ES LA HORA

Here are the first few lines of a piece I'm working on:


"There are two types of people:

Those who have time to 'hang out.'

And those of us who hate them."



**

The Amazing Race is on tonight. They are still in India, in Jaipur. Among other things, contestants have had to locate a certain chai stall, put the chai on a cart, push the cart until they could find a specific government buliding, and serve one tea at a time (in the old fashioned clay cups) to a list of functionaries who are spread here, there, and everywhere, and whose job seems to consist of waiting for the next chai (well, whose isn't, really). It was the perfect challenge for India. Last week the "older couple" was making their way to the end of that day's race via auto-rickshaw (the man, Meredith, is usually pretty easygoing but had a *spectacular* Larry David moment at one point -- at which we all took a drink as we watched it over and over again). Anyway a couple of boys turned around and waved to them, then put their arms around each other. "Ooooo-ooo-oooo," sang Kvetchen. "I think our friends are gaaaay-ay!"


While we're on the subject of TV -- Henry scored the new Family Guy episode (a week ahead of the rest of 'Merica; it premieres next Sunday). I'm here to tell you it is as scathing and shocking and guffaw-inducing as ever, if not moreso. Fox: the folks who give you right-wing talk shows and two of the best sit-coms in TV history (the other being the Simpsons of course). Filthy whores.

We also caught an episode of What Not to Wear, in which Susanna (as usual) finds herself busily kneading a woman's knockers, or tits as they call them there (whenever they say "tits" or "nits" or feel someone up, you must take a drink). She was in the midst of a full-frontal squeeze when Trini (the "thin one") circled her and then, much like a cat (and just as quick) her right arm flew out and slapped the woman's left breast. It happened so fast we almost missed it. It was indeed the same movement my cat does when I walk by and he's annoyed and takes a swipe at me, and I'm not sure if he really did it and walk by again just to see if I was right in thinking he had. And thanks to TiVo we were able to watch Trini paw the woman a dozen times before the wine ran out / laughter died down.

**

Today some neighbour took it upon themself to move my clothes from the washer to the dryer. Normally the practice is to leave them where they are or put the clothes *on* the dryer. Which is a good thing, since most of my too-young-for-me outfits need to be drip-dried. But not these neighbours. They put my clothes *IN* the dryer. ON HIGH. And now I am the owner of two Barbie-sized vintage white long-sleeve t-shirts which I can no longer wear (Fashion Targets Breast Cancer, circa 1996, and Boss Hog's 2000 "Whiteout" tour, if you must know). And the nabes are the recipients of a snippy little note.

So much for non-attachment.

NIRVANA

The sages say that the only things we can control are our emotions / the fluctuations of the mind / our reactions to things that happen to us.

Having tried and tried and tried this and failed and failed and failed, I cannot agree.

But I have found that one thing most of us can control -- those without children, anyway -- is the amount of clutter in our house.

I've become convinced that the amount of mess in our habitat is greater than or equal to that in our mind, and that it's impossible to clear the latter when the former is disorganized.

Unfortunately mine is a minefield right now; even my virtual desktop is in very real disarray.

So much for chaos-control.

POPOPOLY: THE NEW MEDIA SATURATION GAME



Each time you hear "Pontiff" take a drink

Dive under the covers and take a shot whenever you hear "Conclave"

Sing a Beatles song (from start to finish) for every "John Paul II"

Light up whenever they talk about the white smoke.

Torch something when it's black.

Don something red for every mention of "Cardinal" (two items if it's plural). When you run out of clothes, switch to slathering yourself with red-tinged food and drink. No bathing til the smoke turns white.

Remove a piece of clothing for each "Fresco."

Read the back of a different cereal box for every mention of The Da Vinci Code.

Fall on your face every time NPR's Sylvia Poggioli files a report.

Fall on your sword if it's a rerun.

Hook up sans birth control each time Vatican II is invoked.

Stop in the middle if you hear "Wooden Balls."

Slap someone silly 16 times for each "Sistene." (If no one's around, pop in the "Sixteen Candles" DVD).

Defecate each time you hear a pundit pontificate.

Wander the streets like an Alzheimer's patient when they say "Rome."

Return home when the bells start to ring.

BAD LADY (AGAIN)

A trip to the doctor for what I thought was Pinkeye last week revealed that no, the reason I kept trying to scratch out both mine eyes had nothing to do with Pinkeye and everything to do with allergies. She then told me I've been walking around with an upper respiratory infection and prescribed amoxicillin. And some eye drops. As the pharmacist was ringing me up she asked (again) if I had insurance and reminded me that I could not return medication once it was purchased. Then she asked if I knew that the eye drops cost $95. I said no and held onto the counter. (Did I mention that I felt really, really sick and just spent 40 minutes shopping while I waited for my 'scrip, which was sposed to have been filled within 20? And that the Edgewater Jewel at noontime on a Thursday is the Land of Thousand Gimps, all of whom seem to be bent on knocking their shopping cart into yours?). As I stood there and sweated I realized I had spent more than that on the cat's last vet visit. But when I found out there *was* no generic version I said, "Take it off. I'll call the doctor." After much back-and-forth with the doctor and yet another pharmacist, i was able to -- hours later -- pick up some $15 drops (name brand!) that have worked many wonders on my eyes. Too bad the amoxicillin is giving me stomachaches. (<----man, that word looks *funny*), diarrhea, headache and exhaustion (or was that due to the 14 classes and trip to Madison last week?). I am convinced it's pseudomembranous colitis. From Medicinenet.com:

"...Antibiotics can alter the normal bacteria flora of the colon and permit overgrowth of C. difficile, a bacteria responsible for pseudomembranous colitis. Patients who develop pseudomembranous colitis as a result of antibiotic treatment can experience diarrhea, abdominal pain, fever, and sometimes even shock."

But the migraine and nausea this morning -- I was *sure* I was going to vomit during all those forward bends -- did not stop me from practicing. Nope. Not me.

FEAST OR FAME

Friday I taught three in a row and then headed over to Enelle's house, where I sprayed brown gook on my grey roots and installed the fake boobs, and we shot the missing "Tom From 'Nam" scene from the sit-com. Suffice to say it made us roll on the floor. But now of course I'm depressed that we're done shooting, and I'm no longer "talent" but some 40-year old awaiting her next role and/or Gap ad.

I saw the fillum Mughal E Azam yesterday -- amazing, you must go (even though I know you won't) -- and even talked to the theater manager about getting screening copies of fillums before they hit the big screen, so that one can review them. Apparently it's impossible, although it *is* often possible to find bootleg copies of yet-to-be-released fillums on Devon Avenue. That's where I went yesterday after getting a late e-mail asking me to do a capsule review of the 2003 Bollywood action blockbuster The Hero: Love Story of a Spy. It's screening April 13 at the University of Chicago's DOC Films as part of its Wednesday night Bollywood series (http://docfilms.uchicago.edu/calendar.shtml#wednesday). The DVD was only $10 at Mansoor Video.

In addition to getting the movie review in by 10 (seems like 9) tomorrow, I'm compiling a list of Chicago performance venues for some new travel guide (due tomorrow) and working on the May media column (the local public radio station is planning to spin off an all-music station next year; yet somehow the music will include expensive NPR talk shows such as Morning Edition). That was due Friday. I'm also cleaning up a review of Kari Tomashik's recent High Energy Yoga (an offshoot of Iyengar created by the late Roger Eischens) workshop, which I turned in Friday. And writing a sample club review for said travel guide (due tomorrow). And compiling a list for Chicago mag's upcoming Best Of Chicago issue (due ASAP so I don't get scooped). If you have any ideas, send 'em on.

At least I got the taxes to the accountant on Thursday.... which was the last day of March. That's a new land speed record for me.

And I'm finishing up Wendy (www.poundy.com) McClure's brilliant memoir "I'm Not the New Me" (for a profile) and in the middle of watching The Hero... which isn't at all painful although it features one of my favourite Bollywood action conceits: Hero flying slow-mo through the air, pistols in both fists, shooting (and hitting!) a slew of Bad Men (usually Muslim terrorists) who are trying to kill the Chaste Girl. Oh yeah, and I teach at noon (seems like 11) today and again at 8 (seems like 7) tomorrow morn.

Today is the eighth anniversary of my mother's death. I am still driving her car.* Barely.

Time to do yoga. Now.

The question is, when will I find time to feed the birds today (yearly ritual in honor of La Madre)?

And when will there be time to watch last week's episode of The Shield?






INJURY OF THE WEEK:
Broken/sprained, very painful, bright purple toe (middle left)






---



*'91 Geo Prizm that's needin' some pimpin'

TWO FOR.... THURSDAY

The 1960 classic Mughal-e-Azam, recently colourised, opens tomorrow at the Des Plaines Theatre (1/2 hour from Chicago; the Metra train station is less than a block away from the theatre). It's a rare chance to see it on the big screen; apparently it boasts the best and most moving music our friend Bindi has ever heard in an Indian fillum. So clear out three hours (plus an hour for the r/t commute) and go. Timings and directions are at www.desplainescinema.com.



It seems there was a strike, and Mysore (12-ish hours ahead of us) was shut down today. Something tells me it was business as usual at the Ashtanga Yoga Nilam. From today's Star of Mysore (www.starofmysore.com):

   TRADE BANDH HITS CONSUMERS



Mysore, Mar. 31 (BLU&BRS)- Majority of traders in the heart of the city and extensions downed shutters today to observe bandh in response to the call given by All India Federation of Traders Association demanding modifications in VAT (Value Added Tax) system. The State Government is implementing VAT from tomorrow.

Consumers dependent on the shops for their many daily needs were left to fend for themselves.

They could be seen swarming around a few shops which were kept half-open in the morning.

Residents of Agrahara, Nanjumalige, Vidyaranyapuram and surrounding areas, took the brunt of the bandh. These areas witnessed curfew-like atmosphere in many thoroughfares.

However, hotels, drug stores, liquor shops and cinema halls conducted their business as usual.

Business establishments in major commercial areas like Devaraj Urs road, Sayyaji Rao Road, Shivarampet, Old Bank Road, Ashoka Road, Irwin Road, Dhanvanthri Road and Gandhi Square remained closed.

