DHARMA MUMS

Part of our homework for Dharma Mittra's teacher training involves teaching free yoga classes.

Last Tuesday I started a series of four Dharma Mittra Level I classes in Oak Park.

During the class, I play a CD of Sanskrit devotional music - just as they do at Dharma's NYC studio.

Ten people came; one was brand-new to yoga, while others were hardcore ashtangis who'd taken the previous primary series class.

Apparently the ashtangis liked the chance to slow down, if you believe their feedback forms.

Among the things they liked:

"Slow moving"

"Unfamiliar"

"Accessible"

"Music"

"Being able to close eyes"

"The fluid nature of the movements"

"Holding the poses for longer"

"Different poses from my usual class"

"The simplicity and ease of each pose"

"Could do poses at whatever level you were comfortable"

"The opportunity to close my eyes and focus inwardly."



One of the newbies actually blogged about it; her post is here.





For more info on the free class click here.

ALWAYS THE LAST TO KNOW

Thank G-d for hairdressers.....

This vegetarian restaurant reviewer for YOGA/Chicago recently learned that Evanston is home to a new vegan soul food restaurant, which opened at the end of last month.

It's by the wonderful people who do Soul Vegetarian East on the South Side - which means they're serving some of the the tastiest, most comforting vegan food in the whole wide world.

(In fact the title for my review of the old place was Soul Vegetarian East; Decadent Vegan Cuisine (That’s not an Oxymoron) .

The new place is called Life, and it's at 1601 Simpson St. in Northweast Evanston (847-869-6379). They're open Sunday - Thursday 6AM-9PM, Fridays from 6-3 and Saturdays from 6PM-12AM (it's run by the African Hebrew Israelites of Jerusalem, and hence they're closed on the Shabbat).

I can't wait to go.

More here and here.




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PS
The image is not their menu, but that of a similar establishment.

NINE LIVES

Yesterday would have been my mother's 78th birthday....

Today I heard through the grapevine that Guruji has not been seen in the shala, and may be on around-the-clock care....

My cat-activist friend Deb recently dug up the following obit, which I wrote seven years ago....








FRITZKA T. KATZ (nee Cacananda), August 1987 to June 7, 2001

Fritzka T. Katz, 14 (that’s 70 to you and me), died in the hospital on June 7, 2001 after fluid in the lungs, most likely the result of a tumor, cause her to go into respiratory failure. Her cat mom was holding her when she passed.

Fritzka was the sweetest, softest, best cat in the world, and many songs were written in her honor. If more people had known about her, there would have been long lines to see her. On her second-to-last trip to the vet, several strangers peered into her carrier to inquire about the “beautiful, wee cat” and were surprised to learn that she was a dowager with only four teeth to her name (although more discerning fans, including performance artist and filmmaker Brigid Murphy, knew right-off that she was a grand dame of the old school).

Fritzka was born at Tree House in Uptown, where she was known as Franzia and lived in the office with her late, great littermate, Snarfee (nee Spumante) and an unnamed sibling whose whereabouts are unknown. After climbing onto prospective cat-owner Tim Hurley’s shoulder on March 4, 1988 and chewing on his hair, she was adopted by the rock star-to-be and her cat-mom, Caca.

Her many nicknames included Kitskin, Birdsong, Songbird, Eena, The Fritzkinest Kitzka, Little Miss Cat-Food-Naow, Toe-Cute, Princess Stinkybottom, Blackmouth and Kitty-Cat Mauser.

Although she liked to make guttural mewing sounds at birds and flies, Fritzka was not enamored of the great outdoors, and when she ventured forth it was with great crouching, sniffing and hesitation. She craved heat and enjoyed sitting in the sun. In the early days, when it was cold, she would sit with Snarfee on the stove above the pilot light. In later years, she would take a seat under the desk lamp, next to the computer; or on the modem or VCR. On particularly bitter winter days, she sat in front of the radiator and waited patiently for it to come to life.

