so really, nowhere is safe. I’ve been doing this for a few years now, too, which compounds things. Parents are even tougher, as, if you even meet them ever, it’s only once or twice a year.<br /><br /><br /> Last summer, near the end when my mind was as far away from school as possible, I was dawdling in the Public Library near my house. A friend of mine had mentioned that he had never read The Phantom Tollbooth, and so I decided to get it for him. I headed over to the Young Adult section, and started perusing from the titles. From the librarians desk I hear, clearly directed at me,<br /><br /><br />“Wow, so are you looking for a good teen read?”<br /><br /><br /> OK, it’s one thing for some chowder heads in pick-up truck to yell at me as I ride around town on my bike. It’s expected, no surprise. I wondered, though if I must’ve emblazoned a big fat “L” for loser on my forehead for the Children’s Librarian to feel compelled to take potshots at me. Of course, it was a parent, but it’s always momentarily surprising to be taken to task when my mind is elsewhere.<br /><br /><br /> So today I went running. I have to say, I hate running, but I have recently been persuaded to run a duatholon, basically run/bike/run. I went with Roy, my housemate. He’s got a bum knee, so he only made it a mile or so before he had to stop and walk. I went ahead, hit the turn around point, and started back. I switched over to the asphalt, as I’m told it’s better for your legs. Another guy was jogging down the sidewalk, dressed in a black tracksuit. He was bobbing and weaving, but without the grace of a prizefighter. He was gesticulating wildly, like someone in the last leg of a marathon who concurrently has a swarm of bees flying around his head. He was being followed by an older man who looked perturbed, and clearly was following him. I decided that the Tracksuit must be retarded, or perhaps had some condition, which made him loose motor skills, and that the old man was following him to make sure he didn’t run into a tree or something. This, however, was not the case.<br /><br /><br />About a minute later, Roy was coming toward me waving his arms and yelling something.<br /><br /><br />“DID YOU SEE RON?”, he yelled.<br /><br />“WHO’S RON?”<br /><br />“NOT RON, ROD!”<br /><br />“ROD WHO?”<br /><br />It turns out that that Mr. Gesticulation was none other than our infamous governor, Rod “the Bod” Blagojevich, out maintaining his chiseled physique. As for the old guy, well, apparently Roy was strolling down the street, when he caught sight of the Bod, and this old guy runs up out of nowhere and starts screaming<br /><br />“MY PENSION, MY PENSION, YOU BASTARD, WHAT ABOUT MY PENSION!?!”<br /><br />The Bod’s reply was<br /><br />“Hey, It’s all right, everything will work out”, and kept on running.<br /><br /><br />I don’t know if this was the same guy who was following him when I saw him, but Roy really wasn’t too far away. I also don’t know if this flustered the Bod enough to adopt the jogging style he was flaunting when he got up to me, but If I get to pick, I’m surely going to believe that it’s true.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-85375393667379041162008-12-01T16:47:00.000-08:002008-12-01T17:17:47.497-08:00Guest Blogger: The Yoga Cop Incident<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQC4M68cv8r1jCZmG7i0nm0dKKZ57JNJGcO1rUPAOk542G_qxX0PXw8s81j6eRCtpbF9w8C5FC6FDhiYE24yJZYVFdhUJzEc6iqAEGIZPmb9sYBGGNBaslyrRuxk3CT376Y877Y-Vk7X6s/s1600-h/taser.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQC4M68cv8r1jCZmG7i0nm0dKKZ57JNJGcO1rUPAOk542G_qxX0PXw8s81j6eRCtpbF9w8C5FC6FDhiYE24yJZYVFdhUJzEc6iqAEGIZPmb9sYBGGNBaslyrRuxk3CT376Y877Y-Vk7X6s/s320/taser.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274988603980643538" border="0" /></a><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Incident Number</span></strong> - 08-38417</div> <div> </div> <div><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Location</strong> </span>- 200 S. Main Street</div> <div> </div> <div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Date & Time</span></strong> - 12/01/2008 1000 hours</div> <div> </div> <div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Crime</span></strong> - Embarrassment of Law Enforcement Official<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Suspect</span></strong> - Actual name unknown. Goes by the street name of "Mimi". Female, White. Age approx 75 years old. 5'02'' 130 lbs. Grey hair, blue eyes.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Setting</span></strong> - Northville Michigan, otherwise known as "Yuppieville, USA". Upper-middle class town (think entry level executive management in what used to be a Big 3 company type dads with career minded moms) with a slightly pretentious twist (ie the Historical District with huge, modernly renovated Victorian style homes).<br /><br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Witnesses</span></strong> - Approximately 4 Mom-looking women in their 30's, about 4 women who appeared to be from their mid 40's to their early 50's (very serious yoga type ladies, for sure) and an elderly couple in their 80's (which I was glad for, there was one other dude in the class).<br /><br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Details</span></strong> - Upon entry, the victim (herewith referenced to as "I") was greeted by "Mimi". She appeared to be a nice lady, but I wasn't fooled. I could see that little gleam of amusement in her eye as she sized me up. When I told her I had done some jogging recently to try to get in shape she could hardly stifle a laugh. It was clear to me that this Mimi was going to be trouble.</div> <div> </div> <div>I knew I would be getting all physical and stuff, so I asked her where I could safely store my super-tactical .45 autoloader, my backup snubbie .38, my folding pocket blade and my Taser. All I got in return was a blank stare (What was up with that? I left my 5.56mm Colt M-4 carbine in the car, it's not like I am a gun nut or anything). I took that to mean I should probably go back out to my car and leave them there, so I did. Mostly. I held on to one the Taser, you know, just in case things got too out of hand.<br /><br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Class began and Mimi turned down the lights, and wait... She is LOCKING US IN!!! I think I shoulda worn my special thunder-wear holster and kept the .38 on me.<br /><br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Okay we are sitting cross legged on the floor and I am having a hard time doing this properly. I am a sloucher. The tops of my legs hurt from just sitting down. This is going to be a long class. </div> <div> </div> <div>Now we are into the table pose, not too bad, my arms are only slightly shaking. Now comes cat-stretching thing and a dog-stretching thing, moving our hips forward and backward while in the table pose. Did Mimi just say "anus"? The one arm, one leg table got me all fatigued, right quick. This would be a highly effective form of torture on suspects. Now the downward dog pose. My goodness, my academy days of doing 50 pushups at a time have certainly left me. Not 10 minutes into it, I am now sweating, and this isn't even Bikram yoga.