Nearly a thousand businessmen took out a procession from K.R. Circle to DC's office at noon holding placards. A delegation of the traders submitted a memorandum to the Deputy Commissioner.

The memorandum urged the Government to raise the turnover ceiling for VAT from Rs. 10 lakh to Rs. 25 lakh.

It also urged the Government to suspend harsh measures like fine and punishment for violation of VAT during the first two years. It said it was not proper for implementing VAT in some States while sparing others.

The memorandum also opposed imposition of other Central and State taxes along with VAT.

The procession was led by Mysore Chamber of Commerce and Industry President H.N. Ramathirtha, Hon. Secretary A.S. Satish, Mysore Grain Merchants Association President C. Krishnappa, APMC Grain Merchants Association Director C. Narayan and others.

The bandh at APMC in Bandi-palya badly hit the farmers who had come along with their commodities.

The vendors of perishables such as flowers, fruits and vegetables at the locations of their daily business, however, carried on their trade without any hindrance.

The consumers heaved a sigh of relief for the small mercies shown by at least a section of traders.

Meanwhile, some shops on Devaraj Urs Road opened after the procession passed through. Some activists, supporting the bandh, were seen forcing them to down the shutters.

ODE ON AN ODIOUS MONTH



TS Eliot said that April is the cruelest month.

And most of us would agree that February is the coldest.

But March is definitely the longest -- at least here in the Midwest.

I know this because on yet another dank, sunless day, my usually chipper yoga students will complain about the cold and snow -- again -- and ask why they have no energy.

"Because it's March," I tell them. "There’s no sun."

And as the month draws to a blustery, dark close, the students who aren’t out sick will start saying some very non-yogic things -- like "I hate March" and "Will this effing month never end?"

I see their point. They made it through February and are waiting for their reward. But this is Chicago. There is no reward.

It doesn’t matter whether March comes in like a lion or a lamb or some other Biblical creature. Because it always sticks around like a leech.

In March the average temperature in Chicago is 37 degrees, and 18 of the month’s 31 days are cloudy -- second only to December’s 19. And this year March began with Mother Nature dropping a bomb of snow on the city.

Sure, the first day of spring was on the 21st. But no one noticed.

And yes, there is always a day or two when the sun comes out and the temperature hovers near 50 and fratboys don shorts and blind us with their fat white winter legs.

The next day it will snow, of course, and the shorts and spring jackets will go back into storage (the baseball caps stay out of course).

But in March the snow never sticks around long enough to look pretty. Instead it stays just long enough to mix with the salt and dirt and turn the entire city an even more depressing shade of gray.

March is like a relationship that’s on its last legs but won’t give up the ghost. Both partners are compelled to flog it to death until the bitter end, making themselves and everyone around them completely miserable.

A week later the sun will come out again -- kind of like a wayward lover promising to do better. And he does for a day. And then goes back to his irritating old tricks.

Is it any coincidence that the third month inspired the terms Mad as a March Hare and March Madness? That last term isn’t about basketball -- it’s about losing it during a winter that never ends. This year alone sets a new record for random acts of insanity. On March 12 Brian Nichols killed three people outside an Atlanta courthouse. The next day Terry Ratzmann opened fire at Living Church of God in suburban Milwaukee, killing seven. On March 21, Red Lake High School student Jeff Weise killed ten people, including himself. Two days later a man opened fire at a plumbing store in Arlington Heights, Illinois (he missed). And on the 24th, Rockford, Illinois’ Michael W. Mitchell brandished a box cutter and tried to steal a gun from a store in Florida, so he could "take some action and rescue Terri Schiavo." (At least the Midwest is well represented here).

In early Roman times March was the first month of year, named for Mars -- the god of war -- and was actually designated "the time for resumption of war" (which apparently still holds true, seeing as how the US invaded Iraq two Marches ago).

Mostly, though, March just befuddles people -- like the woman with the $300 haircut who walked past me at Jewel grocery store the other day, wearing a flowered rayon skirt, stylish pink jacket ... and salt-covered winter boots.

Like me, she was sick and tired of wearing the same old down jacket and corduroy jeans.

So maybe I’ll defy the weather, too, and break out the miniskirt and combat boots.

After all, the cruelest month is just around the corner.

FUTZ-TUTZING

This morning's Mysore class was marred by the existence of two Futzers (people who dawdle), two Researchers (people who prep and prep and prep -- often with second series poses -- before going into a primary series pose) and two Free-Formers (there have been some minor skirmishes here between straight-up Mysore folks, who go by the book -- the book being Yoga Mala -- and those who see fit to add and subtract from and otherwise "improve" upon the practice of ashtanga yoga in their so-called Mysore classes... which means you get many different interpretations of the practice in Chi-town). In any case the Free-Formers were across from me, which meant there was no Dristi or inward focus but much marveling at their unique versions of the primary series... which in one case meant no vinyasa whatsoever, loud, earth-shaking jumping and backbend after inversions -- and which included Garudasana (Eagle pose) and various power yoga moves rarely performed outside of NYC's Om and Jivamukti studios.

At least there weren't any Locomotives (those distracting practitioners -- usually male -- who have no apparent inhale and force out their loud, short, violent exhale like Thomas the Tank Engine negotiating a steep, steep hill).

That said, it was good to practice at all, what with the sore back, tight hamstrings, hint of a cold and a demoralizing week dealing with Editors Who Can't Stand Me. (Did anyone else notice that yesterday was a full moon, Good Friday, Purim *and* the Hindu holiday of Holi? And earlier in the week it was the Persian and Bah'ai New Year!). So I could barely go into backbend today -- At least I was there. And, in the neverending month that is March (more on that soon), sometimes that's enough....

YOU’RE EITHER WITH US OR AGAINST US*....
(or, why worry about foreign terrorists, when the homegrown version is so effective?)

Am I mistaken, or have more people been going postal of late:



February 24
David Hernandez Arroyo, Sr., using an an AK-47, kills two (inlcuding his ex-wife) in a Tyler, Texas courthouse rampage before being gunned down by police


Februay 28
Bart Ross kills Chicago Judge Joan Humphrey Lefkow's mother and husband (this occurred about two miles northeast of Satya's house).

March 12
Brian Nichols kills at least three people at an Atlanta courthouse.

March 13
Milwaukee-area loner Terry Ratzmann opens fire at the Living Church of God, killing seven (including himself)

March 21
16-year-old high school student Jeff Weise goes Columbine, killing ten (including himself) in Red Lake Minnesota




It's interesting that the Midwest is so well-represented....One can't help but wonder if it's all the unfortunate result of a too-long and too-dark winter (March Madness coming home to roost) or too much TiVo or not enough yoga / other hobbies or a reflection of what the gov's doing overseas or what.....






*From Bush's Sept. 21, 2001 speech, -- the last time the rest of the world really, really liked U.S.

UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA

Today while attempting pinca mayurasana (a forearm balance with the legs in the air), my legs went all the way over and I flipped onto my back, emitting a very loud "Oh!" in the process.

It was more surprising than painful, though.

One wonders if jumping back from the pose into caturanga dandasana could be so anticlimactic.

Doubt it.

ODDS 'N (BLOODY) SODS


A Review of Bride & Prejudice from The Times of India (and I thought all those local papers lacked bite):


"The film employs the worst pre-packaged cliches about 'natives' letting their hair down at assorted weddings, as a classy, uptight American gulps in embarrassment while discreetly eying the pale and lifeless daughter of a middle-class family in Amritsar. Of course, there are shots of the Golden Temple to thrill the cockles of Britain's nostalgic Sikh community. What? No snakes and snake charmers? Relax, there's a hilarious Cobra dance. "


***


My favourite new web site is Badmash.org (thanks, Bindi) -- featuring really sharp desi cartoons. To start, click on issue #71: "for that yoga flame").


***


Oh yeah. I ran into the Vexx yesterday morn.

No, wait, he was standing by my bike after I taught two classes in a row and came out of the Habitrail club in a haze.

He had to call out to me twice before I saw him.

Stalking? It was snowing.

Apparently he's now driving a Volvo wagon. Apparently That Woman has sold half her apt. to him. Apparently...

Funny, the cat just threw up. While I was writing that last "Apparently"

Apparently he sold the recording studio and works out of her living room.....I mean "their" living room.

Apparently there was some need to tell me all this.

Apparently that couldda been me.

Most definitely I am better off (although three of the five missing lbs have come back home to roost).

I got off some real zingers, too.


***

That episode aired (erred?), er, occurred just five days after Jack and I went out to dinner with his ex-galpal and her husband and his (comedy) partner and intern. They were smart and accomplished but not to the point where you feel like a dullard. We were eating Death by Nachos and discussing various theater susperstitions and David Foster Wallace, etc. when some Liquid Sky-looking chick walked in. All the male heads turned at once. Turns out they were looking at Jack's most recent vexing ex.

ME: "So THAT'S why you wanted me to dye my hair blonde and get it cut short!"

ME AGAIN: "My god, Jack -- Half the women in this place have b*nged you!"

AND (hey, I had The PMS): "She looks a little pinched."

He agreed to the last. And a good time was had by all.

NEW BEGINNINGS (?)

Did the war in Iraq start on March 16 2003? I thought it had. But after a Google search, I'm not so sure. Some news sources say it began March 14 or 15, others claim March 20. I think it's actually March 19. I supect that the people of Iraq and certain war vets remember the date quite well.....but for my sake let's say 'twas March 16:

-Two years ago the US invaded Iraq (the current death toll is some 16,000 dead civilians and over 1500 US troops, etc)

-One year ago (a few days before I left India) I got that e-message telling me my most regular, lucrative and long-running (8 years) writing assigment was being handed to my sub.* Some highlights:

" I think it's time to make a transition to a new....writer, and this leave of absence is as good a time as any..... Bla bla bla......various reasons....Bla.... not least the benefits that arise from making change for its own sake...Bla.... don't in any way interpret this as punishment or retaliation for your having taken time off."

Mmmmhmmm.

