REASONS TO VOTE, PART I

Radar View of Hurricane Katrina (Reuters)

Molly Ivins' column yesterday (seen below) damns the powers-that-be for the disaster in New Orleans, and is currently the Chicago Tribune's most e-mailed article.... which means that perhaps there is hope for 'Merica after all.

"WHY NEW ORLEANS IS IN DEEP WATER

Molly Ivins, Creators Syndicate
Published September 1, 2005


AUSTIN, Texas -- Like many of you who love New Orleans, I find myself taking short mental walks there today, turning a familiar corner, glimpsing a favorite scene, square or vista. And worrying about the beloved friends and the city, and how they are now.

To use a fine Southern word, it's tacky to start playing the blame game before the dead are even counted. It is not too soon, however, to make a point that needs to be hammered home again and again, and that is that government policies have real consequences in people's lives.

This is not "just politics" or blaming for political advantage. This is about the real consequences of what governments do and do not do about their responsibilities. And about who winds up paying the price for those policies.

This is a column for everyone in the path of Hurricane Katrina who ever said, "I'm sorry, I'm just not interested in politics," or, "There's nothing I can do about it," or, "Eh, they're all crooks anyway."

Nothing to do with me, nothing to do with my life, nothing I can do about any of it. Look around you this morning. I suppose the National Rifle Association would argue, "Government policies don't kill people, hurricanes kill people." Actually, hurricanes plus government policies kill people.

One of the main reasons New Orleans is so vulnerable to hurricanes is the gradual disappearance of the wetlands on the Gulf Coast that once stood as a natural buffer between the city and storms coming in from the water. The disappearance of those wetlands does not have the name of a political party or a particular administration attached to it. No one wants to play, "The Democrats did it," or, "It's all Reagan's fault." Many environmentalists will tell you more than a century's interference with the natural flow of the Mississippi is the root cause of the problem, cutting off the movement of alluvial soil to the river's delta.

But in addition to long-range consequences of long-term policies like letting the Corps of Engineers try to build a better river than God, there are real short-term consequences, as well. It is a fact that the Clinton administration set some tough policies on wetlands, and it is a fact that the Bush administration repealed those policies--ordering federal agencies to stop protecting as many as 20 million acres of wetlands.

Last year, four environmental groups cooperated on a joint report showing the Bush administration's policies had allowed developers to drain thousands of acres of wetlands.

Does this mean we should blame President Bush for the fact that New Orleans is underwater? No, but it means we can blame Bush when a Category 3 or Category 2 hurricane puts New Orleans under. At this point, it is a matter of making a bad situation worse, of failing to observe the First Rule of Holes (when you're in one, stop digging).

Had a storm the size of Katrina just had the grace to hold off for a while, it's quite likely no one would even remember what the Bush administration did two months ago. The national press corps has the attention span of a gnat, and trying to get anyone in Washington to remember longer than a year ago is like asking them what happened in Iznik, Turkey, in A.D. 325.

Just plain political bad luck that, in June, Bush took his little ax and chopped $71.2 million from the budget of the New Orleans Corps of Engineers, a 44 percent reduction. As was reported in New Orleans CityBusiness at the time, that meant "major hurricane and flood projects will not be awarded to local engineering firms. Also, a study to determine ways to protect the region from a Category 5 hurricane has been shelved for now."

The commander of the corps' New Orleans district also immediately instituted a hiring freeze and canceled the annual corps picnic.

Our friends at the Center for American Progress note the Office of Technology Assessment used to produce forward-thinking plans such as "Floods: A National Policy Concern" and "A Framework for Flood Hazards Management." Unfortunately, the office was targeted by Newt Gingrich and the Republican right, and gutted years ago.

In fact, there is now a governmentwide movement away from basing policy on science, expertise and professionalism, and in favor of choices based on ideology. If you're wondering what the ideological position on flood management might be, look at the pictures of New Orleans--it seems to consist of gutting the programs that do anything.

Unfortunately, the war in Iraq is directly related to the devastation left by the hurricane. About 35 percent of Louisiana's National Guard is now serving in Iraq, where four out of every 10 soldiers are guardsmen. Recruiting for the Guard is also down significantly because people are afraid of being sent to Iraq if they join, leaving the Guard even more short-handed.

The Louisiana National Guard also notes that dozens of its high-water vehicles, Humvees, refuelers and generators have also been sent abroad. (I hate to be picky, but why do they need high-water vehicles in Iraq?)

This, in turn, goes back to the original policy decision to go into Iraq without enough soldiers and the subsequent failure to admit that mistake and to rectify it by instituting a draft.

The levees of New Orleans, two of which are now broken and flooding the city, were also victims of Iraq war spending. Walter Maestri, emergency management chief for Jefferson Parish, said on June 8, 2004, "It appears that the money has been moved in the president's budget to handle homeland security and the war in Iraq."

This, friends, is why we need to pay attention to government policies, not political personalities, and to know whereon we vote. It is about our lives.

----------

Molly Ivins is a syndicated columnist based in Washington. E-mail: info@creators.com "

Copyright © 2005, Chicago Tribune

(AP photo by Bill Haber)

DIRTY DIRTY DIRTY


This giant color, half-page photo (and caption) appeared above-the-fold on the cover of the Chicago Tribune's newish At Play section yesterday. It accompanied a story about the great food those high school kids are sucking down at the games these days.

"The food's the real action at high school football games. At Neuqua Valley High School in Naperville, tailgating is in, with Danielle Nasciopinto, 16, munching on a grilled dog."

The photographer of course is a man -- Bill Hogan -- yet the section's editor appears to be a woman (Linda Bergstrom).

In case you're wondering, the age of consent in Illinois is 17.

UNA FAMILIA LEJANA

The Fambly came in to visit via the train, and I picked them up at a desolate Northwest side station called Grayland.*

There's a very scary-looking bar next door and new townhomes across the street; typical Chicago juxtaposition. We got out of there fast and headed to Gridlife's to pick up my new digital camera. It's a Canon PowerShot A510 recommended by the Hex. Apprently it works. (see plates below).

We ate salad and falafel sandwiches al fresco at Andie's in Andersonville (they have the same name, sort of, but the former is Lebanese, while the latter is Swedish) before visiting the Middle Eastern Bakery and the Swedish deli. Then we drove to the Golden Pacific Market --- where among the other Asian items they sell a Japanese can of soda with an aluminum top and clear plastic body.



We also stopped at Lake Michigan -- which boasted whitecaps and seagulls. We were also entertained watching the men cruise each other in the Montrose Harbor parking lot.

On the way home we drove past Joan Cusack's house. We stopped and stalked a bit -- saw two girls get out of a minivan and ring the bell.

Even more fun, though, was waiting for the train back to the Outlying Area. Many express trains were passing by, so we placed a quarter on the track to see what would happen (this is something we'd all seen in movies but never experienced first hand -- in my case because I've never been a 10-year-old boy... not that I know of anyway). We jumped as the first metal wheel ran over the coin and made a loud clang.


When the train was gone, we could see the round mark where the quarter had been. We searched and searched through the rocks. And then I found it. The quarter was now a smooth oval with copper-colored edges. We held it up to the light and saw, very faintly, the words "live free or die." Leave it to us to smash a New Hampshire coin on the tracks (now *there's* a Bob Dylan album).




-------------------------

*"Grayland, which was opened for settlement in 1874, extended West from Kostner to Cicero Avenue, between Irving Park and Addison. Subdivided by John Gray, the first Republican sheriff of Cook County, on a portion of his extensive farm, it grew around the Grayland station of the Milwaukee Road Railroad, which is still in active use today. Gray’s first home built in 1856 at 4362 W. Grace survives today in a remarkable state of preservation and is the oldest house in Irving Park. Gray later built a lavish mansion on the northwest corner of Milwaukee and Lowell to reflect his newfound wealth and it was a community showplace. Indoor plumbing with gold fixtures, exotic woods and expensive marbles highlighted his home. It was razed around the year 1915." (From Wikipedia)

LESSONS LEARNT

When taking an aeroplane, even if you are not checking luggage, you must check in at least 32 minutes prior to takeoff. Not 31 minutes, and definitely not 22.

If you check in late, you do not have to pay $100 to be booked on the next flight. You can fly standby for free. But first you must find out if there are empty seats.

If they offer you a free ticket in exchange for giving up your seat / flying later, and you are alone and aren't on a schedule and don't have anyone waiting for you and there's a good DVD in your laptop, calculate the value of the ticket vs. the amount of time you'll be delayed (for example, 3 hours for a $300 ticket comes out to $100/hour). Do this before automatically hitting the "no" button.