<br /><br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>The child pose. We are supposed to rest here? I can't get my heels within 10 inches of my butt. I have had surgeries on both my knees, so this is more like me having half my weight on my forehead, like some sort of weird butt-in-the-air tripod. This can't be right.<br /><br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>On to a standing pose (this is a pose?) Mimi just defined what our perineum is. I happen to know that one, being a father and the most attentive dad in the pre-childbirth classes. It sounds weird to hear Mimi tell me that I need to tighten up my "taint" ('taint the ass nor balls), or what some dudes call the "ABC" (ass ball connector). Some good stretching from this pose, nothing too terribly twisty, I am starting to think I will survive with most of my dignity intact, even though Mimi had said the word "anus" far too many times for my comfort.<br /><br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Lunge-type poses. Here is where my first laughing fit started. I was able to contain it, but I seem to think this part would be much more enjoyable if I could have done this with a bunch of the dudes I work with. The imaginative cursing and farting would have been hugely appropriate and hilarious at this point. I almost fell over when instructed to wrap my arm all the way around my leg. Pressing my knee into my shoulder was laughable as well. I did hear a few chuckles from the old guy across the room when we were instructed to bend certain ways. This guy was a trooper though. That was about all I heard out of him. I was afraid to look at him though, looking at a person less flexible than me would have been too much funny for me to handle. If this place had mirrors, I woulda been a goner.<br /><br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Now we do a lotus pose? Anyways, we are flat on our bellies and start lifting arms and legs again. I like how we rest between doing each side, it makes me feel more balanced. Wait a minute, that sounds a little weird, maybe even fancy. Taser still in place? Check. Plan on how to knock the locked door down as an emergency exit? Check. There, I feel better.<br /><br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Next we are asked to lay on our backs, and start pulling our knees into our chests. We are also instructed to put our knees and ankles together (?!?), and let them fall to the floor on one side while keeping our opposite shoulder on the floor. I called this the twister pose. Can a person who happens to have testicles even do this? I suppose so, there are some dudes who can sit and cross their legs like women can, but I am not one of them. I am an ankle-on-knee leg crosser. I almost compressed my little buddies into flat discs attempting this madness. Mimi saw me struggling, so she put a blanket between my knees, which made me certain that this was the pose I would now call the FAIL pose.<br /><br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Now I think we are doing what I have heard referred to as "repose". This is nice. My body feels aligned, and although I am on a thin mat on a hard floor, I am strangely comfortable. Then Mimi comes around and places a blanket on me, and some kind of sandbags on my ankles and wrists. She is also using a fan to waft some pleasantly smelling breezes my way. This part I like.</div> <div> </div> <div>But then I start thinking, and almost break out into laughter again. Damn that Bananasana and his funny yoga blog with his funky door cartoon porn stories. Try to not think about that while in repose the next time you do yoga, I dare you.<br /><br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>When Mimi speaks again, although she is speaking in low tones, I hear her clearly and strongly. Heightened senses I suppose. </div> <div> </div> <div>Namaste...<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Aftermath</span></strong> - It is about two hours post-yoga as I write this. I feel better than I thought I would, the serious muscle pain probably won't arrive until tomorrow. Overall, I enjoyed the experience. I plan on going back, some of what went on was too much to absorb in the first class. </div> <div> </div> <div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Case Status</span></strong> - I will obtain a warrant for Mimi, she seems dangerous, but I will hold off on serving it until after I give this a few more tries.</div> <div> </div> <div>Officer Chuck Garbanzo</div> <div> </div>Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-7187759990015018942008-11-29T15:05:00.000-08:002008-12-02T09:11:51.288-08:00In Through the Funky Door #3: Out the other side.<div class="content"> <p>Class begins. </p> <p>Class begins, I should point out, with the FunkySexual asking who was new. I raise my hand, and he asks me my name. When introducing himself, he made a point of adding a very latin trill to the ‘r’ in his name, even though his natural cadence is white-guy, and so I feel compelled to do the same. I pronounce my name properly, and to my surprise, he bounces it back fairly well. </p> <p>“OK, Shumit, your job is to just stay in the room today, do the best you can, got it? Good, let’s pick up and gogogo, people!” *clap clap!*</p> <p>Frankly, I’m a little put off by all this, as well as the fact that the guy from the last class left a patch- no, a puddle- of soaking wet carpet in his wake. ‘If every one sweats like this all over the carpet’ I think, ‘several times a day, then-</p> <p>Some primitive form of denial abruptly cuts off this line of thought, perhaps my brain recognizing that if I consider this too closely, I’ll run howling from the room and take a Lysol shower. I’m not prone to germaphobia, at all really, but well….best not to think about it. </p> <p>There is no mystic chanting, but it is the same “V” reptilian breathing as the other Bikram studio. In fact- as per Bikram’s precise orders and subsequent litigation, the whole series is exactly the same, the difference being now there is a little brown man yelling at me through a loudspeaker. Probably even closer to Bikram’s original vision.