-This year I'm telling you that I'm teaching some 13 classes a week and my writing career is neither here nor there. I can barely go into backbend, let alone stand up from it.

That said, any yoga practice I can do is a godsend, the Shield is back on TV, the disheveled brothers are still in The Amazing Race and the Iraqi war vet has still not had a single flashback.

Except to old girlfriends.

Which is a whole 'nother story.....



------



*Who now apparenty works at CB2

A SERIES OF ANNOYING BUT NOT-SO-UNFORTUNATE EVENTS

Apparently my latest radio essay aired while I was teaching open yoga to 14 people (one pregnant, one of whom hightailed it out of there before giving her last name)..... which just about covers the $30 parking ticket I received from a one-legged man the minute the meter expired, just after class ended (I also slipped on some snow-covered ice just before class, and tumbled down a half-flight of stairs, injuring my right hip, wrist and shoulder....Even worse, Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time" is now lodged in my brain... and, hopefully, yours too):


"Satya
 
We were a bit short this morning, so your essay will be on around 10:30 this morning!
 
Sorry for the short notice…its unfortunately the nature of the business.  I do have a copy of Online Dating for you and will also get one for this essay as well.
 
Best,
 
Manju C.
Producer"






The essay in question........



CONSPIRACY
By Satya Cacananda


I was driving on the tollway towards Chicago when my brother called to tell me -- again -- that I had to leave the city and move somewhere decent.  He still lives in our hometown of McHenry out in the northwest suburbs , and calls me on my prepaid cell phone every time there's a scandal in the city.   Which is often. 


This time he was hopping mad about Jeffrey Boyle, the Chicago fire lieutenant suspected of setting fires. But he was also incensed with another Boyle brother -- John "Quarters" Boyle, who was charged last year with taking payoffs in the Trucks for Hire scandal.

Our conversation turned to Quarters' nickname, which he got  after being  convicted  of stealing $4 million in change from the Illinois Tollway Authority.

I told my brother I’d opened two rolls of pennies for this trip on the tollway, and was preparing to drop all 100 of them into the toll basket. 

I've been tossing pennies into the toll baskets for years out of principle -- the tollways were paid off long ago, and payments from motorists were supposed to be  temporary.   Pitching pennies is my one-woman protest, designed to make it as difficult and as expensive as possible for the state to take -- and transport -- my money. 

But I didn't get serious and start buying rolls of pennies until after the first of the year, when tolls doubled for drivers who paid in cash instead of using I-Pass. 

I brought home one of those  I-Pass devices.  But I don't like being coerced into having my movements tracked, even if it means paying double.  And when I opened up the box and saw how much information they wanted from me,  I decided to put off the transition as long as possible. 

I don't like anyone knowing what I'm up to -- that's one of the reasons I live in a big apartment building on a busy street.  But it doesn't stop there.  I   never use  an ATM card, and pay in cash whenever I can.  I buy magazines at the newsstand rather than subscribe.  The US Patriot Act makes it much easier for the government to track the library books and videos I borrow.   So I get what I can from friends.   "They"  can also track the TV shows we watch and the web sites we visit -- so of course I don't have TiVo or a cable modem. And when it was time to fill out the application for a Jewel Preferred Card,  I used the first two street names that came to mind and created  a whole new identity -- Lawrence J. Wacker.  After all, I don't want The Man to find out I don't eat meat.

My brother warned me that I'd better not put my name on this essay.   He said if I did, Homeland Security would be onto me in no time.

So this is Larry Wacker.  Reporting from corrupt, beautiful, laissez-faire Chicago. 

While she still can.

SRA. LACONICA

The back is mending little by little what with help from the magical exercises in Pain Free (by Peter Egoscue, a big man with a moustache) and a visit to the chiro who's covering for my regular chiro. Turns out the new chiro's family's from Mumbai and his uncle is *a major producer of Bollywood fillums*. Although he's from Toronto and has never visited India, he's met every single star I named (all three of 'em) plus many I didn't. Can't wait to go back this afternoon....

That will be *after* a trip to Devon Avenue (street of Indian shops and restaurants).

Which reminds me. The competition to the Backwards R -- TimeOut Chicago -- has finally launched. It's coherent and easy-to-follow (unlike the re-designed, slightly dumbed-down Backwards R) and even has listings for kids' stuff... Not only that but you don't have to bend over (and throw out your back) to pick it up off the floor -- it comes right to your mailbox! ... yes, I'm kicking myself for not hitting 'em up for work after returning from India last year sans lucrative weekly Backwards R column. At the same time their movie listings are incomplete and the Backwards R covers things TOC would never even admit exist.......

BEAT ON THE BACK, BEAT ON THE BRAT, BEAT ON THE BACK WITH A BASEBALL BAT
(oh yeah)


Prior to Monday, I believed that people who "threw their back out" were full of sh*t; that the inevitable incapacitation and whining that came with it was a either a desperate cry for attention or a convenient excuse for breaking plans with me -- or both. Worse, I thought that if they were indeed in actual pain, it was their own fault for being stupid.

I take all of that back. Except for the last part. It IS probably quite foolish to repeatedly help tall, stiff yogi men drop back from standing into Backbend (and back up again, several times) when the entire time you're thinking, "This guy weighs too much! He's not ready for this. I'm not ready for this! Why did anyone ever start him on dropbacks? He should learn to walk down the wall instead, and open his own *&^%$#@ back......Why am I doing this? Mon dieu I hope my foot doesn't slip, and I fall on my tailbone! Please don't let my foot slip!" (There's less concern about Stiffy falling onto his head; having experienced this with Guruji in Mysore, I know it can be overcome. On the other hand, I'm still suffering the effects of a hard fall from Utthita Hasta Padangustasana onto my coccyx during a 1998 Mysore workshop, the trauma of which created an imbalance that has contributed to two hamstring pulls, wrist and knee pain, chronic S-I joint problems and thousands of dollars of therapy).

So yesterday while helping yet another Stiff Man back onto his head -- my least favorite part of the whole ordeal -- I felt something lock up somewhere around L3, and pain started shooting in every direction. Next thing I knew I was walking like Chaka from Land of the Lost. Every adjustment after that was a nightmare.

Ice, napping, exercises from Pain Free (a book that solved my chronic knee problem), liberal application of Traumeel (arnica) and the standing poses did little to help. While demonstrating the seated poses last night I was racked with pain -- particularly during the asanas with one leg straight, one bent. Tylenol PM and ice helped with sleep but as soon as it wore off it all came rushing back. *Now* I know what it feels like to be 40.

Of course the chiropractor is out of town.

And now my sad yoga practice is going to slip backwards even further...and when it finally resumes my hands will now be feet from my feet (rather than inches) in Kapotasana. Standing up from backbend? Not in this commercial! (In fact, doing it with splayed feet for 12 months probably contributed to this mess). Not that it's about *getting poses* or anything.

The good news is that I now have an excuse to get out of all and sundry obligations and spend some quality time sleeping in and bringing to the next level of intimacy my blossoming personal relationship with BBC America. And I'll hopefully command some much-needed attention in the process.....

Or so I think.

LIKE A VIRGIN......


From Howard Hughes wannabe Steve Fossett's web site:

"Three days before this particular attempt, he will go on a low residue diet of protein orientated foods like eggs to ensure that nothing upsets his digestive system and to dispense with the worry and inconvenience of mid-air of bowel movements. He will also be equipped with a pee bottle and a supply of diet milkshakes - which are low residue yet nutricious."

LIMBO

No word yet on when the latest radio piece will air but today they did put on something by Aaron Freeman, one of the city's most ubiquitous and ________ writers (the "Council Wars" author's new stage show is running at the Apollo Theatre, next door to "Menopause the Musical"), so hopefully they've already run it or it's somewhere in the queue. As soon as I know I'll tell you. If not, I'll post the text here when I'm out of ideas.

In the past week:

-People in my class at the Fancy Seventies (lots of dark brown wood) Health Club on Sunday actually *listened* to what I said -- I doubt they've really gotten over their nasty habits of crossing their thumbs in V1, V2, Utkat and Parsvattonasana and sitting on their well-appointed arses and watching while I do vinyasas, *but* -- and afterwords a couple of 'em explained why; apparently *I* explain why we do certain things in yoga, "rather than just telling us to follow along." I usually explain things ad nauseum when I'm exasperated at their seeming deafness. I guess if it makes sense, they're more likely to do it (kind of like children, hmmmmm). And that from an ESL speaker no less (who also mentioned that he translated the entire class to his equally musclebound non-English speaking friend. Good man, that). Although it could be that they listened because my pink-pink top matched my way-too-visible-in-the-mirror thong. You never know.....

-After taking the Clubman moustache wax I gave him for a final spin and twirling up some really festive handlebars, Jack made good on his word and shaved off his beard, moustache and sideburns. This happened Sunday night, while I sat on the toilet and watched. Lid down. 'Twas a long and laborious process once the handlebars came off. Lots of snipping snipping snipping with scissors as red, brown and grey tufts flew everywhere. Followed by lots of foaming and shaving, interspersed with brushing and rinsing off the oft-clogged blade. He saved the intact part of the moustache for last; it made him look like an on-the-take cop. (Oops. Redudant). That was scary enough. Then he emerged tre clean-cut -- as someone much younger and far less serious looking than the Jack I know (two grey streaks in a beard can make a guy look positively professorial). I hardly recognized him. Recognize him. He also kisses differently (too much information, I know) and in some ways yes, it's like I'm cheating on him with him.

-On Friday me, Munkin and Jack went ice skating at one of the city's outdoor rinks, all of which closed for the season on the 27th. There was free parking, free skating, good weather, plentiful fresh air and lots of ice-space on which to suck at skating while tiny children whizzed by doing triple Axels (one pink-clad 'tween even tried to check me into the wall. But I showed *her*). Unfortunately the music they played is still reverberating in my head: the Bee Gees' "How Deep is Your Love?" , that annoying "Who Let the Dogs Out?" ditty and Lenny Kravitz's "Mr. Cab Driver," which they played complete with unbleeped "Fuck you!" Fun for the whole family. Can't wait to hear what they come up with next year.