To get an aisle seat on a full flight, state your case and give your ticket to the agent at the gate. If in India, complain of "loose motions."

The airlines are strictly enforcing weight limits for checked baggage; each piece must not weigh more than 50 pounds. At O'Hare bags must be checked at least 45 minutes prior to departure.




The secret to cheap and plentiful sangria is this: Use Carlo Rossi sangria-flavored gallon wine. Chill in a pitcher overnight with in-season fruit (plums, peaches, strawberries, mangos, etc.) + one orange + one cinnamon stick. You may also add brandy, rum, sugar or fruit juice. Lemons, however, leave a bad aftertaste.



No matter how many ferrous sulfate tablets you take and kidney beans you heat up in the iron skillet, drinking caffeine before giving blood can lower your hemoglobin level to the point where you flunk the iron test and are ineligible to donate (12.5 is the cutoff).

If you always pay your credit card bill on time and in full and get assessed a late fee ($39) and finance charge ($28.84) and revolving finance charge ($15.68), it will take two phone calls to get the fees removed from your bill.


If you have a check made out to you in pounds sterling (versus dollars) you must make the deposit in person.




When you stare at the four dots for 90 seconds and then look up with your eyes closed you will see nothing. The second time you try it you will see Cartman from South Park. Then Jeebus will appear.




Dunkin' Donuts' "Get $10 off a $20 purchase at Office Depot" coupon really works and is good through the end of August. All you need is the coupon and a receipt for any DD item. If you pay cash at OD, you can do it again and again.

No matter how many times you tell them not to, your impatient neighbors will persist in putting your wet laundry in the dryer and shrinking all your clothes beyond recognition.



Ray and Charles Eames were not brothers but wife and husband (in the famous photo, Ray drives the motorcycle; Charles was the passenger).

41 is better than 40 (so far).

The maid of honor's duties include planning the shower and bachelorette party.

Home Depot has a gift registry. PetSmart does not.

One day the Bad Men will rifle through your car and steal all the change from your ashtray. Two weeks later they will find an empty ashtray and instead steal your gum.

Sometimes a massage works better than a chiropractic adjustment



Just because the Wassily chair is half-price doesn't mean you should buy it.

Big waves can crush and hurt you -- even if you're on a boogie board.

It is indeed 10 degrees hotter in the valley.

Yogaworks is a chain. So is Exhale.

Produce is better in Cali, yet it's somehow more expensive.

Santa Monica has more tolerant homeless laws than Venice, which is part of LA. If you must sleep rough on the beach, head north towards SM. Sleep under a lifeguard station so the sand groomers don't run you over (apparently this is a sport in Venice).



Getty Center architect Richard Meier and Getty Center garden designer Robert Irwin loathe each other (their designs are at odds; Meier wanted to maximize the institution's stunning view, which Irwin essentially blocked in order to draw more attention to his gardens). It's all documented in the video Concert of Wills: The Making of the Getty Center.


Use blue ink when signing important documents (so you can tell which is the original and which is the copy).









Occasionally your first human contact of the day will take place after you run through a stop sign on your bicycle at 5:45AM. You will hear a Chicago cop sneer in that thick Chicago snarl, "You better get outta here, quick."


The Venice (CA) canals do exist.


Holidays end.

NOBODY WALKS IN L.A.

And apparently no one wants to drive Inland when they live near the water (ie Santa Monica/Venice). Or vice-versa. Nonetheless we took a drive and got to drink the best iced coffee ever and eat figs right off the tree at the Studio City (ie; THE VALLEY) home of LoTus, Allen and Sunny Rae, who happen to live right down the street from the Brady Bunch House. They also live near avid (annoying?) environmentalist Ed Begley, Jr, whose Begley's Best household cleaner is sold at the local Food Whole and was gifted to me by LoTus. I'd take a picture of it, but camera seems to have expired. 'Twas a lovely visit with them, but far too short indeed.

My trip started and ended at the beach of course. The one in Santa Monica (at right) was deserted; Venice was another story (Why is it that the Europeans must locate their encampments ON TOP OF the nearest 'mericans? And why are the British SO EFFING LOUD?). The Hex surfed and I got to ride the longboard on my belly. Lots of fun; you feel like you're flying. I had less luck with the 70's boogie board on my last day, when I got crushed by a wave and was *not* sittin' on top of the world. The neck still hurts from that.

Near Venice Beach, where Gruff Tay-mus lives, and near the Santa Monica Beach where we stayed, it was in the 70's during the day and 60's at night. That meant hot tea, socks and comforter were in order each evening. NOW I get why people live there. Apparently you don't have to suffer the summer if you live near the water. And yet you're attached to a big city. DUH. If only one had $100 for each time someone said, "You have to move here," one would have a down payment. Instead one had a drink, and one's yoga practice has gone to hell (one nearly fainted after teaching, practicing and giving blood today. Borderline anaemics cannot have coffee before donating or they flunk the iron test, so when I finally made it to Dunkin' Donuts for a coconut iced coffee after my 1PM donation, I was extremely exhausted and lightheaded. I started to lose it, and had to put my head between my legs).

Speaking of tails between legs.... there were two chihuahuas, Louie and Ray, at the place where we stayed. One afternoon, while the Hex was picking up Tay-mus at the hospital (back surgery) I did some yoga. Partway through the primary series I left the mat for a moment (distracted? I'd say so) and saw both dogs hovering near my setup. Two seconds later Ray was sitting down, paws up by his ears, dragging his dirty anus across my mat. "Scooting," as they call it. "Streaking," as I call it. He left a foot-long brown streak (slightly crooked) RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF MY MAT, and seemed to think nothing of it. I WAS HORRIFIED. Too horrified to take a photo. Thankfully the house was stocked with disinfectant cleaner. I told Munkin the story last night, and she hit it on the head: "He needs to have his anal sacs popped."

Each night the dogs, the Hex and I wound down by watching part of Motown and B-Boys, or, as the rest of the world calls it, Dogtown and Z-Boys. That's the documentary about the scrappy 70's skateboarders who hung out near where we were staying and pioneered half-pipe, bowl and pool riding (gettin' vertical) etc. They were all over the magazines I used to devour while growing up in flat McHenry and on the posters on my walls. (I had a letter published in Skateboarder back in jr. high...Mr. Peralta should have interviewed ME instead of fat-neck poseur Henry Rollins, who went on and on about the impact it had on him growing up in DC. They also interviewed DC straight-edge scenester and Minor Threat frontman Ian MacKaye. Something tells me those kids were just not that into eschewing meat, booze and drugs).

And on Saturday we walked up the hill (with the dogs) to see the Eames case study house, which the Eames' designed and lived in until they died (in 1978 and 1988, on the exact same day). While trying to find the place, we saw another case study home that was being restored to its former glory. Can I just say -- NONE of the neighbors knew they were in the midst of architectural treasures. Maybe what they say about them Angelinos being shallow/vapid has some truth to it after all.

In any case, we had no appointment, no money, and no poo-bag. The nice lady let us have a look around anyway, and even gave the Hex a souvenir plastic turd-bag. (I hope to post photos one of these days -- had to use the Hex's camera, as mine had expired by then). Among the Eames' books was a copy of Gunter Grass' The Tin Drum, plus there were lots of things from India and Indonesia (apparently one's instinct to mix Subcontinental textiles with the ultramodern* is not the novel new idea one had thought). The house and studio were stunning (you could look in but not go in), as was their view of the ocean. I also learned, afterwords, that Charles and Ray were not brothers as I had assumed all these years, but husband and wife. Oops. NO WONDER they shared sleeping quarters.... Perhaps what they say about dem Chicagoans being unsophisticated has some truth to it after all....










--------



*One's living room is in keeping with the style of one's original (not reissued) fiberglass Eames rocking chair from childhood, which may be beat up but is still quite a looker.

WALKING IN L.A. - AY

The camera is on the fritz so 41 photos will not be televised, at least not for awhile. Suffice to say I am Out of Town. The sea and the sun and temperatures in the evening so cool that one needs a sweater *and* a jacket. Nothing wrong with that in August. The Venice canals under a full moon, the man with the signs and roller skaters at Venice Beach, live unannoying big band music at Santa Monica Pier (again under a full moon). But very little topped yesterday, when The Hex and I ate fresh-picked figs with Lotus and Sunny Rae and Allen (apparently Jack Nicholson is reading his script) and later had a Scotch and listened to FYC with Tae-mus and San-D. A day that included seeing the Rembrandts at the Getty Center, gaping at the Brady Bunch house in Studio City, and driving past the Chateu Marmont and Viper Room.