</p> <p>He even looks a little like Bikram in his younger days, as he’s tan and wears his hair in the 1970’s Action Hero Part to the left. He even- I’m not making this up- slips into a faux Indian accent from time to time. </p> <p>Does he get to do that? Frankly, I’m offended. FunkySexual can mock his own heritage all he wants, but that shit is crossing the line. But then again, Funky Door crossed the line a long time ago, and the fact that I didn’t turn my ass directly around when I walked in the door might be on me. </p> <p>I’m not really sure what to say about the specifics of the rest of the class, but I’m definitely thinking about the whole enterprise. At one moment, in a brief repose in shivasana, I’m just glancing around the room, noting how much energy- the ‘pay the bills’ sort of energy- gets used here. The heat is on throughout the whole class, and a couple dozen fans are rotating above us. The speakers are bumping, both with FunkySexuals voice and some corny aerobics soundtrack. The on-site Laundromat is humming along, washing the towels from the previous class, getting them ready for the next. Fluorescent tubes illuminate the studio, giant metal ducts carry heated furnace air. There is a massive amount of fossil fuel being expended, and I’m here to tell you, it is almost all for naught. </p> <p>This is the one moment where I get to speak with absolute authority, more than American yogis, more than full-blooded desis, more than Bikram himself, and this is not only despite the fact that I am a half breed, but <em>because</em> of it. </p> <p>The story goes, Bikram was noticing how quickly Indians can get into poses as opposed to Americans. His solution was the heat- in theory, all this excessive sweating is to make the Americans more flexible, loosen tendons, etc etc. Anyone who has seen pictures of Indians in contorted positions will realize that those of Dravidian descent are built along different lines. I first realized to what measure they are by watching my 80+ year old grandmother doing the laundry in the pond by our house in Calcutta. She was squatting, knees next to her ears like a bullfrog while simultaneously slapping wet laundry on a rock. She would remain in this position for hours at a time, performing fairly arduous physical labor, and it did not bother her in the least. </p> <p>This odd squatting position, so common among Bengalis at least (and Bikram is a Bengali) is a contortion that Americans find awkward, and frankly aren’t built for. Try it your self- squat down, with your heels still on the floor and your knees spread wide enough so that your arms are between them. Have something to do, maybe a sudoku puzzle or something. See how far you get. I’m not even willing to try, myself. I’d give myself 3 minutes. I got the English knees. </p> <p>The question is, how much can the 105 degree heat help? It, along with the series of postures ( and while I will concede that it seems a fine series, so are plenty of other series) does it really make it easier for the American body to slip into Indian poses? </p> <p>Not so much. </p> <p>The problem is, the gulf between body type is too large to bridge with just heat, and I know- I’m one of few that can tell exactly how wide it is. I have a measure of both- in some ways I’m as flexible as any desi, in others I’m worse off, due to the odd mix of continents and genetics (then again, I’m a touch bulkier than your average Bengali, and I love visiting Calcutta, if only for the fact that, by a measure of an inch or so, I am actually tall). I have European arm sockets and Indian ball-joints and can dislocate my shoulders like other people crack their knuckles. If a punjabi – an Indian shirt- is fitted to my height and stature, I will rip out the arpmits the first time I lift my hands higher than my neck. Yes, I’m somewhere here nor there, sure, but at the same time I’m touching both shores, and there is quite a bit of water here. </p> <p>I’m not trying to imply that the worlds are too far, the gap can’t be bridged, there will never truly be a yogic understanding amongst Americans- that’s just stupid. There are plenty who get it already. All I’m saying is, all that heat you are paying for? It ain’t doing much except contributing to global warming and making you feel as if you got a “real workout” because you “really sweated.” Perhaps a cleansing of toxins was mentioned as well. You can also get a ‘real workout’ and ‘cleanse those toxins’ by reading the paper in the sauna at the YMCA. </p> <p>It is, I must admit, a wonderful cloak that has been pulled over our eyes. Bikram saw something in Americans and catered to us, and it is the notion of excess and control that was the button. Think about it. Drive a car? HELL no, an SU fucking V!! Cheeseburger? If you finish our 5 LB Monster Burger in one sitting YOU GET IT FOR FREE! We are the same nation that invented ‘wave pools’ instead of going to the beach, we walk on treadmills instead of actually walking places, and now we’ve applied our simulacrum technology to mimic the heat of India in the hopes that it will make our yoga a little more like the real thing, At least as far as the weather is concerned. </p> <p>And the specificity and talent for waste deserve mention as well. What better way to get men ( and there is a much higher proportion of men at Bikram classes) interested in Yoga than to add a bit of engineering (105 degrees precisely) and conspicuous energy consumption into the equation? </p> <p>In this all, I have to make the concession. Bikram saw us for who we are. For all my bleating about it, perhaps he gave Americans the very yoga that they wanted, and perhaps, could handle. I’m still not quite ready to say that his sequence has no merit, but it really is yoga tailored for Americans. Even in his 60 minutes interview, when his yoga was compared to McDonalds, and he was asked if this bothered him, he basically said ‘not at all.’</p> <p>Truly something to consider. </p> <p> </p><br /></div>Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-69041190627534399392008-11-26T19:43:00.000-08:002008-11-26T19:51:31.351-08:00My Yoga Costume on the floor<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrkX56VnruMB9mpd9y4pD7xanDILedJjxyOiYkclg6o93AM5kEZRT7ImcDcVuDU31zaI4urc4oIunVCZlqwB4gtdARkLM4mly_s-G3xlg2dOjp0g_Lpv0ix7qf462HhP8r_oc6fXQfh9lo/s1600-h/IMG_0033.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrkX56VnruMB9mpd9y4pD7xanDILedJjxyOiYkclg6o93AM5kEZRT7ImcDcVuDU31zaI4urc4oIunVCZlqwB4gtdARkLM4mly_s-G3xlg2dOjp0g_Lpv0ix7qf462HhP8r_oc6fXQfh9lo/s320/IMG_0033.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273179810595060418" border="0" /></a><br />It is coming with me to the Enchanted Mitten. I'm going to see my mom, and catching up with myself. So be it. I'm packing my bags, bringing my uniform, hoping that I'll have more to dispatch about from the chilly Midwest. I hope all y'all are having a grand turkey day, tofurky for the Bay folks, or whatever you do wherever you are. It's the Great Lakes for me, for the next month or more. See you soon.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-47546102171706221912008-11-25T20:22:00.000-08:002008-11-25T20:45:49.442-08:00In Through the Funky Door #2: The studio<a onblur="return true;try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8VX46F59YftjUXwzghNTFHqPb378XW14hcGqx8EYxDI0nlnxfzRWm0jGLeht-F8eD9vWJzVeyi3NfmlPZ_eIYTcE_fM9YEnTqGMPLAA6rWeLugawues4AgkwqXTbaurdp-nylpUw1Gy2r/s1600-h/436428545_71ee721fcb.jpg" mce_href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8VX46F59YftjUXwzghNTFHqPb378XW14hcGqx8EYxDI0nlnxfzRWm0jGLeht-F8eD9vWJzVeyi3NfmlPZ_eIYTcE_fM9YEnTqGMPLAA6rWeLugawues4AgkwqXTbaurdp-nylpUw1Gy2r/s1600-h/436428545_71ee721fcb.