-If you like The Amazing Race, which starts up again tonight, you'll love this very Satya Caca-esque take on Season 7: Media Fiends

-More caca here: The Brink

PHIL MIHOLE IN DA HOUSE (WITH SPECIAL GUEST LARRY WACKER)


I went down to Navy Pier today to record my second radio essay, which is about Chicago corruption and how I put pennies in the toll baskets and use a fake name on my Jewel Preferred Card. It may air as early as tomorrow.

Since it's my second one I'm hoping it's not a fluke.

This reminds me of this time last year, when, after years of trying and failing, I first stood up from backbend. I thought it was an aberration and would go away. When I was able to do it again, it seemed like perhaps I really *could* do it, and that it might even stick (which it has, but barely; even today I struggled with it and felt like the Heaviest Grrl. in the World). I'm crossing my fingers that I have indeed penetrated the well-guarded fortress that is public radio -- something I've been trying to do for years. So far, writing and recording these things is *so* much more fun than print -- these editors actually compliment and encourage you -- which attracts editors who offer a bored sigh and act like *you* should pay *them* to publish your work. I now like to think of print as Journalism's Ghetto.

With TV and film being of course Kenilworth and the Gold Coast. Radio is Naperville.

You have to eat ramen in Naperville, with what they pay.

But at least the schools are good.









FROM MY MYSORE DIARY, EXACTLY ONE YEAR AGO (TO THE DAY):


Wednesday, February 25, 2004


So yes I've been coming up from backbend for just over a week and doing pasasana (first pose in the intermediate series) since Monday. I didn't want to commit it to print because the moment I did (I thought) it would disappear -- seeing as how I spent *four months* trying to do this in 2002. (I was worried it'd be like saying, "Rumplestiltskin"). So let's hope for the best.....




TUESDAY 2/24:
So today I woke up exhausted and went to yoga and got the worst spot in the house -- the one right in front of the door to the lobby, where everyone waits, staring intently at what we're doing. And who is front and center but me. I chortled when Guruji said, "you go there" because I thought, "no WAY am I going to be able to come up from backbend in front of THAT audience." Plus I had sick people all around me, not to mention an EXHALER. This is a person who thinks ujjai breath -- which should sound like the ebb and flow of the sea / darth vader / steam iron -- is all about the exhale. They have a loud, harsh exhale, like it's a contest to see who can drown out everyone else, and a short, invisible inhale. It sounds like some old-fashioned steam train. This guy was SO LOUD I could not hear my own breathing. Worse yet, I started breathing like him. And then the audience was there to see an unusually clumsy practice. Plus it was breezy and I never broke a sweat. Sharath helped me in pasasana (first pose of intermediate series) and then it was showtime. I did four BB's. My first attempt to come up was aborted (ie, I fell). The second one was all slapstick but successful. Then it was time to drop back. I did a superslowmo in front of all of those faces -- and landed gently. I walked my hands in and came up a second time, with a little less comedy. Dropped back again and again; thelast time was worth an Olympic 8, I think. Beautiful. Then I did dropbacks with Sharath. I figure now that I've done it in front of that many people, I can really do it -- it's not a fluke or an accident. After two frustrating years I AM COMING UP FROM BACKBEND (most of the time). Very exciting.

9 FILLUMS A WEEK, 24 FRAME PER SECOND


Last Monday, after a delightful V.D. meal at Mysore Woodlands that included thali and the pink rose-flavored ice cream, vermicelli noodle and tapioca ball treat called Falooda, Jack and I watched the final hour of Salaam Bombay! on cable. It's Mira Nair (Mississipi Masala, Kama Sutra, Monsoon Wedding, Vanity Fair)'s groundbreaking 1988 opus about street kids in Mumbai, and required viewing....(incidentally Nair and her crew practice Iyengar yoga on set).

The following night I saw Bride and Prejudice (see two posts ago). Then I saw Hotel Rwanda (and recognized the Hutus' guns -- AK-47's, with the banana-shaped ammo clips). Then it was Maria Full of Grace (also excellent). And then the Station Agent (an amazing must-see. And not Italian, as I had thought). And somewhere in there I saw parts of Motorcycle Diaries, Barbarella, Saddest Music in the World and the Shape of Things (the last *really* sucked).

The chaser, this afternoon (hey, it's been slow work-wise), was Born Into Brothels, which I saw with Larry David Midwest (LDW), who is known for making an impatient waving gesture towards the screen (to move the film along) when things get slow. This did not happen. We were riveted. The documentary follows the lives of some kids who live in Calcutta's red light district. The filmmaker, Zana Briski, lived with and photographed them; the kids were so curious and interested in the results (as are the kids in the Mysore orphanage near Guruji's new shala) that she gave them cameras to document their lives. Their photos were so good, and the children such quick learners, that she tried to get them into boarding schools -- ie; a ticket out of The Life. Briski (and her co-conspirator and cameraman [and, we suspect, partner], Ross Kauffman) is so hooked up she had a show of their work in SoHo, sold it at Sotheby's (to raise money for their tuition) and got a Very Important Photographer (the guy from Press Photo) to come to Calcutta to talk to them; one of the students even gets invited to view Famous Photos in Amsterdam (he had a hard time with the ice skates). It's been nominated for an Academy Award... and makes me feel like a dirty left hand for doing nothing for the locals in Mysore. Maybe I'll think twice about my actions there when/if I go back.....

So I went full circle -- from Monday night to Tuesday afternoon -- from 1988's fictional view of Indian street kids, Salaam Bombay!, to 2004's (allegedly) more *real* depiction of them, Born into Brothels... and they realy complement each other. So if you get a chance --...

....and if you're *really* feeling tough, follow them up with another heartbreaking view of street life -- Hector Babenco's 1981 Brazilian masterpiece, Pixote. Then follow *that* up with 2003's Bus 174 , a documentary about the highjacking of a Brazillian bus by a previously invisible 21-year-old street kid, which played out live on TV.

Then go out and "do sumpthin!", as a crazed fan once screamed into my left ear during a Blackhawks game (back when there was hockey).

SATYA'S CHI-TOWN YOGA INDEX


Number of yoga classes taught this week: 14

Number of students taught this week: 150

Number of pregnant students who left after ten minutes: 1

Number of students who flagged Teacher down to ask detailed alignment questions while the class held Mari A for eons: 1

Number of students displeased with the answer ("Don’t analyze -- Do!"): 1

Number of students Teacher then avoided like The Plague: 1

Number of students not with child (that we know of) who walked out early: 15

Number of students who got the “You skip savasana, you go crazy!” lecture: 12

Number who listened: 5

Number who then took savasana: 0

VENTRILOQUISM FOR DUMMIES*

My little radio essay aired yesterday -- 'twas wince-inducing for me of course, but not as bad as it could have been (apparently "Meigs" now has two syllables) -- and one of my friends, Lisa B, unwittingly caught it on the way to the hospital (she's nine months pregnant but it's TV pregnant -- like she strapped on a medicine ball. In any case she's *still* very pregnant). The website of the writer who helped ease my way, Amy Krouse Rosenthal, is here: mommymommy.com She has a regular ashtanga yoga practice, so go out and buy her book. At an independent bookstore, of course.

Jack tried to teach me some "elementary html" yesterday so I could put pix and lynx here using my very old, tired and cranky Mac. So now I allegedly know their version of Surya Namaskar A. We'll see if it works...

We had a screening of Bride and Prejudice at the Holmes Home last night (the always hooked-up Henry already has it on DVD) and even though it was pretty much shite we rather enjoyed it. The Bollywood sendup aimed at western audiences stars former Miss Universe (1994) and smart chick Aishwarya Rai, and is Gurinder Chandha's followup to Bend it Like Beckham; Chandra's an African-born Indian married to a Japanese American man, in case you're wondering. B&P is to Bollywood fillums what Crouching Tiger: Hidden Dragon is to Hong Kong films, if you ask me. At least the outfits were good.... although I can't stand it when they sing in English. But now we're planning to don Indian dress (why not?) and watch the real, six hour P&P featuring Mr. Colin Firth -- who isn't *all that* if you ask me. Ash is -- although she was *way* underused in B&P -- Colin ain't. (the 'Merican pop star Ashanti -- whoever that is -- also makes a scantily-clad appearance in the fillum). Apparently Chandra also hired top Bollywood behind-the-scenes talent -- including cinematographer Santosh Sivan, choreographer Saroj Khan and composer Anu Malik.... many of whom are visible during the credits. UK B&P Review

But her weirdest hire was Naveen Andrews. You may remember him as the scary Iraqi and former Republican Guard interrogator on "Lost" -- you know, the Jheri-curled guy with the non-Arabic accent who knows many methods of torture. In B&P he appears as a hot, bhangra-dancing suitor for one of Ash's sisters. WHO KNEW HE COULD DANCE? His real name's Naveen William Sidney Andrews, he was born to Indian parents in London in '69, is 5'9" and apparently moved in with his teacher, Geraldine Feakins (now *that's* a freakin' name), when he was 16! They have a son. Turns out he's now dating Barbara Hershey (does anyone else see a theme here? Not that there's anything wrong with that) and, fittingly, starred in Mira (Monsoon Wedding) Nair's 1996 film Kama Sutra: A Tale of Love. Who knew.....More on him here: Naveen's imdb Bio . Which reminds me. Is anyone else happy that that Seattle teacher Mary Kay Letourneau can finally marry her former sixth grade student? They have two kids together; she's now 43, he's 22. The story is here (I wonder where they're registered): teacherteacher.com

Which brings me to my next point. Incensed about paying thru the nose for cable and still not getting the Sundance Channel, the Independent Film Channel, BBC America and CLTV News (mediocre 24 hour Chicago news station run by the Chicago Tribune, and the only place to find out how much it's actually snowed), I made the call and ordered "real" digital cable. Which means I can now watch The Kumars at #42, the British show about the pampered Indian son who does a TV talk show from his home. It sounds not unlike that preternaturally old kid in Indiana, Michael Essany, who's been doing such a show for years on local cable and spun it off into an E! reality series last year. Only this is Wembley (outside London), it ain't reality, and comedian Sanjeev Bhaskar is the mastermind behind the whole thing. Of course it's now in its fourth season while we're just getting it here in the US, but at least it's something. It airs Wednesday nights at 9 Central on BBC America. Details here:
Kumars BBC America



*yesterday's photo has been moved to 1/23 -- "Musical Chairs"

MORE SNOT, LESS TALK



It turns out I erred re;
when my essay will air.
'Snot fair, but appar-
ently they're full-up
with other (suckier) fare.