Welcome to LA indeed.

Now, if only the endless loop of Beach Boys songs would stop playing in my head.

AN UNCERTAIN AGE INDEED (Kali, You Go!*)


I received exactly two birthday cards this year (Plate One, left).







Apparently I am straddling the thin line between one of Tom Wolfe's smirking puberteens and perimenopausal scary lady with crazy hair and lopsided breasts. As with that whole virgin/whore dichotomy thrust on us by The Man, it seems there is no middle ground.

This makes me want to fall on my sword.

So does the aftermath of the weird dream I had about a brilliant professor I had (classes with) some 20-plus years ago (by the time I was a senior he'd fled our stuffy liberal arts school, where the professors were far more radical than the students; one time in class it was apparent that no one had done their work and he said "You've all been drinking and fucking all weekend" and told us to leave. They weren't really ready for that in Lake-not-Wake Forest, were they?). In any case, I awakened and remembered what promise I once had --yes, perhaps I couldda been a contenda -- and what a moron** and underacheiver*** I've become. So much for that dream of making groundbreaking films about youth subcultures. Maybe next lifetime.


Yes, time to fall on the sword.

Or at least try to learn how to wield the thing and become the castrating crone (in sensible shoes) I'm meant to be.



------------------------


*Kali-Yuga
In Hinduism, the last of the four yugas (ages) that make up one cycle of creation is the one we're in right now -- The Kali-Yuga. It's characterized by wickedness and disaster, and leads up to the destruction of this world (usually by men, at the expense of women) in preparation for a new creation and new cycle of yugas. Apparently The Man is going to get his soon, once Kali comes.**** She's the angry naked blue goddess with the crazy hair, sword, Gene Simmons tongue and string of skulls, who is usually depicted stomping her husband to death (oops!).

**I really did take great pleasure in watching Kristin-the-Famous-Bugeyed-Yoga-Teacher say "shit" and "fuck" (bleeped out of course) and drink, at one sitting: red wine, a martini and coffee -- on tonight's final episode of Hooking Up.

***No insurance, no mortgage, no Relationship, no five-year Plan, not a single lux-ur-ee. Footloose and fancy-free. No wonder I keep attracting guys like me.

****My mother, who was always ahead of her time and subscribed to Ms. from day one (I'm more of a Bitch girl myself, if you hadn't guessed), loved that bumper sticker; "God is Coming -- and is She Pissed!" NOW I finally get it.

PUH-THETIC...


...are the legions who endlessly extoll the mildly entertaining antics of their children/cats/rice cookers, talk excitedly about Amy from Hooking Up as if she's a close friend, and/or post amateurish E-photos of sunsets, for cryin out loud, on their largely unread blogs. Kind of like how they let anyone who can, have kids.

Pathetic.





Not that you can actually see the sun or anything. But this is a rare site indeed, snapped from the dismal grey back porch of a noisy* courtyard building located on a gritty four-lane speedway where they get really, really mad and sometimes even rear-end you if you dare slow down to park.








--------------------------


*Have I not mentioned Neck Tattoo? Suffice to say I now have a neighbor with a neck tattoo that may or may not have something to do with Folks / People**. He lives below Jenny Whatever, whom I've not seen since that cool June morn when I went onto the dismal grey back porch to snatch some yoga bottoms off the clothesline, wearing just a t-shirt and (matching) thong, and ran into J-Whatever, who was just trying to have a nice quiet smoke here thankyouverymuch, and shrieked, and ran inside, and slammed the door. Hard.

**A Latin King tried to pick me up at a party I attended with AWOL Jack last winter. He was impressed by my knowledge that the down-pitchfork*** he sported meant "people." He even showed me their hand-signal.


***Apparently Grant Wood's famous American Gothic, on display at the Art Institute of Chicago since 1930, continues to inspire the locals.

BOSTON REDUX


In which The Author chronicles her triumphant return to Chowdaville






The "T" (the sign for which makes me think of a big ol' blowdryer). "S" (for Slow) would be more apt. But you have to love a city that names a major train station "Alewife."



The Holocaust Memorial (someone has been very busy scraping the words off the stone and glass)



Looking up @ Holocaust Memorial, which is engraved with all the numbers of the dead.




Geriatric tug conference at Boston Harbor



Boston Habba II (crooked version)as seen from our tour boat



Some intrepid frigate. Sposed to be good for ya.



An unworthy depiction of Beantown's stunning new bridge (part of the frightful ongoing nightmare called The Big Dig, it's built to resemble Bunker Hill -- which is out of frame, to the right)



A view from the Charles River bike path (which we rode all the way down to the Science Museum, after stopping in Cambridge for the Vegan Pizza)






What Indian sweets look like after 1.5 hours on an aeroplane. Imagine how they must look when they're on drugs.




My gracious hosts + our new friend Sangria



Wickey catching casuals from Paul Revere's mysterious mount

THE VIGOROUS HUG OF NEPTUNE
CRANE BEACH, MA
...in which The Author really does sink down into warm, soft sand during Savasana.

TIRED AND FIT 2B TIED*

Last year on my birthday it was cool and rainy, and after a bike ride and over pizza my then -companion asked me to tell him the difference between fiction and nonfiction, ouch. Red flags, anyone? I have several to spare. He's getting married, you know. For the third time.

This year the day dawned hot and humid and my naive self still entertained some hopes of canoeing on the Chicago River that afternoon. I greeted the morning by watching the cat disappear while I drilled a hole in a chilled tender Thai coconut picked up for just $.99 at the Golden Pacific Market.** After slurping the juice through a straw I somehow managed to hack the thing apart (this takes some skill, esp. when every knife you own is dull) and slurp down the tender insides. I'm still not composting, and it felt very wrong to put the whole thing in the garbage when in India they let them dry and use the fiber (coir) to make rugs and other items. But, I thought, It's my birthday, and I'll act like a fat spoiled 'Merican even if'n I don't want to.***

Then I took the bike up to YogaNow - where they sang happy birthday! I had a difficult and painful practice -- someone has replaced my body with that of some 41-year-old -- with Henry the Punk. Afterwards we enjoyed a lovely breakfast at m. henry (hey! a theme!). Lovely despite the fact that in spite of my glowing recommendation in this month's Fancy Magazine we were seated not in the bright and cheerful front area but in the back, near the kitchen. Nonetheless the food was excellent and plentiful as usual (FAT BLOG ALERT! Today the health club scale showed that I somehow gained FIVE POUNDS over the past week. When I just bought SIZE THREE capris. Could it have been the millions of salty corn chips consumed with Gridlife on Saturday? The two pieces of chocolate cake at the workshop on Sunday? The pina colada-in-a-martini-glass followed by a carrot cake chaser on Tuesday? Or are the scales and sizing all wrong? You make the call).

Then I rode the bike through the humidity and back to my hot home (seven of my windows face south, and I'm on the top floor) and dealt with work and laundry and phone calls and a bath, and took a long summer's nap in front of the AC. I awakened crabby and disoriented and was consuming some chilled chai and half of a Take 5 bar (a possible contributing factor to my new phatness?) in an attempt to elevate my mood when an editor called... and offered me a lucrative writing gig! The mood lifted somewhat. Then the doorbell rang. It was a man with flowers from the Hex (yes, that's them above), which were both unexpected and very welcome. And fragrant. Still very fragrant in fact. Then my long-lost friend Wickey called; she recently returned to New Hampshire after a long stint in Dublin -- and I get to see her this weekend! The last time I was in her company was in 2004, at Queen Victoria's house in Germany, where I stopped on the way home from India, when we visited some Hitler museum (we *really* know how to have a good time). Then Queen E. called; she's in Beantown and very keen to discuss The Bollywood Fillums, and will pick me up at the airport Friday!

While I was chatting on the phone the wind started blowing like crazy from the north and it was cool and such a delight after Sunday's 102-degree (felt like 120) nightmare. So I opened every window in the apartment (nine total) and let the cross-breeze flow and forgot entirely about the laundry on the line. And then it started to rain! Finally, the monsoon came (we're in the midst of a terrible drought) and it seemed like things might turn out OK after all. And then it was time to stop wringing my hands and wring out my clothes and head up north to charming Andersonville to meet the posse for dinner; much laughter and a much mellower birthday than last year's ill-fated 40 in 04 fete. Less is most definitely more, now that we're in OUR EFFING FORTIES.