She also loved affection, and enjoyed strewing her food all over the place. Sometimes her waste stuck to her bottom, which caused vigorous kicking of the hind legs, not to mention many artistic creations (including one particularly elusive and odiferous installation on the refrigerator door). She invented poo strings and poo poo paw printing and could clear a room with her output in less than 30 seconds.

A letter of hers was published in NewCity in 1994. She had her own E-mail address, doorbell and mailbox, and was admired by not one, but two of Nick Cave's Bad Seeds. She occasionally did consulting and voiceover work.

She was a paper-sitter who liked to rub her lips on plants and bike spokes, play with dental floss and roll on her back in the bathtub. Her favorite snack items were basil olive oil, soy margarine, macaroni and cheese, pancakes and certain baby food. She drank exclusively from the toilet.

When she liked a song – such as the Velvet Underground’s slower anthems – or a person, she’d roll on her back as if she were a grub, and sometimes would get so carried away that she’d smack her head on the floor. She was a top-notch player of Get Caca, Fake Bird and The Door Game, and could jump two feet in the air. She spent many a happy hour burrowing her nose into the elbows or armpits of the lucky few she allowed to get close to her. She did not like children.

Fritzka is survived by her cat-mom Caca, who is devastated by her loss; her beloved surrogate parents Doug and Natasha; her estranged cat-dad Tim, and countless friends and fans.

According to longtime yoga teacher Suddha Weixler, who knows about such things, she has already come back as “something even more beautiful.”

AMBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!****


Eat it and weep.....

This is the full-length version of the undercover Humane Society video, which shows the unspeakably cruel treatment of cows at the Hallmark/Westland Meat Packing Company. It's the long version of the video that's been making the news, and which prompted the recall of 143 million pounds of beef.

What the media doesn't say is that the downed cows in the video had already spent their entire lives in awful conditions - why do you think they can't stand up? - giving milk and producing calves that stayed with them a single day before being shipped off to live out their entire lives getting fattened up in a tiny box before they, too, were slaughtered.

In the video, one of the cows had massive streams of water sprayed up its nose, so she (all of these were females, by the way) would think she was drowning and muster all her remaining fight-or-flight energy and stand up.

Others of course were shocked with cattle prods (which really, really does hurt; these very same cattle prods were used on humans by both Saddam Hussein's Republican Guard and certain stepmothers** we know).

I grew up on a farm with cows - and never, ever heard them scream like they do in the video.

It's hard to believe that so little has changed since Upton Sinclair wrote The Jungle in 1906.

Even sadder is the fact that people are more upset about the prospect of children getting Mad Cow-burgers in their school lunch than the cruel treatment of their fellow creatures.

But at least they might think twice now about eating meat.

And maybe they'll finally realize where it comes from.

Kudos to the Humane Society.

You can make a donation to them by clicking here. There's more video here.

The Humane Society is also spearheading a campaign to stop the US Department of Agriculture from adopting a horrifyingly low standard for meat products that carry a "naturally raised" label. The standard appears to be a marketing gimmick that would not address housing, diet or physical alterations such as branding, dehorning, and tail docking. You can learn more, and fire off a letter (before Feb 27), by clicking here.






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*In America, we think cows say "Moo!" In India (or at least Mysore) - where cows are treated with less cruelty - they think the cows say "Ambaa!"

**Ours was kept in the corner next to the china cabinet - within easy reach in case someone misbehaved.

YOGA + CHOCOLATE = BETTER THAN TV



Chocolate was everywhere on Thursday - Valentine's Day.

Trader Joe's was giving away three types of rather excellent dark chocolate truffles - I limited myself to just two - and later in the day Mr. Kotter and I shared Mohr Im Hemd (Hot Molten Chocolate Cake) at Julius Meinl (Austrian desserts are particularly dear to me because they're not oversweetened).

Chocolate was also all over public radio that day. Marketplace aired a wonderfully riveting piece about master chocolate taster Chloé Doutre-Roussel.

From the start, it was clear that she is more than just a globetrotting chocolate whisperer with an exquisite sense of smell (she was born in South America and raised in France, which explains her rather charming turn of phrase):

"When I was 14 I started to taste chococolate to find the best pleasure out of my pocket money...and I realized that when I was concentrating into the tasting of one chocolate, I felt the complexity, the intensivity, and that it was much more interesting than watching TV."