Now that that's cleared up..... my nose is not. 'Snot at all. Last week they reported that some awful dirt-particles are mucking up the air here in Chicago (moreso than usual) and there was -- for the first time ever in winter-- an actual ozone action day. Which did not stop me from riding my bike here, there and everywhere....So *that* could be what's contributing to my superhigh output of gob 'n' sputnum (they do the show after mine), not to mention my erratic breathing during yoga practice. Which reminds me. I've had three of my worst (ie most difficult) practices ever in the past week: all at once I'm weak, stiff, have no balance *and* can't breathe. Methinks someone has replaced mine own body with that of some 40-year old.

A mean little essay by a friend of mine (Tina Trash) appears on my friend Kai. Eric. 's wickedly cool blog site, which just relaunched as a de facto online magazine with famous (and not so famous) contributors and the whole nine yards : www.brink.com

BREAKING (INTO) THE (RADIO) WAVES

The following *essay* may or may not run on Monday (V.D.). Whether it does or not I *went downtown* and *recorded the thing* on Tuesday...and I wasn't as wooden as usual (or so I thought). I brought Pazckis ("patch-key," kind of like the dead Chicago artist), a traditional Polish Fat Tuesday jelly donut which originally came in rasberry and is now available in myriad modern flavas such as cappuccino, and which can be purchased one day each year at Dinkel's (www.dinkels.com -- family-owned since 1922). That's where we met Lois K. and Sunny Rae for perhaps our final rendezvous before their move to LA. More on Pazckis here: http://www.mariposamarket.ca/

In any case it seems as if this thing is just mundane and accesible enough for public radio.

***

Last summer’s nasty breakup had me a seeing two therapists. I lost two pants sizes, and vowed never to date again.

But a few months later I was looking good and feeling better, and my friends said it was time to start .

Since meeting men by chance had never worked out, I signed up for an online service and created a smart-alecky profile that would separate the men from the boys.

My first set of matches proved there was indeed life after the Ex…. If you like men with kids who want to date 20-year olds. I also pulled up someone I had gone on a date with a decade ago, and who had smelled like a barnyard.

.
My first face-to-face date was with a handsome, vegetarian MBA. Over lattes I kept looking at him and thinking, "You’re not X. Your nose is different from X’s. You’re more articulate than X. But you say just as many stupid things." Which would have been OK. But then it turned out he didn’t have a job and rarely left his house. We called it quits after just two dates.

Next was a third-grade teacher who was as tall as his ad had promised – most men add two inches. During our only date I learned that he caught every cold his students did, and hated his life even more than I hated mine. At least he paid for dinner.

The Serbian hiphop guy gave great e-mail. But we could barely speak with one another in person, what with his accent and my habit of speed-talking from thought to thought. I did glean that under Marshal Tito, people could travel outside of Yugoslavia, and many drove to Italy to go shopping. I also learned that he was even more negative and judgmental than I am, and after seeing a movie we never spoke again.

The physician who didn’t hate his ex-wife seemed like a good prospect -- despite posting a picture of himself in shorts. During coffee I learned how to get free treatment at Cook County Hospital. I also learned that I know his ex wife -- and like her a lot. We never spoke again, either.

I thought twice before contacting an Iraq war vet, but...WELL... his profile was as skewed as mine. Plus he could spell. After some exceptional e-mails and phone we decided to meet at Millennium Park at sunset. He was late and sported A LOT of facial hair. But he was a gentleman – not to mention an officer -- and shared my unpopular views about Meigs Field and corporate sponsorship of public places. We walked on the BP Bridge in the freezing cold and made each other laugh.

On our second date we talked about concrete and flashbacks, and on the third we saw a Who cover band.


On the fourth date we went cross country skiing AND ice skating – which we both do very badly. I also learned that facial hair isn’t so scary after all.

I haven’t thought about X since.

TWO DAYS LATE


While in my angry 20's (ie; pre-yoga) Bukowski stage, I wrote this pome about the father's second wife....whose birthday was Monday*:



***




FELONY

Red lips
Red shoes
Red car
and Red nails

That bitch read my mail and threw it out.




***





*Which reminds me; my dad would have been 75 today...something I forgot until I was in the midst of devouring a cholesterol-laden Swedish repast at Svea II this afternoon. I slathered my limpa** toast with an extra pat of butter in his memory.

**traditional Swedish rye bread made with fennel seeds.
http://www.recipesource.com/baked-goods/breads/swedish-limpa1.html

NOW WE KNOW WHY IT'S NOT CALLED "LAST YEAR AT MARIEN*GOOD*"

Saw some of that award-winning 1961 fillum "Last Year at Marienbad" anoche and apart from utterly stunning set design and cinematography and the gangly creep who kept winning the stupid game (Put down any number of any object on a table. Take up as many as you want when it's your turn, as long as they're from the same row. He who ends up with one left loses. Or something like that) 'twas a bit of a yawner. Which one hates to say about such a classic. But one is saying it. At this very moment. And hoping it does not mean one is now headed for the latest Ben Stiller or Adam Sandler vehicle (for the longest time I thought they were the same person).

I wonder what they drive, anyway.

No I don't.

But if you thought "Bitchin' Camaro" (by the Dead Milkmen, who graciously appeared in my 1986 16mm fillum "Tina" -- a very watchable black-and-white masterpiece that was awarded honors at LFC) was lame, just try to slog your way thru this excruciating bit of drivel:



PIECE OF SHIT CAR (Piece of Shite *Song* would be more apt)
by Adam Sandler

Here we go
Piece of shit car
I got a piece of shit car
That fuckin’ pile of shit
Never gets me very far
My car’s a big piece of shit
’cause the shocks are fucking shot
And my seatbelt’s fucking broken
I got to tie it in a knot
(it’s a piece of shit)
I can’t see through the windshield
’cause it’s got a big fucking’ crack
And the interior smells real bad
’cause my friend puked in the back
(it’s a piece of shit)
(piece of shit car)
Piece of shit car
(he’s got a piece of shit car)
It sucks royal dick
(that fuckin’ pile of shit)
100% crap
(never gets him very far)
Oh fuck you car
It’s got no cd player, it only got the 8-track
Whoever designed my car can lick my sweaty nut sack
(they can bite his ass too)
And I got no fuckin’ brakes
I’m always way out of control
Eleven times a day I hear hey, watch it asshole
(you fuckin’ piece of shit)
(piece of shit car)
I got piece of shit car
(he got a piece of shit car)
Diesel gas sucks my ass
(that fuckin’ pile of shit)
That pile of metal shit
(never gets him very far)
Oh what the fuck did I do
What the fuck did I do
What the fuck did I do
To get stuck with you
You’re too wide for drive-thru
And you smell like the shoe
But I’m too broke to buy something new
Oh fuck me
Well the engine likes to flood
The car always fuckin’ stalls
And the seat cushion’s got a big rip
So a spring always pokes the balls
(ouch, ouch, ouch)
Plus the door locks are busted
I gotta use a fucking coat hanger
(what a pain in his ass)
And if a girlie sees my car
There’s no chance I’ll ever bang her
(he never ever gets da pussy)
Hey shut up
(piece of shit car)
You piece of shit car
(you got a piece of shit car)
You piece of shit car
(piece of shit car)
Bald fuckin’ tires
(you got a piece of shit car)
No rearview fucking mirror
(piece of shit car)
Seven different colors
(you got a piece of shit car)
Fucking rag for a gas cap
(piece of shit car)
Tailpipe makes the sparks fly everywhere
(you got a piece of shit car)
(piece of shit car)
(you got a piece of shit car)
(piece of shit car)
Oh the whole town thinks I’m a loser
(you got a piece of shit car)
Cabby give me a push
(piece of shit car...)





The above makes the creepy 1985 Dead Milkmen song below look like a subtle masterpiece of social witticism, er, criticism:




"Bitchin' Camaro"

- Hey Jack, what's happenin'?
- I don't know.
- Well uh, rumour around town says you mighht be thinkin' 'bout goin' down to
the shore.
- Uh, yeah, I think I'm gonna go down to thhe shore.
- Whadda ya gonna do down there?
- Uh, I don't know, p-play some video gamess, buy some Def Leppard t-shirts.
- Don't forget your Motley Crue t-shirt; y''know all proceeds go to get their
lead singer out a' jail.
- Uh huh.
- Can't wait to go down. Hey uh, were ya goonna check out the sand bar while
you're down there?
- Uh, what's the Sand Bar?
- Ah, it's a place that lets sixteen year-oold kids drink.
- Ah, cool.
- Ya hey, guess who's gonna be there?
- Uh, who?
- My favourite cover band, Crystal Ship.
- Wow.
- Yeah, they do a Doors show, you'd be reallly impressed, in fact, it goes a
little like this:

Love me two times baby
Love me twice today
Love me two times girl
Cause I got AIDS
Love me two times baby,
once for tomorrow,
once cause I got AIDS

- Uh...
- Pretty good Jim Morrison impersonation thhere. I hope those guys have a
good sense a' humour and don't take us into court.
- Uh, what's the court?
- Never mind that, the important thing heree...
- You mean the People's Court.
- The... Now, that's another story. The impportant thing here is that we get
to the part where you ask me how I'm gonna get down to the shore.
- Oh, how you gettin' down to the shore?
- Funny you should ask, I've got a car now..
- Ah wow, how'd ya get a car?
- Oh, my folks drove it up here from the Bahamas.
- You're kidding!
- I must be, the Bahamas are islands. Okay,, the important thing here is
that, uh, you ask me what kinda car it is.
- Uh uh, what kinda car do ya' got?
- I've got a bitchin' Camaro...