--------------

*sounds like the title for a Huey Lewis comeback single


**Golden Pacific also has the great prices on regular and tasty fried tofu (made across the street! very fresh!), jaggery, bean sprouts, canned bubble tea and a plethora of other items.


***Now there's a song

AMONG THE LITERATI

Bombay-born, Park Slope (Brooklyn)-based writer Suketu Mehta -- author of the book to your right -- Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found -- was one of the literary figures at this weekend's Master's Tea writer's workshop, which took place at the cozy-yet-air conditioned Chopin Theatre. Actually it was more like a publishing workshop, since we weren't there to critique work or do writing exercises but to learn from writers who know the publishing world.

In any case Suketu (who cowrote the screenplay for the Hindi movie "Mission:Kashmir" and the controversial, still unmade Kali film The Goddess that was slated to star Tina Turner [many Indians and NRI's* were upset that one of their gods was going to be played by an American sexpot / pseudoBuddhist]; the latter project has been put indefinitely on hold since producer Ismail Merchant expired last May) read from my copy of his book (woo-hoo! he signed it too!) and told the story-behind-the story of how he wove his own narrative into the massive amount of investigative work he did, which goes into the Muslim and Hindu mafia and their relationship to Bollywood, the police, the riots, and many other things that have confounded me about India. Yet it's also quite funny. If you haven't read it and don't have a lot of cash, it's definitely a must-read; go to the library or buy it when it comes out in paperback in September. It was up for a Pulitzer but lost to some Al Qaida book. The terrorists win yet again.

The heaviest hitter was agent Sterling Lord, who despite his name and Panama hat grew up in the Midwest (Iowa to be exact) and was Jack Kerouac's agent. He told stories about trying to sell On the Road -- amazing -- and is working on his own memoir. Sterling (which is my favorite name in the whole world right now -- I mean, you have him, the Velvet Underground's Sterling Morrison *and* Chicago poet and lottery winner Sterling Plumpp, to name just a few) recently unearthed a long-forgotten 1957 play written by Kerouac, called The Beat Generation, which was rejected by Lillian Hellmann and others way-back-when. It will be produced off-Broadway next March. In the meantime we got to see an excerpt performed by actual actors. Mr. Lord is not unlike Merce Cunningham and certain highly-evolved yoga teachers who actually do what they say; when you're with him you know you're in the presence of a master, and you feel calm and happy and like you can accomplish anything (it's not unlike getting a hug from Amma, only all he used was his voice and presence). He recommended a book for me to read and sent me away with the advice that good books take a long time to write.

The firecracker of the bunch was Obie-award winning playwright Robert Auletta (Broadway Play Publishing), who was a stitch to talk to and has written some amazing plays that among other things have dealt with Vietnam vets and vets of Gulf War (he told how his play The Persians didn't go over so well in the early 90's, but now people are digging it big-time).** We also heard from award-winning author Rachel Shteir (Striptease: The Untold History of the Girlie Show) and bestselling investigative author and event instigator Wendy Goldman Rohm, who wrote that book about Bill Gates' evil dealings and four others.

Oh yeah, I was there because I'm, you know, trying to write a book or something. I actually learned quite a bit -- including how to find cheap archival photos! -- from the panelists and other participants, all of whom are also writing books. The conversations were amazing (as was the food). Sterling and Suketu and a 26-year old woman who just started a publishing company had some spot-on advice. But no conversation compared to the one that set the tone; it took place between me and another woman of my (un) certain age, who's a scientist, shortly after check-in:


HER: (pointing) Is that a magnetic bracelet?
MOI: (gesturing towards wrist) This? Yeah.
HER: My five year old has one of those.
MOI: (coiling and uncoiling the bracelet) It's great for fidgeting
HER: Yeah he does that too. And then he throws it against the fridge.
HER: (continuing) It sticks, you know.
MOI: Huh. I never thought of that.


HER: Are you attracted to men?
MOI: Uh. Yeah.
HER: Are they freaked out by you?
MOI: (thinking) Yes
HER: That's funny. They're freaked out by me, too.



HER: Do you have kids?
MOI: (looks up and counts) Nope
HER: How nice!


Another highlight:
After reading from Striptease, author Rachel Shteir (who was wearing something quite low-cut) took questions from the workshoppers. Without irony the man who's writing a book about the time he lived with some African tribe and/or missionaries (it's not clear) asked if he could ask a personal question.

MAN: "Did you ever, you know, when you were in your office by yourself -- Did you ever, um.... Did you ever try it?

Stunned silence.

RS: You mean -- stripping?? My office is so small ---.

MAN: "I mean, I was writing about ear-piercing, so I went ahead and pierced my own ear..."

RS: Uh, no ---.....

WOMAN IN AUDIENCE: Well, would you do it for us now?

Laughter all around.

MAN: OK. I retract that question.


During one of the breaks I learned from a psychologist who's writing a book about keeping children of divorce from going mad that yes, there IS such a thing as reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder (summer depression). Ha!

Even more important, I found out (from a woman writing a book about how her great-aunt passed for German during the Holocaust) that Joan Cusack does indeed live in my neighborhood, in the exact house I've been pointing out for years to anyone who'll listen -- and she gives out candy on Halloween!

And yes, I managed to practice yoga before both sessions of the workshop.

**

As if that weren't enough (and believe you me, it was) I followed it up on Monday night by checking out a Chicago Authors Roundtable on blogging and the future of literature, which featured bloggers-cum-authors Wendy McClure and Erin J. Shea (both of whom keep fat blogs and wrote weight-related books; I wrote a profile of Wendy and she's awesome BTW) and Claire Zulkey (another 26-year-old!?) and two Kevins, Guilfoile (author) and Smokler (critic/editor). It was officiated by Gapers Block editor Andrew Huff. The panelists spoke a lot about the importance of having a blog to 1). attract a publisher/agent and 2). to help promote the book and subsequent tour. There was also some talk of the difference between blogs and "online journals" or some such shite, plus complaints about how they were some of the first bloggers and the rest of us are johnny-come-latelies, topped off by commiserating over how effing hard it is to blog when you're on a book tour. I feel your pain. For the record, there was zero overlap between the audience at that event (young, white, flabby and bespectacled) and the one on the weekend (older, thinner, wiser -- my favorite being the too-handsome Amish Mexican guy writing the book about the evil pharmaceutical industry). Unfortunately the panelists at the Monday workshop failed to explain how one goes about getting a book deal thrown into their lap... which may mean I must keep going to these things.

Interestingly, I was far more exhausted after the writing workshop than I usually am after an intense ashtanga yoga intensive. Hmmm....

And now I'm off to toss my bracelet at the fridge (so to speak) -- and see if it will stick.










_______________________________________________________

*NRI = Nonresident Indian or Desi
**He did not have any advice re; Jack

YOU CAN'T HAVE ANY PUDDING IF YOU DON'T EAT YOUR MEAT

I am kicking myself for putting My First Book* and My Bad Back** before The Yoga Practice*** and not going to India for Pattabhi Jois's 90th birthday celebration yesterday.

At least we can live vicariously through Joey (apparently his Indian name is "Joy"), an obssesive blogger who took a few photos at the partIES (scroll down to see Guruji and family, plus Richard Freeman in Muslimwear, our friend Zoe wearing that beautiful maroon sari and two of the Three Sisters {where, pray tell, has Harini gone?}; everyone looks a little shiny if you ask me so maybe it's good that I'm not there but here in the energy-sucking USA, where I have not one but *two* air conditioners at my disposal). There's also some exquisite text-only reportage (pictures are coming Madam) from my other favorite blogger, Vanessa, which I've excerpted here:

"Disconcerting moment of the day: Instead of gifts, Guruji and his family requested that we (if we wished, of course) gave money to a charitable trust that they have set up (with the help of lovely Stacey from New York and I'm sure some other people whose names evade me now). Part of this money has been used to help a local charity that provides disabled people with prosthetic limbs.

Part of the celebration consisted on bringing ten of those disabled people onto the stage, where one by one they hopped to Guruji, who presented them with their fitted fake leg or arm, and fitted it to their stumps.

This is the kind of thing that many Westerners, me included, found slightly uncomfortable. Even when we act out of generosity and donate money to these charities, we don't want to see the diseased. We want them to get help, but far away from us if possible. Their presence reminds us that disease and death are just round the corner from everyone, us and our loved ones included, and that disturbs us.