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8VX46F59YftjUXwzghNTFHqPb378XW14hcGqx8EYxDI0nlnxfzRWm0jGLeht-F8eD9vWJzVeyi3NfmlPZ_eIYTcE_fM9YEnTqGMPLAA6rWeLugawues4AgkwqXTbaurdp-nylpUw1Gy2r/s320/436428545_71ee721fcb.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272817646729984226" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" mce_src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8VX46F59YftjUXwzghNTFHqPb378XW14hcGqx8EYxDI0nlnxfzRWm0jGLeht-F8eD9vWJzVeyi3NfmlPZ_eIYTcE_fM9YEnTqGMPLAA6rWeLugawues4AgkwqXTbaurdp-nylpUw1Gy2r/s320/436428545_71ee721fcb.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />The Funky Door stands in front of me, flames inclusive, and the notable detail is that the windows are fogged, and dripping, as if there was a murky, cloud covered and chilly grey day- the sort that makes you reach for a good book and a cup of tea- happening on the inside of the building. I know the truth, though, it’s water that has passed through the pores of at least 100 students. And this is just the lobby. I’m exponentially beyond second thoughts at this point, but I said I’d do it, and so cross over to the other side.<br /><br />Now, I knew there would be cartoons on the walls. I’d pictured Pluto in Downward Dog or something, maybe an occasional Warrior Pose Barbie , but almost EVERY INCH of the studio is covered in exaggerated depictions of the asanas, as well as a host of other various yoganachronisms. I can best describe them with a laundry list:<br /><br />There hundreds of little cartoon people that evoke memories of the 1970’s illustrated puberty primer “What’s Happening to Me?”<br /><br />There are monkeys in bikinis.<br /><br />There are animals of all phyla, really, all striking poses.<br /><br />There is Richard Nixon.<br /><br />There is a Frankenstein wearing a T-shirt with a rainbow.<br /><br />There is even a little cartoon of Bikram himself.<br /><br />And those are just the cartoons.<br /><br />There is also a man behind the counter wearing only daisy duke/roller derby cut shorts, and I have to assume he embodies the expanded definition of a eunuch, as I cannot imagine his package wouldn’t make a desperate bid for freedom by tunneling out the bottom , like the worms in Dune. Without the girth, of course, given the lack of breathing room in his shorts. I know, I know, you might be tempted to speculate on my sexuality for me to notice such a thing, but understand I HAD NO CHOICE. His shorts command an attention married to compulsive gawking, like an airplane crash on the news. He, while not actually flaunting his pelvis, was certainly cognizant of what he must of have looked like when he put them on, and there was clearly no shame involved. If fact, I believe he took some pride in his 0.33 square feet of cloth. How can a pair of shorts somehow be smaller than a thong?<br /><br />There are also fake palm trees EVERYWHERE, small ones lining the top of the studio and larger ones in the hallway.<br /><br />There are brightly colored plastic chairs in the shape of hands, palmed cupped as if begging for alms, the alms being your ass, I suppose.<br /><br />There is a giant plaster sculpture of a blond nurse with a low cut blouse and miniskirt, a Red Cross emblem across her giant bazongas, and an enormously disproportionate head.<br /><br />To top it all off, the windows are tinted to give an orange Southern California hue across the lobby, and I feel that I have come to do yoga in not so much a studio as on the set of <a href="http://davelandweb.com/gallery/images/rogerrabbit.jpg" mce_href="http://davelandweb.com/gallery/images/rogerrabbit.jpg"><span style="font-style: italic;">Who Framed Roger Rabbit?!</span></a><br /><br />But that’s not quite all. There is one more cartoon, and it encapsulates the ethic and ambiance of the studio at large.<br /><br />It is of Bill Clinton standing on the Washington Monument in a standing split pose, wearing only a pair of heart-speckled boxers and an American flag tie, smoking a cigar and holding a cup of McDonald’s French fries in his outstretched hand, and……….wait for it……….Monica Lewinski on her knees preparing to fellate his big toe.<br /><br />I’m not making this up.<br /><br />It is this perverse Disneypomorphism that sets the tone for the studio. I feel that, shorn of the shackles of cultural mores, Americanism has run rampant over the Funky Door, a vapid, Hollywood-inspired rainbow of shopping-mall fungal strains let loose on an empty Petri dish.<br /><br />It is further bolstered when the teacher walks in the room. I don’t see him come in, but rather hear him. He is outfitted with a headset microphone, wired to hidden speakers, and the effect is of an omnipresent Voice of God.<br /><br />“Are you all feeling OK?” booms the ethereal voice.<br /><br />“You know, you girls could move toward the front if you want. I’ll be standing here a lot of the time, girls, and you may want to scoot up a bit, don’t be shy, let’s get closer!”<br /><br />I’m confused as to where the front is, but at least God has given me a clue- he must be somewhere along the perimeter of the room, and I’m whip-lashing wildly trying to locate him, amongst the presidential cartoons reflected in carnival mirrors. When I do find him, I’m perturbed to discover that it’s the Metrosexual Eunuch who controls our destiny for the next 90 minutes. He’s saucy, here and queer, and immediately employs a method of CONSTANT TALKING, the cadence and rhythm being a conflation of Richard Simmons without the sympathy and a Midwest County Fair pig auction.<br /><br />“Ok, OK! *Clap Clap* Let’s get right on to this!”<br /><br />The actual yoga, at this moment, does not look promising.<br /><br />NEXT UP: The actual class.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-80011330749333166962008-11-21T21:16:00.000-08:002008-11-21T21:25:13.123-08:00In Through the Funky Door: A Tale in Three Acts.Act I: Gathering the Where-with-all<br /><br />2:30 is the time of reckoning for me. It is currently noon.<br /><br />I’m being rather dramatic, sure, but I’ve been putting this off for so long that the notion of just going in the building has become saddled with artificial gravitas. I’ve heard SO MUCH about this place, from both directions, that it has grown beyond its britches in my own imagination, at least.