When I heard the next bit I sat up straight and thought, "OhMyGawd, she's also a yogi!"

"I have applied this theory of listening to my body to listening to my needs for rest, or where I want to go for holiday, or if I want to be with this person or not.

"When you do things that are not in tune with you, not only is it a waste of time, but you also harm yourself."

"

Jon Miller, the reporter, also stated that, "She told me about her desire to have a family and about the toll her constant traveling was taking on her body. We talked about her ongoing effort to reconcile her love of luxury with her arguably stronger love of austerity and quiet. She said she knew that chocolate isn't the most important thing on earth. But it's something she cares about, and something she knows about, and somewhere she can make a difference."

Definitely a yogi.

Her website is here.

LOVE ME, LOVE MY DIET

Thursday's New York Times has a piece about couples whose eating habits just aren't compatible.

You know - he eats meat, she's raw-vegan.

They're called "interdietary couples" -- which conjures up images of multicolored aliens.

The topic has allowed the writer to employ conceits such as "vegangelical" and "Man does not love by bread alone."

Some excerpts:

Ben Abdalla, 42, a real estate agent in Boca Raton, Fla., said he preferred to date fellow vegetarians because meat eaters smell bad and have low energy.

Lisa Romano, 31, a vegan and school psychologist in Belleville, N.Y., said she recently ended a relationship with a man who enjoyed backyard grilling. He had no problem searing her vegan burgers alongside his beef patties, but she found the practice unenlightened and disturbing.

Her disapproval “would have become an issue later even if it wasn’t in the beginning,” Ms. Romano said. “I need someone who is ethically on the same page.”

While some eaters may elevate morality above hedonism, others are suspicious of anyone who does not give in to the pleasure principle.

June Deadrick, 40, a lobbyist in Houston, said she would have a hard time loving a man who did not share her fondness for multicourse meals including wild game and artisanal cheeses. “And I’m talking cheese from a cow, not that awful soy stuff,” she said.

The full article is here.


I prefer not to date meat-eaters - especially if they consume it in my presence.

And I certainly won't buy dinner if it includes something dead on their plate.

Even worse are those who attack my reasons for being meat-free since '87. Do I attack you for believing in Jeebus?

(Those of you who call yourselves yogis and still eat meat should read this article, called "No Yama, No Yoga." Yoga students who are not making "progress" or feel stuck in their practice should also consider cutting back on the meat intake. Fish, by the way, is not a vegetable. Nor are eggs.).


By the way, being meat-free has a long history even in the West:

The Greek philosopher Pythagoras, famous for his contributions to geometry and mathematics, strongly believed in the reincarnation of the soul and preached an ethical lifestyle that included injunctions against killing living creatures, whether through animal sacrifice or for the eating of meat. His proscribed diet was very close to today’s vegan diet, and attracted two different classes of adherents. One group, an elite group who studied directly under Pythagoras called mathematikoi ("mathematicians" followed an extremely restricted regimen, eating only cereals, bread, honey, fruits and some vegetables. A larger group of followers called the akousmatikoi ("listeners" who attended lectures by the philosopher were allowed to eat meat and drink wine, but were required to abstain on certain days.

According to historical documents, Pythagoras told his followers, "Oh, my fellow men! Do not defile your bodies with sinful foods. We have corn, we have apples bending down the branches with their weight, and grapes swelling on the vines. There are sweet-flavored herbs, and vegetables which can be cooked and softened over the fire, nor are you denied milk or thyme-scented honey. The earth affords a lavish supply of riches, of innocent foods, and offers you banquets that involve no bloodshed or slaughter: only beasts satisfy their hunger with flesh, and not even all of those, because horses, cattle, and sheep live on grass." His biographer, Diogenes, wrote that Pythagoras ate millet or barley bread and honeycomb in the morning and raw vegetables at night, and that he paid fisherman to throw their catches back into the ocean.