(1.2.3.4)
Bitchin' Camaro, Bitchin' Camaro!
I ran over my neighbors
Bitchin' Camaro, Bitchin' Camaro!
Now I'm in all the papers

My folks bought me a bitchin' Camaro
With no insurance to match
So if I happen to run you down
Please don't leave a scratch

I ran over some old lady
One night at the county fair
And I didn't get arrested
Because my dad's the mayor

Bitchin' Camaro, Bitchin' Camaro!
Donuts on your lawn
Bitchin' Camaro, Bitchin' Camaro!
Tony Orlando and Dawn

When I drive past the kids
They all spit and cuss
Cause I've got a bitchin' Camaro
And they have to ride the bus

So you'd better get out of my way
When I come through your yard
Cause I've got a bitchin' Camaro
And an Exxon credit card

Bitchin' Camaro, Bitchin' Camaro!
Hey man where ya headed?
Bitchin' Camaro, Bitchin' Camaro!
I'm drunk on unleaded!





But the best take on the subject of course is the Buzzcocks' "Fast Cars," from 1978's Another Music in a Different Kitchen:




FAST CARS

They're nice and precise, each one begins and ends
They may win you admirers, but they'll never earn you friends
Fast cars, fast cars
Fast cars, I hate fast cars
They're so depressing going around and around
Ooh, they make me dizzy, oh fast cars they run me down
Fast cars, fast cars,
Fast cars, I hate fast cars
Sooner or later, you're gonna listen to Ralph Nader
I don't wanna cause a fuss, but fast cars are so dangerous
Fast cars, fast cars
Fast cars, I hate fast cars, fast cars
Fast cars, fast cars
I hate fast cars




Of course they *are* British. Very British indeed. And, apparently, still touring: www.buzzcocks.com.



The song that's actually going thru my head -- for no apparent reason, although I blame it on that Marienbad film, what with all the French muttering and whatnot -- is the Stranglers' "Let's Tango in Paris" from 1982's "Feline," which boasts an awesome red, black and white cover and which I picked up for $4.50 at Wax Trax in 1983 (yes 'tis vinyl):





LET'S TANGO IN PARIS

Sentimental through the night
Sharing secret candlelight
We're a - way, every day
Laughing, joking, just sustains
Sit - u - a - tion quite in - sane
Flowing wine, quite sublime
Not so far for me to say
I could take you there to - day

Let's tango in Paris (x3)

You might find yourself with me
Share your glass of van - i - ty
We're a - way, every day
Not so far for me to say
I could take you there to - day

Let's tango in Paris
(repeat chorus until fade).


Or perhaps the song is there because of the album title. There is a porcine white feline under my bed at this very moment (Kirby is perched on the kitchen counter, awaiting dinner). This Lewis, as he's called, is here for three months while his owner is away in Australia... provided the two don't kill each other first. They both have claws and have been hissing at each other under the door.... and none of us is looking forward to the Formal Introduction later this week. But the water buckets are ready. And "Ballroom Blitz" is cued.....

NETI AND THE BUBBLIES*

(warning -- not for prudes)



It's dry and cold -- duh, it's winter -- and more than ever before my nose has become a de facto booger factory. Today I woke up and as usual ‘twas full of hard, crusty snot, with a little bit of the slippery stuff mixed in to keep it interesting. The color was a cloudy greenish yellow (don’t tell me you don’t look at yours) and like some fine marble 'twas laced with colorful red veins.... for blood, of course. Digging out the gob was complicated by the tre-fashionable nose-pin, which acts as a magnet for the stuff. The chore required digit, tissue and ear bud**, and caused pain to the membrane (poor, poor cilia!) while eliciting yet more blood ‘n’ boogers....to be collected later of course.

(The way to remedy this Winter Snot Problem is to hydrate properly and humidify the bedroom and coat the nostrils with sesame oil... the last of which is an old ayurvedic trick. But it hasn’t really been working lately and I’m thinking about becoming a true orange-wearing weirdo and investing in a Neti Pot***).

Later I rode my bike**** to Sixtysomething Man #2’s house today for a private lesson and on the way I made like a farmer and cleared out my nostrils, One, Two. Very satisfying.

I locked my bike, went in, said hello, and started our lesson... during which I touched my face and noticed a supersticky dark green bubbly* hovering above my lip. It immediately affixed itself to my middle finger. I rolled it into a ball as I talked SSM2 through Surya Namaskar A and frantically tried to find a place to stash it.

Finally I decided on the cover of the little notebook in which I record what happens in each of my classes.***** “I’ll stick it in a Kleenex after class,” I thought. During Parsvakonasana my hand went back to my face and I found a couple more bubblies! Dark ones. “What must SSM2 think of me, what with a face full of boogers?”****** I wondered, as I carefully transferred the lot of them to the notebook.

During Savasana I wrote down what we did and headed to the head for a much-needed leak.....While there I remembered the boogers, and fear gripped my heart. I grabbed a scrap of TP and flew out to investigate the notebook... and found not a single bit of snot. Not on the notebook, not anywhere. Not even on me.

It’s in his house somewhere.*******

Poor man.


Bad lady, more like it.




----




*"Bubblies" was my mother's word for boogers, which she loathed. She wasn't afraid of much, but the bubblies really got to her. Which reminds me. Before I could speak I created an installation on the pink wall next to my bed. My medium? Nasal mucous. Each and every morning and evening and even during naptime I would harvest the stuff and affix it to the wall, until it was partially covered in my special homemade stucco. When Cam discovered it she was utterly horrified. If only she'd saved it .... Take that, Karen Finley!********

**Brit-speak for Q-Tip

***The Neti Pot looks like a cross between a bong and well-endowed gravy boat and is used by True Believers to irrigate the sinuses:
http://www.healthandyoga.com/html/clean/nasal.html

****The Saltbox (car) was hit by a truck the other day and is in the shop.... which is a whole ‘nother story.

*****The notebook is a huge help in keeping track of things like What type of class I taught last time, How many students came, Who went into headstand for the first time and How sad (or nonexistent) my own practice was that day.

******Last week the unflappable Jack calmly pointed out a fat juicy one lounging right smack in the middle of my face.....which I ashamedly removed posthaste.

*******Does anybody know what it's like when boogers dry? www.lyricsfreak.com/p/prince/111221.html

********Think “Yam Slam” and NEA Four: http://www.yale.edu/opa/v28.n17/story18.html

*********Has anyone done their dissertation yet on the many similarities betwen “boogers” and “bloggers?”

FULL MOON MANANA

But it might as well be today.

First I wore tight black cords to teach yoga. Oops.

When I came out the front bumper was hanging off the car; apparently a FedEx truck had hit it.

As soon as I got home the cat launched into its backwards walking and vomiting routine.

I forgot a lunch date with Tam-Tam.

And later the chiro called to tell me I'd missed a 3:45 appointment.

On the way to class my water bottle opened and soaked the entire contents of my Saka messenger bag.

While teaching that night I could not tell left from right.

And on the way home the food I was carrying leapt from my hand and launched itself across the greasy, shiny street.

And the full moon is TOMORROW.

...or is it?

MUSICAL CHAIRS

On Blizzard Saturday we finally left the house for some midnight x-c skiing, and made our way down streets, sidewalks and alleys to Jack's friend's house, where a party dubbed Festival of Meat was still in swing. The snow had stopped and thankfully the meat was mostly put away; there were even some veggie pot stickers not to mention a big stereo TV playing some Underworld concert and a Barbarella-inspired oil lamp and nice people -- one of whom spoke Swahili, and another who was impressed when he showed me a gang sign that I recognized as being for "Folks"*. (I showed him gyana mudra and axed if that meant anything in gangdom and apparently it does not. So I told him to introduce it as soon as possible). All were thrilled by our arrival on skis (ha, the wind had died down and it was easy going) and razzed Jack about his beard, which features two prominent vertical grey streaks (only one soul noticed the handlebar attempt). Apparently he's usually clean-shaven. And a towhead (but like some reverse Lipizzan, he's gone dark). Hmmm....


Today I was loathe to move the car, it was in such a good spot. But I did, as riding the bike in the thick grey snow/salt/gravel/grease potpourri would have been even worse. As I drove past the plastic shit holding parking spaces -- apparently city-owned garbage cans are in this year -- I entertained a thought I've had for many winters: I imagined commandeering a team to rearrange all of the objects holding spaces when the car owners are at work. In the early evening we'd stake out the street, and record everyone's reactions when they couldn't find their stuff. Shooting them, so to speak. And letting god sort it out.

Now *that* would qualify as publicly-accesible performance art. Maybe I could even get a grant....





*All Chicago gangs fall into two communites: Folks (pitchforks up) and People (pitchforks down). The division dates back to a rift between Jeff Fort's El Rukns (formerly known as the Black P Stone Nation) and Larry Hoover's Black Gangster Disciples (see http://www.geocities.com/OrganizedCrimeSyndicates/ElRukn.html). So the next time you see some graffiti, look for the telltale fork.



From http://www.19thcircuitcourt.state.il.us/juveniles/gangs.htm :

PEOPLE


m Use the slogan “All is well.”
m ALWAYS represents to the LEFT, i.e., hat worn or tilted to the left, arms folded to the left, pant leg folded on the left leg, hand inside the left pocket, earring worn in left ear, etc.
m Their symbols include 5 pointed stars and crowns as well as moons.


FACTIONS OF THE PEOPLE NATION


m Black P Stone Nation - Their colors are red and black, and their symbol are a crescent moon and a pyramid.  Many times they will wear Chicago Bulls clothing.
m Latin Kings - Their colors are yellow and black, and their symbol is a 5 pointed star or crown.  Members will wear Chicago Bulls or LA Kings apparel.
m Vice Lords - Their colors are red and black, and their symbols are a 5 pointed star or the playboy bunny.  Members wear Chicago Bulls clothing.
m Conservative Vice Lord Nation - Their colors are red and black, and their symbols include a 5 pointed star and the playboy bunny.  They also wear Chicago Bulls apparel.
m Other People factions include Bishops, Cobra Stones, Cullerton Dueces, El Rukn, Freaks, Gaylords, Insane Popes, Insane Unknowns, Jousters, Kenmore Boys, Kents, King Cobras, Latin Brothers, Latin Counts, Latin Dragons, Latin Pachucos, Latin Saints, Noble Knights, Party Gents, Party Players, Puerto Rican Stones, Spanish Lords, 12th Street Players, Villa Lobos, and Warlords.