<br /><br />Before we enter the studio, I need to make one last editorial aside: A last note on Mr. Bikram Choudury, and I’ll be done. I paint him as an asshat, but I don’t know the man, and it is probably unfair. I’ve heard stories from people who have, and while many say he is boastful, noting how many swimming pools he owns in public presentations, others have said he is compassionate, in ways that I won’t divulge on a public blog, even if this ain’t the <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/">Huffington Post</a>. And there is some notion that his ‘suing’ debacle may be concern for his sequence being executed correctly, rather than for the money. God knows he has enough. It’s hard to know what is true: It is all hearsay, and the most likely truth is that he is a measure of both, which just makes him a little more gauche, and touch more human, just like the rest of us, I suppose.<br /><br />So, let us focus on the studio. I’ve heard rumors of boot-camp instruction, pictures of cartoon yoga on the wall, egos-a-plenty. I know I’ll only last at this studio this one time, so it is first impressions only for the Funky Door. Perhaps unfair, maybe, perhaps not. Who can say?<br /><br />OK, <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> can. It will be unfair, and I clearly haven’t learned my ‘hearsay’ lesson, because I am predisposed to be critical, but then again, they’re the ones who painted flames on their windows and chose to name the studio after B.O., so they sorta have it coming. At least I’m as forthright with my prejudice as they are with the smell.<br /><br />And so, FINALLY, off I go.<br /><br />*Crossing my fingers and plugging my nose*<br /><br />Time to do this.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-45040145306229720432008-11-21T10:00:00.000-08:002008-11-21T10:18:59.821-08:00Updates<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif9O6DoR6fpKyOyCSGw-KtBAmk_-D-C4krqxZCQwNfhywPzqRsgS4UBLw3iI1Snnl-0g366wDvMfsySYy2P861f2rByfpAs10-V3ijLA57g6EdfS0OTSHkVX5gMB4rDVMXB-sUmZb4pTkA/s1600-h/AAAAAuy0z2gAAAAAAGFt1g.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 137px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif9O6DoR6fpKyOyCSGw-KtBAmk_-D-C4krqxZCQwNfhywPzqRsgS4UBLw3iI1Snnl-0g366wDvMfsySYy2P861f2rByfpAs10-V3ijLA57g6EdfS0OTSHkVX5gMB4rDVMXB-sUmZb4pTkA/s320/AAAAAuy0z2gAAAAAAGFt1g.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271176812650600770" border="0" /></a><br />Been a few days for certain, but things are churning along. I even got the wherewithal to head over to the Funky Door, but Mom called on my way up and I didn't want to explain to the Funky Sargent/Instructor that I was late because I was talking to Mom. That could only end badly.<br /><br />As we wait on Yoga Cop, I'm pleased to say Seattle blogger <a href="http://h0rk.blogspot.com/">Snotty McSnotterson</a> has volunteered to blog a bit on Yoga, as her friend Whoreleen works at a studio. I feel like Whoreleen should meet my friend Bitchy. Sparks would fly, I'm sure. Anyway, people actually READ her blog, and you should to.<br /><br />As I been lax as of late- looking for an actual job, dealing with real life, and whatnot- I'll dust off a few thoughts soon, but until then this be all you git.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-83442007524082381172008-11-15T18:52:00.001-08:002008-11-21T13:33:22.407-08:00Guest Blogger: Profile of a Yoga Cop<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDMyUbxlxnby9aATtso5Lizzc7ZKhgirfCeol4qkKU4kZtP0JNvTHfvsiMQc1W2BEnL-S9yBb664HsIgh3lDxmYMGx8WeIrZalFqRn4K2RFAEMT7OHGlMPxxTNQLDPNjdaTdJkJHY3yNZ/s1600-h/Full_Nelson_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 195px; height: 168px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDMyUbxlxnby9aATtso5Lizzc7ZKhgirfCeol4qkKU4kZtP0JNvTHfvsiMQc1W2BEnL-S9yBb664HsIgh3lDxmYMGx8WeIrZalFqRn4K2RFAEMT7OHGlMPxxTNQLDPNjdaTdJkJHY3yNZ/s320/Full_Nelson_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269090442867213778" border="0" /></a><br /><div>"Dear <span>Bananasana, my old friend... It's your favorite Yoga Cop.<br /><br /></span></div> <div><span></span> </div> <div><span>I haven't made it to the Yoga place yet, but I now have solid plans to do so later this week. I am going to go the place where my younger sister Chuckette goes, she promises that they will be gentle with me. I thought I would give you a little pre-post here, to give your gentle readers some background so they will thoroughly appreciate my pain."<br /><br /></span></div> <div><span></span> </div> <div><span><em><span style="font-weight: bold;">(Author's note, if you place editor's notes after each of my paragraphs like you so rudely did with your first guest writer, I will fully enlighten you in the experience of receiving a full nelson the next time you venture back home to the Enchanted Mitten).</span><br /><br />(Ed Note: By "Enchanted Mitten", he means Michigan.)<br /><br /></em></span></div> <div><span><em></em></span> </div> <div><span><em><span style="font-weight: bold;">(Author's note, there was no way I could make up a post without threatening you with physical harm, I thought I would get it out of the way early).</span><br /><br />(Ed. Note: This is the type of relationship Chuck and I have enjoyed for decades.)<br /><br /></em></span></div> <div><span></span><span></span> </div> <div><span>"So, although you painted a very flattering picture of me after I agreed to take on this challenge, I thought I would give a little more background info. By the way, thanks for the 200+ comment, you could have said 250+ and been more accurate."<br /><br /></span></div> <div><span></span> </div> <div><span>"I consider myself to be a somewhat athletic person. In my younger days, I was the terror of my high school JV tennis and wrestling teams. I clearly remember that I wrestled in the 112 lb weight class, which isn't so bad, until I add the part where I was darn near six feet tall at the time. The next seven years saw me add on about 20 lbs per year, and I have spent my time since somewhere between 220 and 260. So the last time I had yoga-type physique, the Bananasana was just starting to get interested in girls."<br /><br /></span></div> <div><span></span> </div> <div><span>"I manage to play in a few old person indoor soccer games from time to time and chase my four kids around. I am a firearms and subject control instructor at work which forces me to be at least slightly active. I recently started to try to get back into some kind of jogging shape. Two months ago I was in the worst shape of my life, due mainly to my own laziness with the kicker of having knee surgery as an excuse. Since then, I have been doing some walking/running workouts which have managed to move my gunbelt in a notch, which is good. Still have a long way to go though, and Yoga seems like it would be a good way to help me to my goal of (truthfully) saying that I weigh a little over 200 lbs."<br /><br /></span></div> <div><span></span> </div> <div><span>"I am looking forward to the physical part more so than the spiritual. I am wondering how the hippie peace and love vibe will interact with my warrior have-a-plan-to-kill-everyone-<wbr>you-meet type training. I am looking forward to having my chakras all loosened up and my chi centered, or whatever good stuff is supposed to happen after the class. I am hoping that it doesn't include an ambulance ride at any point.