What happened yesterday was a more pragmatic approach: disease exists, those of us who can and choose to, help. And by fitting the prosthetic to the person, Guruji gave that person a name, a face, a presence, and acknowledged their humanity. I can't say I enjoyed it or I felt comfortable, but I bow to Guruji for doing it."


***


Not that anyone noticed or cares, but I *did * wear my talking Pattabhi Jois tank top all day yesterday. Which was indeed a full moon day if the students' actions are any indication. In my second class a woman came in 15 minutes late (it's a health club after all) and made a racket putting down her mat, accessories, WATER BOTTLE, etc. A half hour later we're all doing revolved triangle pose (all of my classes were compelled to do at least 3A, 3B and the fundamental standing poses in honor of Guruji's 90th) and she's doing.... ardha chandrasana (half moon pose, which is NOT EVEN IN THE SERIES). I cocked my head (now that sounds dirty) and watched her do it on the right side. When she proceeded to do it on the left side I said, "Why are you doing this?" And she said, "This is my last pose before I leave." Then she rolled up her mat and left! The rest of us were there for another 45 minutes....

Anarchy also reigned in my evening class. One lady sat out nearly every vinyasa while another student proceeded did sitting wide-leg stretching exercises as the rest struggled through Janu Sirsasana C (the seated "toe crusher" pose in which the bottom of your foot is wrapped around your inner thigh, perpendicular to the floor).

I did get a good laugh out of that same class. After Savasana (final resting pose) I told them I was wearing said shirt because of Guruji's 90th birthday; that he was born on the 26th of July (as was I) but he celebrates on the full moon, whereas I would be observing mine next Tuesday (C-U Next Tuesday, indeed).

"What did you say? How old is he?" one of them asked.

"NINETY," said I.

"Ninety?! Wow, he looks great," she said, and everyone nodded. "It must be the yoga."

And then I looked at them deadpan and replied, "Believe it or not, I turn EIGHTY-NINE next week."

I guess you had to be there.....

Speaking of which....Mercury goes retrograde today; fun for the whole planet (until it goes direct on August 15). From a really out-there website called Writer in the Window:

"While people speak of Mercury Retrograde periods that screw up computers and television sets, today's astrologers believe the mishaps happen in more personal realms (Uranus is the planet that rules television and computers). Mercury rules communication, but more informal communications, like writing, speaking, short shopping sprees and other erranding endeavors. So, while Mercury is Retrograde, don't give that party, be extra aware of what you say and what you interpret when chatting with or writing to friends, cut back on errands, expect that the check will be in the mail longer than usual. Since the car is usually used for shopping and errands, don't be surprised if the battery wire loosens or the fan belt snaps just when you have rush out for that one ingredient you forgot to buy.

The good things to do when Mercury is Retrograde: meditate, contemplate, edit the book/poem/song/essay you've been writing, clean house, talk to your pet, listen to music, paint, catch up on sleep!"

We can all get behind that last bit, can't we?

Especially now that we're armed with the knowledge that the world's computers and television sets are ruled by Uranus and not the evil triumvirate of Turner, Murdoch and Gates.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------


*It looks like the book is still on. Knock wood (me and my peeps [ie; British lawyers] have a few issues with the contract -- and it's still not signed. Yet.).

**For those of you not keeping score.... I threw my back out in March while helping a tall stiff man drop back from standing into upward facing bow, and sealed the deal a few days later by slipping on some ice and falling down a half-flight of stairs. I'm still "in recovery." But approaching twists and backbends the way Tim Miller showed me at an Asana Doctor workshop several weeks ago is making all the difference in the world.

***I'm still stopping after Kapotasana as per Sharath's instructions in May.... Although this week -- without any assistance -- I managed to clasp my wrist in Supta Kurmasana (feet behind head, chin on floor, hands on back) and in Pasasana-on-the-left (suffice to say the pose is hard to explain and even harder to do). Methinks it won't happen again any time soon.

IT'S SRI KRISHNA PATTABHI JOIS'S 90TH BIRTHDAY TODAY
AND THERE'S A FULL MOON



So all I want to do of course is sleep. In front of the air conditioner. With earplugs.

Instead I taught a couple of led open classes from 6-9 AM. Could it be I don't like to talk much because I spend up to five hours a day yakking for my supper? POSSIBLY.

I drove out to Des Plaines to see the Hindi movie Paheli on Tuesday; Shah Rukh Khan in a dual role and with a moustache no less. Which somehow made him even hotter. It took place in Rajasthan of olde, with deserts and turbans and very cool clothes and lots of jewelry (even for the men) and the stunning Rani Mukherjee -- and a cameo by the venerable, deep-voiced, still-handsome Amitabh Bachchan (as a shepherd!). The film worked Bollywood's usual magic and put me in a good mood. But somehow Rescue Me didn't tape while I was away; something about not resetting the clock properly after Monday's power outage (Travesty! The VCR ended up taping Married with Children. Is there any show I loathe more?)

My profile of Sri Lankan-American writer Mary Anne Mohanraj hits the floors today. She served fresh mango slices and finger sandwiches during our interview... and I was already a fan, because of the book (Bodies in Motion).

I must get back to my story about the Chicago White Sox and their lack of fans in the seats -- despite having the best record in baseball SINCE APRIL. Ironically, their highest attendance so far this year was June 24 -- when they played the ever-popular Cubs of course (Sox creamed 'em, 12 to 2). If only Richard Roeper would call me back I could finish the piece......Hard-hitting journalist, indeed.


(photo by Bindifry, @2004)

REPORT ON AMMA IN NYC: GUEST BLOG SPOT BY MDC (AKA "THE HEX")








Amma plays the Hammerstein.
By Catesey

34th st between 8th and 9th ,on the island of Manhattan is,on a good day,worth avoiding.it’s fairly uninspiring,, what with the quiznos, the loews 34th complex and assorted non descript office buildings. Fine,if you’re lined up outside the manhattan center/hammerstein ballroom, as thousands of us were, you do get to gaze at the storied new yorker hotel and the top part of the empire state(the best part). Amma is playing a gig here.she’s on at 7(no opener).it’s 4.30., the line is already down the block.it feels like 102 and the negative thoughts are up and running. And this is meant to be about love, of self and others.

The building itself is the perfect venue for her. Turning 100 years old next year(i.e.the building),oscar hammerstein 1 built it to rival the metropolitan opera,by offering cheaper seats for the ordinary new yorker.it was later sold and became more of a vaudeville house.the hammerstein is now a major cultural venue and boasts (supposedly) superior acoustics and full on remote production facilities to carry live events.

There’s more than a little shtick going on as we wait. And it is all very ordered. Devotees run around making sure there are 2 separate lines, each line then divided in to a another 2 lines. There are placards held aloft…”first timers”/”special needs”/”everyone else”…if you’ve never been hugged before(I heard someone ask…”do you mean ever,by anyone?”) you get a green dot and moved into the priority line. I was liking that, but the dot wouldn’t stick to my shirt or my chest so I stuck it on the middle of my watch face.not the most practical solution, but now when I am late for stuff I will always think of amma.

….some of the people wranglers, all of whom were wearing special coloured sashes,were, how to say it,annoying, esp the guy who continually walked up and down the various lines gently swatting people with his (holy) water bottle asking for “a real aisle,please” . ok so we are in,the shoes are off,and there is good AC.i am feeling the love a little here and it only gets better…from nowhere all these people start coming round offering all kinds of snacks and drinks.chai guy!! Samosas!!

Nothing to do now but wait to line up(again) and get a real token for your place in the hug line. There is a complicated procedure to get everyone out of their seats and onto the main floor(the hammerstein is as big as your average broadway house.3 balconies, boxes,etc. tho the main floor is carpeted.note to self. Next time you feel like a hug, bring socks). Astonishingly, I am seated a couple of rows from the stage,right on front of the action. Pretty much a house seat, and I swear I don’t know anyone in the cast.