It's almost enough to make a girl want to study philosophy - since Hippocrates, Socrates, Plato, Seneca, Ovid and Virgil also advocated vegetarian diets.

Almost.

Learn more about becoming veg here.

INDIAN (H)AIRLINES VS THE FLAVA SAVA




from the BBC today:

India court in moustache notice


India's Supreme Court has issued a notice to a state-run airline asking it to explain why an air steward was sacked for wearing a big moustache.

Victor Joynath De was grounded by Indian - formerly called Indian Airlines- in 2001 for refusing to shave off his handlebar moustache.

He had earlier lost a case in a lower court which ruled that the airline was within its rights to sack him.

According to Indian rules, all crew members should be clean shaven.

A moustache, if worn, should not extend beyond the upper lip, says the rule book.

The guidelines do not apply to Sikh employees who are allowed to keep moustaches.

Apparently his muzzy is a health risk.

Mr De's brush with his employers began in 2001 when the airline argued that his prized asset was a health risk, especially with him frequently handling food.

But wait - there's more.

The spokesman said that some passengers could be unnerved by such a striking facial feature.

At the time of his grounding, Mr De said he was proud of his moustache which had taken 25 years to grow and now stretches prominently across both cheekbones.....

He is a member of London's famous Handlebar Club, which has campaigned against his sacking.

The full article is here



Sparks' "Moustache" lyrics here. The more subtly handsome brother in the band (ie; the one in the video) sported that short, Hitlery moustache for much of his career.

DAS MODELL*




The first weekend of teacher training was amazing. Who doesn't like seeing her guru(s) and doing as many as three yoga classes a day, talking about yoga and the Bhagavad Gita and the Sutras and anatomy and Pranayama and Mantra and Asana and spending five hours five feet away from Krishna Das and meeting a fellow student who goes by the name "Cell Phone?"

But all good things must end (for a few weeks anyway).

Last night my flight home was delayed two hours; I got into Chicago around Midnight.

The windchill was -30.

I greeted the cat, stowed my stuff, took a bath, and went to sleep.

This morning I got up at 5AM and dumped out my suitcase. Then I filled it with clothes for a photo shoot, and downloaded directions to it. I ate and dressed for my 6:30 class.

Despite thw windchill, the car started. It's a Honda.

I taught Dharma's Level I class as usual. But could only remember one of the new changes and made sure to add it; an "easy" varation on Parvritta Parsvakonasana that's a lot harder than it looks (both the Level I and Level II sequences have changed a little bit from last year - in a good way).

Afterwards I headed to the three-hour shoot at Essanay**on Goose Island.

My mother was a model, and this was my chance to feel like it was to be her for a moment.

I liked the shoot more than I wanted to - although I suspect that being a runway / print / TV model for Marshall Field's, et al in the 1950's was a lot of hard work + very little glamour. She used to take the train in from McHenry, and would read science fiction novels to while away the time. When she told the other models that we'd one day be walking on the moon, they thought she was loca.

Funny - the stylist didn't choose any of the outfits I'd brought. It probably didn't help that I don't know what "business casual" means or own a suit with pants. Plus while putting my things away I realized that all of my yoga teaching togs are pilled and frayed.

(Bonus Flashback scene from my Audition:

PERSON WITH CLIPBOARD: Who is your agent?
ME: What?
PC: Your agent. Who is your agent?
ME: There's no agent. There's just me.
PC: ?
ME: I'm an actual yoga person.

Every beatifully-shaped, perfectly coiffed head in the room whips around and stares at the woman with the wild grey hair.

VERY PRETTY MODEL; Ooo-ooh, look out for her)

I really enjoyed being fed and fussed over; it made me re-parented again.

Plus everyone was so nice.

I don't think I've ever worn that much make up at one time.

Or made that much money.

Anyway, I may be appearing in an Aleve advert soon in a magazine near you. As the letter Z or E or B or I - or even Y.

And the photog may be appearing in a yoga class near you.












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*Watch the video: Does it not look like these guys are contestants on a game show?