<br /><br /></span></div> <div><span></span> </div> <div><span>Till next week, my little smart-mouthed friend,<br /><br /></span></div> <div><span></span> </div> <div>Chuck Garbonzo"<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /></div>Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-17196682618380908632008-11-14T17:05:00.000-08:002008-11-21T13:45:43.021-08:00Bikram Class #1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv0x_EQHOEu8HJo6eOpK_504vJk3YB9bJFZPoITvDQ_u_DTomcl8IBMnrisURljKlC75-IbytCSwI9HpjpzDBiojDuTde0chGvnaI_Ur5JZQ_xWGNoygJnz2FogpfML-RjBEW8xjlxcjFa/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 98px; height: 141px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv0x_EQHOEu8HJo6eOpK_504vJk3YB9bJFZPoITvDQ_u_DTomcl8IBMnrisURljKlC75-IbytCSwI9HpjpzDBiojDuTde0chGvnaI_Ur5JZQ_xWGNoygJnz2FogpfML-RjBEW8xjlxcjFa/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268684429114919682" border="0" /></a><br />I’m still going to go to the Funky Door. Just not yet.<br /><br />I elected to head off to Bikram in El Cerrito rather than the Funky Door for the first time on the advice of my friends Garrick and Holly.<br /><br />Garrick and Holly are proper west coast hippies, born and bred. They have been to the Funky Door and found it wanting, as it seems many people have. Holly, in fact, worked the front desk for a awhile, at least until she was fired for wanting to take a fifteen minute break to eat a sandwich, which squares with the boot-camp vibe I hear about the place. I’m a touch intimidated, and so I go with Garrick’s suggestion to try on the gentler vibrations of this alternative studio.<br /><br />Nonetheless, we are still going to Bikram, it is still hot yoga, and I am still a little nervous. I’m chatting with Garrick on the way up, telling him that I hear the first few times are a little rough.<br /><br />“Yea, it’s pretty excruciating” he confirms.<br /><br />“You’ll be lucky if you can just stay in the room.” he says, not at all assuaging my fears. Isn’t he supposed my reassuring west-coast-permaculture-groovy guru?<br /><br />We arrive. There is one older Indian man there, a sikh, head wrap and everything, and he ends up to the left of me. I am in the exact center of the room, directly in front of the teacher.<br /><br />I wouldn’t mind being in the center so much if it weren’t for the set-up. I’m not sure if all Bikram studios are designed like this, but 3 of the 4 walls are covered in mirrors, and the back wall is outfitted with a handrail not unlike a ballet studio. The floors, however, are carpeted, which I can’t figure out. I sweat like a hog during normal yoga (although, biologically, this is a malapropism- humans are the only species with sweat glands covering their entire body, so it might be more accurate to say I sweat like a homo sapien, which is just redundant.) If we are going to all sweat like homo sapiens, won’t the carpet get kind of ……..musky?<br /><br />It is warm in the studio, sure, but it isn’t excruciating at first, and I figure I can handle it. We start with simple breathing exercises.<br /><br />Bikram is a specific, patented sequence, the same every time. We start of with a peculiar breathing technique in where we intertwine our fingers underneath our chins. The teacher- demonstrating for my benefit- exhales in a raspy hiss-like method.<br /><br />There was a mini-series in the 1980’s called “V” which stood for “visitors”. The premise was that this alien race, looking much like ourselves except wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses and orange jumpsuits, came to visit, on the pretense of peace and harmony. As it turns out, the human appearance was but a literal shell- the Ray Bans were to hide their reptilian pupils- and often enough they would grab their faces just under the chin and tear of the visage, a scaly, mucus-covered bipedal Komodo dragon underneath, which would then promptly devour the hapless human witness.<br /><br />The teacher is hissing and giving directions in a rather stentorian tones, and I am already needing to suppress the urge to flee. I’m aware that I’m being irrational, but still,I am directly in front of her after all, so I’m the first to go if she rips off her face. What with my Sikh compadre directly to my left, I’m just hoping she can’t palette Indian food. I think the heat does something to your brain.<br /><br />We carry on with class. We are asked to check our alignment in the mirror, and I admit, it is a useful tool, on one level. I never get to see myself do the yoga, and I can pick out places where my poses are wanting. The problem is, I can also see everyone in class, from every angle, and I do need to point out that Yoga classes are typically filled with rather shapely young women, in about an 8:1 ration to males, which makes it difficult to concentrate, at least in the beginning. It doesn’t help that should you try and avoid the distraction by looking the other way, you just get an eyeful in the mirror of the back row of shapely young women and a guy whose name might be Gus. This problem, however, is soon rectified.<br /><br />The space heater is on the whole time, and the room is becoming appreciably warmer. We are also generating quite a bit ourselves, and so it really is becoming unbearably hot and stuffy. Those of us who perhaps didn’t consider our wardrobes carefully before class and chose to wear lighter colored garments are beginning to sweat.<br /><br />Everywhere.<br /><br />Everywhere including our crotches is what I’m trying to say.<br /><br />The effect is to make it seem as if we are all collectively incontinent, such are the spreading puddles from our pelvises, and this- even though I know it’s just sweat- is evoking feelings of kindergarten playground shame. I had the unfortunate experience of wetting my pants on top of the jungle gym in preschool, in front of most of the people I would be spending the next 12 years with, and as you can imagine, reputations stick at that age. I’m desperately examining myself in the mirror, trying to discern whether my sweat puddles are visible. It is only a measure of facial hair that is tethering me to the fact that I am a grown-up, or at least the age of a grown-up.<br /><br />The latter half of class is mostly composed of floor poses, a poor choice as far as I’m concerned. It is getting REALLY difficult to breathe, and I attribute at least some of this to our proximity to the floor. Carbon Dioxide- which we are rapidly producing as we deplete all the available oxygen, is the heaviest component of all the gases in the atmosphere, at least the ones present in substantial amounts. In an open air situation, no big deal, but the room is nearly hermetically sealed, and the carbon dioxide will, in such situations, collect on the bottom of the room. I find myself gasping a bit as we get through the more difficult poses. I am also suspiciously eyeballing the mechanical contraption in the back. It looks to be a humidifier, and I can’t fathom it being physically possible to saturate the air with any more water vapor.