We sit for some time and with little fanfare amma comes out and takes her seat. Silence……much lighting of incense and candles. Passing around of individual containers of holy water.(only later was it announced that it is best to not drink the water immediately but keep it for future times as it is holy and full of special power.oops). She then speaks for over an hour, stopping for translation. Much of it is very amusing.and thevoice!deep, gutteral, melodic, powerful.impressive. Chanting.meditation.lots of discomfort and cramping leg muscles.i felt bad for those closest to me, as I was adopting all kinds of strange poses to lessen the diccomfort.…..more announcements about how to actually line up.

it is said that this will go on all night, literally.she will hug everyone.(I heard it estimated that she was going till 10.am.). what to do now but wait….and shop. There are tons of stalls selling everything you would expect. I feel I am back in India,tho I don’t remember nagchampa being the equivalent of 130 rupees.(more like 12 ) The full on dinner downstairs is apparently fantastic(it is.$6).and so you wait.and watch. So many people to look at. Lots of kids with parents. Some familiar faces.The live music is beautiful, and yes, those acoustics are indeed superior.

I was in the 700-800 range of tokens and soon enough(the whole thing was easier than expected) I’m sitting feet from the stage.on deck ,so to speak. Amma sits in a beautiful square roofed tent- like space, beneath a gorgeous golden umbrella.flowers and silks everywhere.she has, as announced, changed into a brilliant sari.she is wearing a george clinton like multi tiered silver crown,and has so many people around her, not just us folks waiting our turn. Tons of handlers, all of whom seem to have carpal tunnel syndrome, as they are all wearing that protective wrist thing you can get at target.

Before I know it I am being asked my native language, I am kneeling before her, and I am told(pushed) to lean in to her chest. put your hands on either side of her. It is very warm and she smells very nice. . I breathe easily and she mutters something three times . it seems very loud and powerful.soothing.my skull kind of reverberates with her voice. I am pulled back,and there is some sparkling eye contact.someone shoves a piece of wrapped chocolate in my hand and what appears to be a withering petal.(is the chocolate sacred.when can you eat it. I almost have a larry david moment trying to clear up the timing of the eating of the chocolate). I am ushered off the stage.next!

I hang out for a bit, feeling rather happy and peaceful. This woman is truly amazing. They had shown a long video during the build up,and there is considerably more to it than just the hugging….housing projects, health care, childrens’ services, disaster relief. All kinds of humanitarian stuff.It goes on and on, as does she……

I consider staying for the entire session, but soon give up. Before I know it, I am waiting for the A/C train with a bloody change to the F to brklyn. It’s past midnight. The trains are not co-operating. It’s hotter down here than on the street,8 hours prior. People look miserable. New York fuking city, indeed. I drink some holy water. Hungry now. I eat the chocolate.


--------MDC. NYC 7/19/05

INSANE 'N' MUNDANE

Running the AC in both the bedroom and dining room during a nap today made the fuse blow, and cut my slumber short. While flipping the circuit-breaker downstairs (make that down FOUR FLIGHTS of stairs) I noticed that the landlord has installed a cute little black-and-white bathroom in the corner of the basement. No idea why. Back upstairs, everything is still flashing "12" of course. Nothing little or cute up here.

My practice with Henry the Punk this morning was the only thing that saved me from myself. Backbends + Henry's wit = Sanity. For awhile anyway.*

Later Gridlife and 'Enelle propped me back up again. Props to them.

Last week's zombie movie helped, too. I attended in character of course.

I cannot get enough of Julie's blog and Vanessa's blog. Apparently they're having a rough time of it too (Julie for two very real reasons).

Ever since I heard a story about it on the radio yesterday, I've been thinking a lot about sangria. Maybe *that* is the cure for SSAD (Summer Seasonal Affective Disorder).**


At this very moment the Hex is NYC, waiting in line to see Amma, wearing Indian dress and the green dot that says he's a first-timer (and guarantees him darshan, or a hug, with her). He said the queue just to get in to the building was many blocks long.

And I had mango bubble tea this evening at a place called Tank in Little Vietnam (Argyle/Broadway). We were the only Caucasians in the joint. The entire staff there wears NATO woodlands camouflage, and our cute waitress had a graphic of a tank or armored vehicle imprinted on her cammo apron.

Apparently I was the only one who found this fascinating/ironic/scary. My comment that in 30 years people would be eating kufta at an Iraqi restaurant run by guys in desert cammo fell on near-deaf ears.

As it was, they got our order wrong, wrong, wrong (as far as I know, fish is *still*not a vegetable) and held us hostage for an eternity as we waited for our check.

Someone once gleefully pointed out to me that "Tank" is also a derogatory term for Whitey. Hmmm....


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*H the P will kill me for revealing this, but his best line was....
"Ashtanga: Sanskrit for 'Get a life.'"



**Lest you think Summer Seasonal Affective Disorder is a figment of my imagination, I found this on familydoctor.com: "A less common type of SAD, known as summer depression, usually begins in the late spring or early summer. It goes away by winter."



And from The National Alliance for the Mentally Ill (which hits it right on the head, if you ax me):

"In about 1/10th of cases, annual relapse occurs in the summer rather than winter, possibly in response to high heat and humidity. During that period, the depression is more likely to be characterized by insomnia, decreased appetite, weight loss, and agitation or anxiety. Patients with such "reverse SAD" often find relief with summer trips to cooler climates in the north. Generally, normal air conditioning is not sufficient to relieve this depression, and an antidepressant may be needed."

From McMan's Depression and Bipolar Web:

"Kathryn (March 31, 2002): And do not forget Reverse SAD, a seasonally based depression that begins in the Spring and goes on until August or so. That's what I have been experiencing for about twenty years. I HATE Spring, it fills me with foreboding; Summer renders me stupid, indecisive and ravenous for carbohydrates. The theory is that my brain is over stimulated by light (the opposite of classic SAD). So I do try to avoid it, wear dark glasses, have heavy drapes in my bedroom. I am diagnosed as cyclothymic and have been on Lithium for 18 months now. This year (yay!) my pdoc is adding Lamictal, an antidepressant, to my Lithium. After keeping a detailed mood chart for the 18 months I was able to let the facts speak for themselves in persuading him I need the help. For the first time in memory, I am looking forward to spring and summer and wondering if there really is hope....fingers crossed..."


"Marsha (Feb 23, 2004): Thanks so much to Kathryn & Robert for talking about reverse SAD. I live in Texas & am practically suicidal from mid-May to October. I am overjoyed in the fall & winter, on overcast days, & especially when it's raining & cold! I was diagnosed bi-polar recently & am taking Trileptal. I had never thought to mention my horror of sun & hot-weather to my doctor, but after reading your comments I shall. Perhaps my medication will help me through this nightmarish time. I thought I was going to have to move to Seattle, but with treatment, maybe I will be able to face warm weather with a smile (I hope!)."

Here's a List of Symptoms of SAD from The National Organization for Seasonal Affective Disorder:

* a desire to oversleep and difficulty staying awake, but in some cases, disturbed sleep and early morning wakening;
* feeling fatigue and an inability to carry out normal routine;
* a craving for carbohydrates and sweet foods, usually resulting in weight gain;
* feelings of misery, guilt and loss of self-esteem, sometimes hopelessness and despair, sometimes apathy and loss of feelings;
* an irritability and desire to avoid social contact;
* a tension and inability to tolerate stress;
* a decreased interest in sex and physical contact

POOL. GENE POOL.

Last night we finally got around to watching the first episode of "Hooking Up," in which the reality-TV cameras follow 11 NYC women who use the Internet to troll for boys. It was riveting / hilarious / heartbreaking, and the next episode airs Thursday on ABC.

My theory is that people who meet online and get in a relationship always have in the back of their mind that if things don't go their way, they always have the profiles of the people they were interested in but didn't yet meet. You know, as a backup plan ready to be put into place at the slightest provocation. There is something mildly sleazy about the whole thing....

That said, this evening I learned that an acquaintance asked a guy out (face-to-face) and learned on their first date that he's a twice-convicted felon. 20 years ago, but still..... It was a lovely date but he didn't call, so after some weeks passed she called him. They went out, and she learned that he'd been out of touch because he was worried about her reaction to his felon-admission (it came out when she asked him flat out if he had a record, which is a pretty darn hard-hitting question if you ask me). It was another good date. But then she learned that he regularly drops acid. And that was that.

So maybe it's not that much better meeting people in person. Or through friends, which as we know can *really* blow up in one's face.....

AMMA TWISTA

I've been told I'll be privately flogged if I don't update this thing so here I am making a halfhearted stab at it.

Amma was amazing (she's in NYC this weekend).

The moment I got there I did the equivalent of locking my keys in the car, only worse because the locks don't work, and started flipping out. Prior to accidentally locking the doors, I'd driven to Indian Lakes via many expressways (four) in a car with no AC and had gone past the place once or twice before searching forever for a parking space amid much cursing, so I was more than a little perturbed. Well on my way to a meltdown, actually.