GANG  AFFILIATIONS  AND  IDENTIFIERS

FOLKS


m Use the slogan “All is One.”
m ALWAYS represent to the RIGHT, i.e., hat worn or tilted to the right, arms folded to the right, pant leg folded on the right leg, hand inside the right pocket, earring worn in the right ear, etc.
m Their symbols include 6 pointed stars and crowns as well as devils.


FACTIONS OF THE FOLK NATION


m Gangster Disciples - Their colors are blue and black, and their symbols include a 6 pointed star or pitchfork.  Members wear LA Raiders and Detroit Tigers apparel and anything with the script letter “D.”
m Satan Disciples - Their colors are black and canary yellow, and their symbol is the devil with a pitchfork.  Members wear Detroit Tigers clothing and anything with the script letter “D.”
m Orchestra Albany - Their colors are gold and brown, and their symbol is the letter “O” over the letter “A.”  They wear Oakland A’s and California Angels apparel.
m Latin Lovers - Their colors are red and yellow, and their symbol is a double “L” inside a heart.  Members wear Kansas City Chiefs apparel and Chicago Bulls clothing (minus the “BU” in Bulls.).
m Brothers of the Struggle: Black Gangster Disciples - Their colors are black and blue, and their symbol is the 6 pointed star and pitchfork.  They wear LA Raiders apparel.
m Maniac Latin Disciples - Their colors are blue and black, and their symbols are a 6 pointed star, pitchfork, a heart, and a playboy bunny.  They wear LA Raiders and Detroit Tigers apparel and anything with the script letter “D.”
m Other Folk Nation factions include Ambrose, Black Disciples, Black Gangsters, Black Souls, Campbell Boys, Harrison Gents, Imperial Gangster, Insane Dueces, Latin Disciples, Latin Dragons, Latin Eagles, Latin Jivers, Latin Souls, La Raza (the race), Milwaukee Kings, Morgan Boys, Party People, Simon City Royals, Spanish Cobras, Spanish Gangster Disciples, 2-6 Boys, and 2-2 Boys.

YOKO ONO CAR ART
(ie '05 blizzard dibs* conceptual piece)
By Ms. C.K.


Shovel car out. Leave space free
and see who else goes there.
Record results til spring.
Then paint space pink,
minus outline of car.





*It's snowed like a foot and it's still going like gangbusters and it's so windy the stuff is falling horizontally and the conditions are white-out. Every time there's a big snow a smattering of locals dies from shoveling too much but I don't know how many have lost it yet since the cable co doesn't carry the local news channel. In any case those within city limits, where street parking's at a premium anyway engage in "dibs" -- or "dibsh," in local parlance -- in which Chicagoans shovel out their car and more or less legally save "their" spot with any combination of rickety chairs, milk crates, broom handles, traffic cones, industrial-size buckets and dusty Soloflex machines (anyone who moves "dibs" items and parks in said space is subject to having their vehicle trashed or their tires slashed). I don't engage in this but many people do -- particularly in the neighborhoods further away from the lake. "I tell people," Mayor Daley once exclaimed, "if someone spends all that time digging their car out, do not drive in that spot. This is Chicago. Fair warning." Hence its near-legal status.

We shoveled out my car, since it's front-wheel drive, so I could go ten blocks to the shala to give a private lesson to a Serious Ashtangi from Hyde Park who was willing to drive over 100 blocks north in a de facto blizzard in order to spend an hour honing his backbends and whatnot. Jack dropped me off and as soon as I opened the door I learned that said ashtangi had cancelled; apparently Lake Shore Drive was a parking lot and the expressway no better. And I nearly jumped for joy....

We drove straight back home as it was TREACHEROUS and much to our surprise! our unsaved spot was still there. (Rock star ex-girlfriend parking? I don't think so).

So much for dibsh.

Before heading in we collected our cross-country skis and boots; the former are outside the front door and the latter are heating up on the radiator (steam heat), waiting for us to get our arses in gear.

And now we are watching the mediocre Wicker Park, which is meant to take place in Chicago's famed neighborhood, and in which every character is a liar and it snows in every scene. During breaks we are conducting Important Research on the proper method of twisting a Handlebar Moustache.

And it couldn't be cozier.


More on dibsh here (well worth the cut and paste):
http://www.ericzorn.com/extra/dibs/

YOU SAY POTATO, I SAY PO-TAH-TO...

I've been known to lapse into a Brooklyn (Downward Facing Dawwwg) or a Southern accent (put it daiwn) while teaching -- usualy when I'm overtired. But tonight for some reason I was talking Cockney . I'd say, "Troy tieu keep yur roit laig stroit," and think, Hmm, I'm using a Cockney accent today. Where did that come from? And then I'd do it again. And again.

Toyme to troi to get mo' sloiep, M'Lady.

NRI = NONRESIDENT INDIAN


From my 2004 Diary:



5:20PM, 14 JANUARY 2004. ROOM 106. HOTEL SKY PALACE. KOVALAM, KERALA, INDIA.

India is about being bored out of your skull, missing everyone/thing from home, and getting over it.





FRI 16 JAN. LIGHTHOUSE BEACH, 7:30AM

Ut-oh. A man who can only squat and crawl across the sand is headed my way....




WED 21 JAN 04

(four-color drawing of an amoeba with Electrobion* center)




THURS 22 JAN 04. KOVALAM HOSPITAL WAITING ROOM

You walk in, the fan goes on. What must they think of us?

The hill has made me tre lightheaded. Perhaps not a good idea to see the doctor a day early to tell him I'm OK, so I can go to the movie tomorrow instead of our appointment.

So nice to sit down. Sweating bullets. Looking ill, I bet.

Many people here today.

My writing looks bizarre even to me. At least I'm in the right place if I pass out (Why am I wearing the longsleeved heavy pink top?).

Maybe I'm dehydrated.

Just felt faint.

Ut-oh.

So easy it'd be to give in to it.

At least I'm in the right place....





FRI 23 JAN 04 ROOM 106. KOVALAM (AFTER SEEING KHAAKI)

Stop me before I shop again.







*dehydration salts

STAB IT WITH YOUR STEELY KNIFE....

Jack and I drove two blocks down the street for Middle Eastern food this evening (the windchill was in the single digits, OK?). Apparently the flava grew on him over there... and he ordered the lamb shank complete with sticking-out bone. Can you say "ewww!" Of all the dead animals that one was always my least favorite; how it stunk up my grandmother's apartment every Easter! No wonder the Indians call those vile victuals "mutton." Later Kirby Q-tie sniffed Jack's lamb-hand, drew back, opened his mouth wide and in general made the weirdest face I've ever seen. On a cat, anyway.

While channel surfing -- what an odious waste of time --we came across the FitTV network (FatTV would be more apt) and something called Guru 2 Go. The premise seems to be this: a pair of asexual yogis go around bringing yoga into unsuspecting people's lives, which on its own is not a bad thing. This time their marks included an uptight male party planner; before teaching him some odd chant and the classic Surya Namaskar sequence, the so-called guru donned a piratelike head wrap, for a reason I cannot recall. To help his focus, I think. Hello??? For obvious reasons my friends and I always wear bandannas on our domes while watching The Amazing Race (the participants seem to have an infinite supply of them, and it makes us feel like we're part of the show. Also it was one of the most useful things I brought on my trip to India not to mention Jack's to Iraq; really, all one needs in life apart from the Maslow stuff* is duct tape, bandannas and a Sharpie). But not while teaching. Later they accosted some people on the street during their lunch break and taught them "Goddess Pose," to which -- who knew -- I was first introduced by the august Shandor Negrete....who most definitely did not call it by that name. This is a standing pose with feet wide apart, toes turned out, in which you drop into a deep squat and move up and down and then start to mumble a so-called chant while making a gyana mudra (Shandor did *not* have us utter anything in the position; nor did he use a yoga mat but instead utilized tiny portable sticky things strapped to his hands and feet). The people on the street really seemed to like this -- especially the guy bouncing up and down like a Jack-in-the-Box. Then the pair, who are the same height and age and have the same intonation of speech and are not unlike the male Jammu and Kashmir, descended on an older ladies' stitch-n-bitch group, and proceeded to show them some odd chants and shoulder shrugs and facial contortions and made them do forced laughter for several minutes, because they too are *so* stressed out (which eludes me; one of the most therapeutic things I learned in India was how to crochet -- thank you Kashmir -- which is a great way to channel anxiety [the tighter the stitches, the greater the stress release]. I recently took it up again and it's now curing my insomnia). Later it was back to the now-much-calmer party planner, to check up on his sun salutations and show him how making tiny arm circles and finger gestures in the middle of the workday would re-energize him. They ended each session not with Namaste but with Satya-something -- as in, "The truth within me recognizes the truth within you." Cacaste would have been more apt.



LATER....

Oh! I just learned they're teaching Kundalini Yoga. I'll say it so you don't have to -- Maybe I should go to that type of class before I get so JUDGMENTAL. Bad, bad, bad lady. Again failng at the ahimsa. No wonder my left knee tweaked in Kapotasana today.

Here's what the producers say about the program, which airs Friday nights at 7 and 10 (apparently the show should be called How Not to Pose.... or Asexual Guy for the Third Eye):



"GURU 2 GO
(Reality) 15 x 60 min series
Two Midwestern, blue-eyed yoga instructors living in West Hollywood use their Kundalini yoga techniques to diagnose and treat the physical and emotional problems of everyday people. Individual and group subjects are assessed using hidden surveillance cameras. At the end of each episode, the yogis use a hidden camera "Yogi Test" to discover if their new students have used yoga techniques to overcome their chronic challenges."



During the show we could not stop picturing the pair descending on Iraq and encouraging the troops -- and the insurgents -- to chill out ("Who's fighting, and what fo'?").... while they (sporting pirate headgear of course) try to avoid both enemy and friendly fire. Maybe they could go for the elections. Now *that* would be must-see TV.