<br /><br />Bikram Yoga, even though it originated with a gentleman from deepest darkest India, seems to me the most Americanized version I’ve tried as of yet. It seems incongruous to rely on artificially altering the internal atmosphere with machines, ones that weren’t available a century ago.<br /><br />Still, all said and done, I feel pretty good. I am forced to concede that Mr. Bikram Choudury- even with the asshat reputation he has- may be onto something. I make it through class intact, and even feel pretty good afterwards. I feel ready to test my mettle against the Funky Door.Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2812813122343662948.post-1528614252999270822008-11-09T12:48:00.000-08:002008-11-09T12:49:16.375-08:00A false dichotomy<span style="font-style: italic;">It is a slightly different post today, folks. I suppose it could be said that I’m guest blogging for myself. As well as all the nifty reviews and yoga diaries, I’d like to get a little deeper into all the elements that surround Yoga, and being as I’ve been trained as a scientist, that’s probably why I chose to write this little piece. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">On medicine, western and eastern</span><br /><br />We argue. We argue a lot.<br /><br />We argue about a great many subjects- the morality of abortion and stem cell research, the existence of God, the role of science in spiritual systems.<br /><br />We do, often enough, harm ourselves when we argue, blocking communication channels when we needn’t and-most importantly- shouldn’t. Take Eastern vs. Western medicine.<br /><br />Much like the two-party political system in America, the concepts of strictly Eastern and strictly Western medicine is a false dichotomy. There are platforms common to both, and both retain the same goal. In politics, the goal is to govern the people. In medicine, it is to treat the disease. Let us deconstruct these notions, with the intention of recognizing that both have their merits, and-most importantly- could both benefit by removing the blockage and coupling their respective strengths to each other.<br /><br />As this is a treatise on Yoga, it well serves our purpose to focus on Ayurvedic practice as our resident Eastern medicine.<br /><br />The word “Ayurveda” retains a holy-grail-type mysticism among health-food shoppers and Californian über-spiritual fitness experts alike. It is a measure of how much an alternative medicinal system was accepted here in the west, that the practice- and subsequently the word -is unquestionably accepted as ‘good’, and has been exploited by current manufacturers of holistic health products. It may help to debunk the notion of inherent ‘goodness’ if we take a look at how these labels are marketed on their native soil: Both toothpaste- a product you don’t actually consume, is purported to be ayurvedic. A popular brand of ayurvedic soap, Chandrika, purports to “ ensure your personal charm”. The Indian version of cornflakes have “Added Shakti!” much in the same way that we fortify our breakfast cereals, albeit with the mystic power of the Tri-devi feminine force. How that force is distilled and added to cornmeal remains undocumented.<br /><br />Let’s start this dissection simply. Ayurveda could loosely be paralleled to another holistic favorite ‘Chinese Medicine” – it was more or less the governing medical practice for centuries in India. Like the oft lauded ‘Chinese Medicine’, it is a holistic view that relies upon what it available- both in terms of diagnosis and of available treatments. Herein lies the false “east/west” dichotomy- it isn’t necessarily a difference of philosophy- both treat ailments- that lead to the different approaches, but rather a difference of tools.<br /><br />We need a metaphor for disease, and what better than a pastime everyone is familiar with?<br /><br />Imagine a pool table.<br /><br />Imagine three cue balls at one end, an eight ball at the other. In between these, imagine and array of pool balls, configured to a specific shape. And now, cover the table with a tarp- not completely mind you- the cue balls and the eight ball can still be seen , but all the others are obscured by the tarp.<br /><br />Let us label our metaphor- the eight ball represents the manifest symptoms of the disease. The #1-15 balls represent the internal mechanics- the specific biological molecules and pathway of the disease, and the cue balls represent the tools available to the physician. The specific configuration of the remaining pool balls represent the biological pathway of the disease- it is the same every time, in every person.<br /><br />The physician’s job is to sink the eight ball- to treat the disease- and in early medicinal tradition, there was really no way to gain an obvious, molecular insight as to how the disease occurred. We simply didn’t have the tools to visualize these molecules. This didn’t mean the disease was untreatable- in fact, through trial and error, a good practioner- this might be a better term than ‘physician’ even though both served the same purpose- could devise a system that at least stood a good chance of sinking the eight ball, at least more reliably than chance. If the practioner fires a cue ball at the right angle, the eight ball can still be sunk- fairly reliably- whether or not you can see what is happening under the tarp.<br /><br />Geometry is geometry and treatments are treatments- the practioner didn’t need to know what was happening under the tarp to know that it worked. That is not to say that they weren’t curious or didn’t learn anything- our analogy still serves, as you can certainly hear the impact of the billiard balls, and probably locate points of trajectory and intersection. It is speculation, certainly, but it seems natural to assume that this where the concepts of Chakras and acupuncture points came from- they simply are locations where internal energies and anatomical systems coalesce. They only aspect we need to keep in mind, however, is that all these observations were external. Certainly, dissection gave us an idea of internal anatomy, but if the early practioners wanted to see this happening ‘in the flesh’ as it were, they needed live subjects, and live subjects often resist being carved into, at least while they are still conscious.<br /><br />Enter tools, technology, and the western physician. In reality, there came microscopes, anaethesia, germ theory and biochemistry. In our analogy, we shall summarize the development of medical technology and finely calibrated scientific as a pair of scissors.