But the first person I saw inside the door was Miss Y, and when I told her my predicament she said "We should call Triple A." And we did, and they came (eventually) after we had enjoyed a lovely repast (South Indian food!). The man they sent took *a really long time* getting my car door open (the insides are rusty or something). But he eventually opened it, thank Amma. We went back in, and my mind was at ease and my body quite pleased with the AC.

Our friends had a hotel room where we cooled off between programs and watched the wee boys spar; later we were standing for the evening program when some men came up out of nowhere and placed chairs under our arses! Amma told stories that were translated by a handsome man with an untraceable accent (she speaks Malayalam, the language of Kerala, which is really gutteral). Then the darshan (hugging) began.

I went up to one of the white-clad Seva (selfless service, which a Miss Y points out is different from shellfish service) people and asked if I could get a real token, since the token I'd gotten earlier was a token for a token, only good if there was room for me. Apparently there was, and I got a number. After some waiting and more food and the obligatory shop-asana (one amazing CD and one clunker, it turns out) I got a hug! It was very moving and hard to describe; I felt like some long-chilled part of my heart had finally melted and suddenly there was a feeling of ease and the knowledge that everything would indeed be OK (of course everything's since frozen back up. But that's another story). During it she muttered in my ear and I remembered how much I miss my real mother, and she pressed a Hershey's kiss and flower petal into my hand. It felt very unrushed.

It was so intense (ie my burden felt so much lighter after that), I returned for more after teaching the next day, and stayed til 2AM. The second hug was more like the first one I'd ever gotten (three years ago in Lisle, when her handlers were rough and kind of mean), meaning I didn't feel much. I was trying to express thanks, which is probably wrong. Also I was probably too tired to feel much. But the evening program was incredibly beautiful, with the chanting and stories (some of which were very funny) and meditating and whatnot. Also some lovely yoga people were there and we enjoyed a long, leisurely, Mysore-ish meal together. Did I mention how amazing the music was? Apparently it was performed by Satsang Chicago, which is a local organization devoted to Amma. They're incredible; they played forever, facing her onstage. Later I spent some time eating uppama while sitting outside, where you could see the actual stars and smell the night air, before my number was finally called. I'd go back in a minute if she were still here.....

------


*In the meantime, if you are feeling miserable / invisible / nonexistent and Amma is out of town, you can get some validation and adoration by donning full Indian dress and going to Dunkin' Donuts. I recommend going inside rather than driving through. While there try the Mango Coolata or Decaf Iced Coffee with Coconut. It's the best defense against summer.

The other thing you can do is read this

C IS FOR CHOCOLATE

I saw the sneak preview of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory tonight with Munkin and her four year old. We all thought it was amazing; it even included a Bollywood sequence. The fancy chocolate consumed during said movie also added to the experience.

I didn't get home from Amma til 3 last night and then got up to teach at 8, practice, and call flaks for a magazine piece, so I have a lot of catching up blogging to do re; the hugging experience. Tomorrow. Suffice to say it was *all that* and then some (ie; enough to make me go back for seconds).

"A" IS FOR AMMA
and American Automobile Assocation


long weekend; more later....

TUNE IN, TURN ON, AND NOD OFF


My little essay correlating the current drought situation with an excess of sun salutations is set to air (so they say) tomorrow morning -- Friday, July 8 -- between 9:45 and 10AM on WBEZ-FM (91.5). Listen and reap.....


LATER:
You can hear it online here
Just scroll down to "Dealing with Drought."

MIXED MESSAGES 101
(PUBLISHERS ARE FROM MARS)


WHAT THE PUBLISHER DOES:
Does not respond to e-mails, does not call

WHAT THE PUBLISHER MEANS:
We're just not that into you

WHAT THE PUBLISHER SAYS (AFTER MUCH PRODDING)
We're moving the publication date

WHAT THE PUBLISHER MEANS:
I want to see other people

WHAT THE PUBLISHER SAYS
We're launching the NYC book first

WHAT THE PUBLISHER MEANS
That's who I'm seeing -- and he's not *difficult*, like you are

WHAT THE PUBLISHER SAYS
So there's no rush to meet the deadine.... Although we'd love it if you could still meet it.

WHAT THE PUBLISHER MEANS
You're my backup plan if this other thing doesn't work out

WHAT THE PUBLISHER SAYS
It's not because of your performance; it's just business (it's not you, it's us)

WHAT THE PUBLISHER MEANS
You don't measure up; I could do better

WHAT THE PUBLISHER SAYS
Publication dates get moved all the time

WHAT THE PUBLISHER MEANS
I love you; I'm just not IN love with you

WHAT THE PUBLISHER SAYS
We'll get back to you at the end of the month

WHAT THE PUBLISHER MEANS
I'm breaking up with you and you'll never hear from me again.

FACT OF THE DAY

Hailed as one of the nation's top singles strips in the 1967 bestseller, Coffee, Tea or Me? The Uninhibited Memoirs of Two Airline Stewardesses, Chicago's Rush Street was named for Dr. Benjamin Rush, one of four physicians to sign the Declaration of Indepencence. Ben Franklin was Rush's benefactor when he was a medical student in the UK and he served as a surgeon in the Revolutionary War Army. Rush Presbyterian St. Luke's hospital in Chicago is named after the impatient doctor (he once pissed off George Washington), who is credited wtih curing the yellow fever epidemic in Philadelphia. A proponent of bloodletting, he was also one of the first to push the then-revolutionary idea that mental illness is a disease rather than proof of possession by demons, and is considered to be the father of psychiatry. He headed the US Mint from 1797 to 1813 and his poor wife bore him 13 children. Ouch.

I'M BACK BACK BACK BACK

I'm nationwide.
(click upper righthand article).

DUSH BOWL '05


Every day they predict rain, and every day it does not come.

We're in the middle of a huge huge drought that they've only just now started talking about. The parks are brown and the leaves on the trees are cringing from the sun and the level of Lake Michigan is down, down, down. Forget the 700-odd old people who died in the Heat Wave of 1995; this thing is going to kill all the trees (although I'm sure god will be able to sort those out, too).

And there I go, leading people through sun salutations every chance I get, when what we really should be doing is a rain dance....but that's the forte of the *other* Indians, isn't it. Perhaps there's a Sanskrit monsoon chant somewhere?

Today I left the house at 5:45 am to teach the 6am class and lo and behold there was lightening which is not unusual (it torments us). And then something marvelous happened. Big fat drops of water hit the windshield, plop, plop, plop. Many of them. So many in fact that I had to use the windshield wipers, which I'd almost forgotten about. The rain made me feel like one of the characters in that Ray Bradbury story where night never comes and the sun is always there and it never rains and they are all slowly going crazy. Until it finally starts to pour.

I parked and pulled out the umbrella and used it for a few steps and then dumped it in favor of feeling the rare cold drops fall upon me. It was delightful after all of this cloying heat, and I felt like a character in one of those Bollywood movies where they belt out the song in the middle of the street in the middle of the monsoon. Only I don't really sing, there were no wardrobe changes or backup dancers (just some gung-ho triathletes on their way to the health club) and it only lasted a few minutes before the clouds slammed shut and the rain shut off. The downpour lasted just long enough to really mess up the poor plants and trees even more. And there's no rain forecast on the horizon, and the city is asking citizens to help water the trees so they don't all die like the old poeple did....

Maybe their plea will work this time.

TODAY'S LESSON (LISTEN UP, KIDS)....
....is that you cannot assume a cotton yoga mat is some kind of futon, set it up in the living room and sleep on same. Even if you place it on top of a Purple Travel Mat, sleep with just a sheet and use an extra fan to aim the conditioned air to your side of the apartment. No no no no no. The only thing that will help you sleep is watching The English Patient (is anyone else freaked out that Ralph Fiennes is only 43? He's either lying or spending a lot of time doing the opposite of yoga) while reading that Tuesdays with Morrie -- which instead of instilling an appreciation for all things mundane and beautiful and living in the moment and loving your fellow human makes you resent the manipulations of the Detroit-based sportswriter who wrote the thing. In any case *that* little cocktail is what finally put me down. At that point I knew that I wasn't going to be missing out on anything if I lost consciousness. Which reminds me; Is gouty Al Franken the new mascot of the Sundance Channel? Ewe. So of course I slept late and skipped yoga (will go tomorrow, which is usually the day off) and got to work on the book....