That said, I'm nonetheless itching to see the next episode:
http://fittv.discovery.com/fansites/guru2go/guru2go.html





*http://web.utk.edu/~gwynne/maslow.HTM

YOU ARE *NOT* GOD

January in Chicago and the temperature is in the 60's and it's been raining like crazy. It's so f---ed up that last night coming home from yoga I saw an earthworm crossing the sidewalk, trying to save itself from the saturated ground. An earthworm in January. What did it take to rouse it, when earlier that morning there were still six inches of snow on the ground? Knowing it was supposed to snow later, I decided to play Vishnu* and save the thing. I scraped it off the ground and held it in my poo-hand. It writhed like crazy as I went up the stairs and noticed that the lights on the top two floors are STILL out. It writhed some more in the pitch black as I tried to find-feel the key-holes in my door. Writhe, writhe, search search. Finally I dropped my bag and Pockets sandwich and concentrated and eventually got the door open. More writhing. Once inside I went to dump my new friend in the plant-pot (somehow this was going to save its life) and saw that while the writhing sensation remained, the worm itself had vanished. Much searching inside and out with a flashlight, but to no avail. Did it ever exist? Today it's still warm and there's no rain and the thing would have been better off outside, instead of drying up and dying on the hallway rug somewhere because someone decided they knew better than Nature. Lesson learned, Madam.



*the Preserver

BAD LADY! WHY NOT WRITING?



-Ten classes (not that many, actually )

-Three deadlines (including my first movie review for the Backwards R -- of the must-see Shah Rukh Khan vehicle "Swades")

-Four cross-country skiing outings

-Two doctors' appointments (turns out I probably *won't* need a root canal after all!)

-One ice skating party at Millenium Park

-One interminable baby shower for the niece-to-be (who smoked not a single butt the entire time)








BONUS TIT BIT:


On this day (Jan 10) last year I left for my second trip to India.

I arrived on the 12th.

COALITION OF THE WILLFULLY DISOBEDIENT


SCENE: Mysore class. Six students. One small room.

One student has confessed that they know ashtanga but this is their first Mysore-style self-practice class. The student, very flexible, is in Triangle pose, right hand grazing the foot.


Satya: Try to grab your big toe

Student: No.

Satya: Why?

Student: Because I've always done it this way

Satya: Well in ashtanga the full pose means grabbing the big toe. Try it.

The student doesn't budge.


LATER.....

The same student is in Parsvakonasana (side flank pose), hand on the inside of the foot.

Satya: Try putting your hand outside of the foot.

Student: No.

Satya: Why?

Student: I don't feel like it

Satya: But that's not the pose.

Student: Well I've been taking yoga for 20 years and this is how I do it.


LATER....

The same student has just been shown the Prasaraita Padottanasa (wide leg standing forward bend) sequence and is making up new versions of it, including one with palms in prayer on the back. Then the student puts their head on the floor and goes into headstand #2.

Satya (from across the room, slightly irritated): That's a second series pose.

The student actually comes down and waits to be shown what to do next.


LATER....

Satya tries to help the student in Uttitha Hasta Padangustasana (a standing balance pose in which the grip is on the big toe).

Student: You won't like this but I always do this pose holding the side of my foot.

Satya: Is there something wrong with your big toe?

Student (holding the foot): No.

Satya: Then why? (facetously) Is that some kind of Iyengar thing?

Student: I think it's some kind of dancer-thing.





An hour later the student is gone and Satya -- who's made it through the entire class without farting -- has forgotten all about it.

For a minute anyway.

OLDE SCHOOL
(via Dreyfus)


Tribe shoots arrows at aid flight
By Jonathan Charles
BBC News, Andaman Islands


An Indian helicopter dropping food and water over the remote Andaman and Nicobar Islands has been attacked by tribesmen using bows and arrows.

There were fears that the endangered tribal groups had been wiped out when massive waves struck their islands.

But the authorities say the attack is a sign that they have survived.

More than 6,000 people there are confirmed as either dead or missing, but thousands of others are still unaccounted for.

The Indian coastguard helicopter was flying low over Sentinel Island to drop aid when it came under attack.

A senior police officer said the crew were not hurt and the authorities are taking it as a sign that the tribes have not been wiped out by the earthquake and sea surges as many had feared.

The Andaman and Nicobar archipelago is home to several tribes, some extremely isolated.

Officials believe they survived the devastation by using age-old early warning systems.

They might have run to high ground for safety after noticing changes in the behaviour of birds and marine wildlife.

Scientists are examining the possibility to see whether it can be used to predict earth tremors in future.

DUH

TOO MUCH HOPPIN' JOHN...

...means that I farted loudly in front of a packed class at the Fancy Health Club. Even though I said "oops" and "excuse me," 25 well-heeled people stayed in their pose, acting as if nothing had happened.

The magic of yoga?

Or perhaps it wasn't an eleven on the Andy Richter scale after all....

NEWNEWNEW
MEMEME


On NYE I taught two classes (doing an abbreivated practice in between), drove to the 'burbs for an appointment and then made my way to Kohl's, a store I'd never visited. I'd forgotten about the suburbs; next door was a Target (where I also needed to return something) and across the street was Best Buy. Con$umer heaven. Or was it hell? But Kohl's. They had the best-fitting Levi's ever (one of my less pressing quests this year has been to find the perfect pair of jeans, which have been at Kohl's the whole time but were now a whopping 30% off. Kick *ass*). And apparently I'm still a size five, thanks to the Breakup Diet. But that may change after all the hoppin john (blackeyed peas and rice with cheddar cheese, scallions and tomatoes) that I consumed for good luck on NYE. And the coconut cashews a student gave me. And the rice pudding. The Swedes put a single almond in the pudding on NYE, and whoever gets that serving has their wish come true. Of course that person was me, since it was a solo NYE until 10:45, when I walked over to DDD, where the nephew's band was playing. It was filled with very sweet 20somethings, most of whom were smoking, and who actually would apologize when they bumped me.... I could have been their mother..... The band was in the middle of their set, showing off some new tunes and sounded fabulous (nephew plays bass. Very well). After a champaign toast and some chat the nephew wished me a safe walk home, and on the way many revelers invited me to join them (I was dressed very mod/Carnaby Street) but I declined, preferring to hang my smoky clothes on the line outside and read in bed about Holland's muslims and the assasination of the filmmaker Van Gogh. Next day I rode my bike to the Fancy Health Club to teach a Yoga Basics class, which pulled a collective face when I walked in three minutes late and told them we'd have to end at 11 and not at 11:15 due to a scheduling glitch. An hour later though they were all smiles after I thanked them for accomodating the next class. The magic of yoga. Then it was back home for a two-hour practice (my backbends have suffered greatly from skipping practice during the Two-Week Cold) and more hoppin john followed by a bath and a halfhearted stab at a rough draft of the Headache Book story. Then Jack picked me up for a movie, which was sold out (duh). So we checked out a bookstore -- the NYer cartoon book was a big draw -- and a used record store that boasted a lot of "New" bootleg "Import" CD's with crappily photocopied sleeves. Then a long walk in the rain before going to Martyr's where we met the Sunday night crew for Tributasaurus, which was covering the Who (each month they cover a different band; last time it was Paul McCartney and Wings and next up it's Earth, Wind and Fire... this show featured a spot-on Steve Frisbie on vocals much of the time). Turns out both Jack and I had seen the Who on their first farewell tour in the early 80's. Still it was fun, esp. playing the Tommy pinball machine in back -- despite very sluggish bumpers at the bottom -- and hearing the band open with an unexpected choice (Eminence Front). Between songs I recall discussions about the Civil War and various Communist dictators and the theories of a feminist former concubine, among other things. 'Twas a very nice start to the new year. Even though I did break my cordless headset phone and can't stop thinking about the toll from The Tsunami, which incidentally took place on a full moon. Last year's Awful Earthquake in Bam, Iraq, also took place on Dec. 26th. But they never talk about that, do they....

SATYA C'S URINE REVIEW '04

(Or if you thought turning 35 was hard, try 40!)

In January I went to India to study yoga again with my 89-year old. teacher, and while hosting more than my fair share of parasites I stood up from backbend (finally!) and drove a scooter all over town....While I was gone the landlord put in a new kitchen and I was named one of Chicago’s Savviest Singles (ha!). But then the Backwards R dumped me via e-mail, giving the calendar (and most of my income) to my sub, citing “change for the sake of change”...I promptly printed and burned the note... After India I stopped for a delightful visit with friends in Erlangen, Germany, otherwise known as the anti-India... Back home I scrambled for work, and now I’m teaching more yoga and writing a bit less.... In July some friends and I hosted an elegant and unforgettable 40 in 04 birthday party... Two days later I turned 4-0 and a week after that things with the vex ended rather publicly, resulting in my seeing two therapists and losing two pants sizes... Friends rescued me as did cowriting a sitcom pilot with Addington for a Bravo TV contest. We lost but shot some scenes with Blaine this autumn --with me in the lead! -- and so far it looks fab. I was weighing a return to India when Kirby Q-Tie started leaking pee all over the place...A trip to the evil Emergency Vet resulted in a catheter and Elizabethan collar for him (not a good look) and a $1,000 vet bill and designation of Cat Spinsta for me (equally bad).....A week later a bike crash sent me to the emergency room for humans (five stitches, one broken tooth and seven good Samaritans), and another question was answered (ie; who will take care of me if something happens)...Then my computer crashed ($350) and we learned that the stepmutha had remarried months ago, effectively canceling out all the lives that were derailed forever by her unholy union with my father....All this drama has made me focus on what I have (friends, family, yoga, blog...), vs. what I don’t (a mortgage, a stifling relationship...) and I ended the year with a (figurative) bang, publishing pieces that could actually be considered funny in January’s Chimag (a celebrity weight-loss thingy) and the Backwards R (a naked poetry thingy).... But lest I get too cocky, 2005 will kick off with a root canal for me and a urine review for Kirby (to make sure he’s licked his pecker problem)...A big thank you for helping me muck through this year. And may 2005 be a more peaceful one for the lot of us.