<br /><br />With the scissors, physicians- and I think it is fair to introduce the term, although we may need to include a large contingent of research scientists, lab rats, and a host of other medical professionals who don’t and never will work directly with patients- could start to see what was happening with that particular array of billiard balls, the disease. The problem being it was a painstakingly long and tedious process. For the purposes of our analogy, we shall say that they could cut away a 3”x3” window at one time, each window being a culmination of decades of work. You can imagine that many of these windows would be useless- the only thing to report would be that this was a bad place to look.<br /><br />Careers in science are based upon this ‘non-knowledge’- much of scientific literature could be summed up as “ we looked here, found nothing, don’t bother”. Once in a great while, a window might be cut above a useful location- perhaps here the 2 ball hits the 5 ball, sending it towards the NW corner- but that’s all. And we might even be reasonable in saying that each window cut represents thousands of patients, patients that we can learn from, but not necessarily treat.<br /><br />This is where the ‘western’ physician gets a bad reputation. In seems cruel to us that this person, our doctor- purported to have taken the medical vow- could be so callous and uncaring as to see patients as data sets- but really it is a failure perception, coupled with the fear of being diagnosed with a chronic or fatal disease. It takes tremendous vision and patience to acknowledge and pursue a higher goal- to eradicate the disease in its entirety, to systematically elucidate every aspect so that nothing is left to chance- so that eventually no one will need suffer. The only problem being, it relies on those suffering NOW to acknowledge that nothing can currently be done- within this system at least. It asks the sufferers to acknowledge that they may well die, and nothing can be done for them, and to STILL volunteer themselves for the betterment of strangers, even hypothetical future strangers. A tough sell, to say the least.<br /><br />This may be why we perceive traditional practices as more humane- the aim being to treat the patient rather than the abstract concept of the disease. It might be good to note, while we have the pool table in front of us, that these aren’t diametrically opposed methods of practice- this is the same pool table after all- just different points of focus. It may well be that if the early medicinal practitioners had access to the same sorts of tools, they may have done the same- they were also looking systematically after all, hence all the chakra charts and acupressure point maps. <br /><br />It is also for lack of ‘official’ and ‘scientific’ sounding treatments that ayurvedic practices seem nebulous- diagnosis and treatments relied on what was available, and often seemed steeped in esoteric mysticism. It is again, however, a failure of imagination that led us to make distrust traditional medicine and make critical mistakes. Take Malaria, for example.<br /><br />The indigenous people - in Chris Columbus parlance, ‘Indians’- of the Amazon flood basin figured out a cure well before western medicine did. In fact, western medicine never did- in merely refined the active compound in the herbal treatments of the Indians, and eventually came up with a synthetic analog. This turned out to be a critical oversight.<br /><br />While the Indians had little or no conception of the molecular mechanics of the disease- they simply knew if they hit the cue ball in a certain direction, the disease went away.<br /><br />Enter the synthetic analog. Western medicine, as we all know too well, is subject to marketplace forces, and American pharmaceutical companies generally aren’t willing to pay for imported compounds if they can make serviceable replacements in the lab, as hundreds of thousands of Organic Chemistry students know. They figured it would work just fine.<br /><br />They were right- to a point. The quinine analog certainly did halt the progress of malaria, but the analog had a problem- for whatever reason, it allowed the parasite to become resistant very quickly- a matter of decades, while natural quinine had worked for thousands of years. In many regions, the local strains of malaria are completely resistant to the quinine analog, and travelers must take harsher psychoactive drugs like chloroquine and laramine*. What western physicians did, essentially, was to take an effective ‘primitive’ treatment for malaria and render it useless through its own arrogance and false confidence in molecular medicine.<br /><br />Let us not indict western medicine entirely- the proliference of snake oil and charlatanism in ‘holistic’ medicine runs rampant, and are too numerous to bother documenting- it’s certainly been done before, to the point where ‘homeopathic’ has become a blanket term meaning ‘found at Whole Foods, in the Health and Beauty section’ rather than it’s original latin derivation, that of ‘same disease agent.’ **<br /><br />All this to say- we, as a culture, would do well to bridge the gap between these methods. In a system where upwards of 50% of pharmaceuticals are derived directly from plant compounds, and the vast majority of the rest are simply synthetic doppelgangers of chemicals that were originally derived from plants, it may be time to acknowledge that the vast majority of our medicinal arsenal has its roots in , well, roots. On the same token, we might need to acknowledge that a steady diet of cayenne pepper, honey, and lemon juice condensed into pill form, labeled ayurvedic and marked up 400% may not cure cancer. We need to allow- and encourage- practitioners of both systems to work together, to bridge the perceived gap between the disciplines, for the betterment of the profession and the world.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*Laramine is said to make the traveler paranoid. If personal experience is any measure, laramine can make you believe that the shoeshine boys, eager to make a few pennies from you, are stalking the café, waiting to punch you in the kidneys, steal your wallet, and leave you in the gutter. The average shoeshine boy in Iquitos, Peru is about 8 years old.<br />**Homeopathy uses, as its lynchpin, the idea that minute quantities of a pathogen or allergen introduced to the body will lead the immune system to recognize it. For example, microscopic amounts of the allergen in poison ivy taken internally, may help the body to become ‘accustomed’ to it, and subsequently circumvent an allergic reaction then next time it is encountered en masse, so to speak, during a hike in the woods or otherwise. It is not, as many holistic commercial endeavors would lead you to believe, anything that doesn’t come directly from the pharmacy.<br /></span>Bananasanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03402670963315343458noreply@blogger.com0