THREE THINGS YOU DIDN'T KNOW CAME FROM CHICAGO:

16-INCH SOFTBALL
(invented in 1887 at Chicago’s Farragut Boat Club "when a Yale man tossed a bound-up boxing glove at a Harvard man and the Harvard man whacked it with a broomstick," from the Metro Chicago Almanac).

THE HARLEM GLOBETROTTERS
(originally called The Savory Big 5 -- now there, kids, is a band name -- they were founded in 1927 by one Al Saperstein; the original quintet came from Phillips High School and went on to beat the 1936 Olympic team, which at the time was whites-only).

AMERICAN YOGA
(Swami Vivekananda introduced yoga to America when he crashed the 1893 World Parliament of Relgions on 9/11 and stole the show with a rousing speech at the Memorial Art Palace (now known as the Art Institute). He claimed the Windy City as his second home, and went on to tour the US (as did Anagarika Dharmapala of the Buddhist tradition); the outcome was the creation of an American Vedanta Society and a Buddhist society).

BEDOUIN IN THE BEDROOM*

So I have been banish-ed from my house due to The Painting. Not such a good thing to be out of one's discomfort zone when it's 100 degrees and the air quality is dangerous at best and one is behind on work and the cat is missing. But a very good thing indeed when the cat is finally found cowering behind the dressers (which are in the living room) and the laptop's wireless works and one imagines the sparking peach walls and white ceiling that will await once everything is finished, dusted, put back in place, reconnected and re-hung ((your joke here)). The airconditionless and aimless trip to the E-town Home Depot (oops, forgot there's one in Lincoln Park and overshot the one up north) for more paint was a sweltering nightmare *but* at least the new mobile earphone thingy works (starting July 6 it will be illegal for Chicagoans to press cell phone to ear while driving driving driving driving....). But after a bath I stayed last night at a friend's house that had the perfect amount of AC. Yoga practice today was OK; tried Kapotasana for the first time since the knee went *ping* in the pose and Miss Y even brought me up from backbend -- something I thought I'd kissed goodbye forever. After practice some brief commiseration with Henry the Punk and Buzzy Littlehead about the heat and how it magnifies anxiety levels by factors of 10 (over the superhot weekend a dozen Chicagoans were shot dead in a 24 - hour period) made all seem well again. For a few minutes anyway.

Drinking:
Fruit Coolata from Munkin Donuts
Iced Decaf with coconut from same
Passionfruit Lemonade from The Evil Coffee Empire

Eating:
Very little

Listening:
Retro 80s
Brigitte Fontaine

Watching:
Wonderfalls
Rescue Me
30 Days
Territorial Cocksuckers

Reading:
Tuesdays with Morrie (really)

Writing:
A book

Remembering:
The good ol' days






















*The new album by White Oprah

CIRCLING THE WAGONS

Today I got up at 6 to move everything (and I mean everything) out of the bedroom before teaching at 8, so the LL's handsome painters could do their thing. Tore nails out of the walls. Swept. Hid stuff. Covered things. Warned the cat. Peach walls are coming, madam. And much dust.

Then caffeineless I taught the 8AM Mysore. The Riverboat Captain Who Plays Sitar made an appearance and had many questions (some of which I could answer) plus there were some regulars. Afterwords I did my own practice. I keep forgetting to mention that I have not stood up from backbend since throwing out the thing (back) in March. Well, perhaps once or twice. But not much since. I've been doing the pose differently since Tim Miller showed me a better way at an Asana Doctor workshop a few weeks ago. It seems to be working (ie the back is being rehabilitated). I am also doing Mari C and D differently (with a straighter back, both cheeks on the floor) which also seems to help.

Afterwords I gave blood (the secret to passing the iron/anemia test is to *not* have anything with caffeine in it before donating; the two people after me both flunked). I do wish they'd take down that 9/11-era newspaper clipping of Robin Williams giving blood....It makes me not want to go back.

The weekend was punctuated by back-to-back widescreen screenings of Deadwood in central AC comfort, some Target Therapy and hanging out with the family under some gigantic oaks in my nephew's hugehuge lawn out near the hometown. He is 30. THIRTY. The family is doing well but I should've taken Young Mulletted Joey up on his offer to open my trunk (the boot hasn't opened since even before the FedEx truck hit the car in January). The great-niece is teething; very cute and quiet is that baby. Saturday night I went to see the play Leaving Iowa flanked by Larry David Midwest and The Media Junkie (who hit it off); afterwords one of the stars joined us for dinner, which was full of clever high-jinks and references to Combat! and Bedouins.

And last night I finally saw the final cut of our video project, Valerie Loves Me. It doesn't suck! It's quite good in fact. Not just the production values but also the writing and, well, even my so-called acting is halfway passable. Blaine is a genius.

I hope I still feel that way the next time we screen it.....

BUT IT'S A DRY HEAT


The thermo says 102 and the car has no AC save for a spray bottle of very warm water and a hand-held fan that doesn't really work. So what a delight it was to arrive on Devon Ave. (Little India) after a trip to the 'burbs and find that there was *no line* to get a tender Thai coconut for just $2. Not only was it chilled and perfect, but the Thai ones have that rich, nutty flava (unlike the very bland Indian ones). Maybe summer won't suck after all....

THE NEW JULIES

Does anyone else find it strange that I have three bosses with the same first name? British Francine is a health club group fitness coordinator at a super well-designed place downtown (where I haven't taught since March, although the parking fee is just $3). Fran is a distance bicyclist who does the same at an unpretentous health club on the north side (the one that pays my rent and has a small, tiled pool). And Frannie is a very young and outgoing editrix at a book publishing house in NYC (the US arm of a Scottish firm). Put them together, and I'm sure they could solve all the world's problems....Or at least fill in its potholes.

BUT SHE WAS ASKING FOR IT...

Lest you think the following type of "solution" is confined to the Subcontinent; I recently read a similar first person story by a female police officer in one of those "true stories" American women's magazines. Her solution to the rape of a young virgin was to keep it hushed up and (you guessed it) have her marry the rapist. After all, he'd robbed* her of her honor -- so what use would she be to anyone else? I'm sure he lived happily ever after.




Indian forced to 'marry' her father-in-law rapist
Reuters
New Delhi, June 16, 2005
Hindustan Times

An Indian rape victim is being forced by village elders to "marry" her rapist -- her father-in-law, a newspaper reported on Wednesday.

Community leaders in Charthawal village, backed by local Muslim clerics, believe that by being raped, 28-year-old Imrana's 10-year marriage has been nullified under Islamic law, The Asian Age newspaper said.

Holding a special council on Sunday, village leaders ordered the mother of five to leave her husband, Noor Mohammed, and live with her parental family for seven months and 10 days and make herself "pure" again, The Age said. It did not say how she becomes pure.

After that, she must "marry" her father-in-law and live with him, along with his legal wife.

"She... will then be like a mother to Noor Mohammed," the paper quoted local cleric Shamim Ahmad saying.

Her four brothers have agreed to the edict. She has not but in India, victims of crime often have nowhere to turn and with even her own family supporting the edict she may have little choice.

Police are now investigating and say they plan to arrest the father-in-law. They refuse to comment on the village elders' ruling, saying it is a sensitive religious issue.

The village is in Uttar Pradesh**, one of India's poorest and most backward states and its most populous, with more than 165 million people, more than Russia's 145 million.





----------



*One Spanish word for rape is "robar"
En espanol "rape," (ra-PAY) on the other hand, means "a quick shave" or "a scolding."

**The state of Uttar Pradesh ("Upper Country") is where Phoolan Devi became the Bandit Queen in the late 70's and early 80's (The headstrong and outspoken Devi was a Dacoit -- or the caste formerly known as untouchable. She was married off early in an attempt to silence her, and after refusing his advances she was raped by her husband at age 11. Later village Thakurs or land-owners also tried it ; she fought them off, ran away, and was later arrested for her trouble. While in jail the police officers and guards beat (and you guessed it) her. Devi was apparently sold to a lecherous local bandit who was assasinated by a lieutenant, Vikram. They fell in love and started a new gang but he was killed and she was again violated by a Thakur gang before forming her own posse and meting out justice to the deserving many (including the pedophile husband, his second wife, and 22 upper caste Thakurs). She eventually surrendered to authorities and did time in prision -- and even ran for office and became an MP before being assassinated in 2001. There was also some talk about her winning a Nobel Peace Prize. The film about her has been dismissed by Arundhati Roy and others as a sensationalist bit of fiction).