**Chicago's original Essanay Studio is where Charlie Chaplan got his start.

SNOW DAY!!


It turns out that we're in the middle of a full-blown Nor'easter; they're predicting up to 12 inches of snow before 6PM.

In Chicago there are strong winds and freezing pellets.

Dreyfus says there are whiteout conditions where he lives; the snow is actually horizontal.

Neither he nor Mrs. Drey went to work today.

Midway airport is closed, and some 500 flights at O'Hare have been cancelled.

But not my 11:45AM flight.

When it was time to leave for the airport, I could not make myself move. I thought, "Why go all the way there, and then find out the flight is delayed and I can't plug in my laptop because all the outlets are taken."

So I sought the advice of Gridlife the Air Travel Answer Man.

He asked if it was urgent that I get there today. Nope; the teacher training starts tomorrow morning at 11:15. The plan was to fly in a day early and spend the afternoon hanging out with Catsey - and possibly take in a B'way show in the evening.

Gridlife said that when the weather is this bad, and the travel isn't urgent, the airlines sometimes allow travellers to rebook for the following day.

I called AA and waited. And waited.

Finally someone answered.

Calmly and politely, I made my case.

It worked!

The nice lady booked me on tomorrow's 6AM flight, arriving at LaGuardia at 9.

"Now you can put your pajamas back on, and enjoy the rest of your day," she said.

No problem - except I'd never taken them off (Chicago is, after all, the hometown of pajama-wearing Playboy magazine founder Hugh Hefner).

Hopefully I'll have enough time to take a cab to Manhattan, purchase tissues and a gallon of water (which everyone is requested to bring to the first day of the intensive, along with a box of herbal tea - which I already have), sign in, say hello, and find mat space for Dharma's noon Level IV class.

There's nothing like doing a thousand Forearm Balances (see photo) three hours after getting off a plane....

In the meantime I'm pleased as punch to have an entire day to clean the house, catch up on phone calls and play with Kirby -- instead of spending it at the airport waiting in long lines for burnt coffee and stale sandwiches, and wishing my laptop's batteries had lasted long enough to make it all the way through Chalte Chalte.

Thank you, Gridlife!




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Gridlife also recommends taking a three-plug adapter to the airport, so that more people can plug their laptops into the few outlets that are available. I'd actually planned on bringing a six-plug power strip before I changed my flight today.









Photo of Satya C by Amy Dean

ORD


I'm supposed to fly to NYC today for teacher training with Dharma Mittra.

There is freezing rain and high winds.

And a new moon.

They're predicting five to 12 inches of snow between now and 6PM.

The plane is scheduled to leave at 11:45.

Five hundred flights have already been cancelled.

But so far there's been no call or text regarding my particular flight.

I think I'll bring the computer and some DVDs to the airport with me.

And leftover Thai food and Paczki.

And a blanket.

SNOW ETIQUETTE




1. If you're out walking and you come across a car that is stuck and spinning its wheels, stop and offer help. Do not keep walking.

2. If it's the day after a heavy snow and no one has shoveled yet and you're a big, strong man wearing big, strong weatherproof boots and walking on a narrow footpath and you see someone coming towards you from the other direction, give way. Do not turn it into a game of snow-chicken.

3. If you are shoveling out your car, do not be a lazy sod and throw the snow into the street. This creates a hazard for everyone and makes you the worst kind of civic bad sport. Even if you are a petite person with zero upper body strength and no hat or gloves and a massive sense of entitlement, the snow belongs between the sidewalk and the curb.

4. If you shovel out a parking space on the street, it is not yours to keep. No matter how hard you worked, the street is public property. No. More. Dibs.

5. If you shovel an extra spot, there will be space for everyone - including the elderly humplimpett down the hall. Plus you will receive extra credit in your karmic bank account.

YOGA* IS EVERYWHERE -
INCLUDING PRIME-TIME TV

I had some strange new TV show on in the background while I was working tonight.

No, it wasn't Lost.

It was Eli Stone.

I wasn't paying much attention but I caught bits and pieces; the protagonist is a hard-nosed lawyer who keeps hearing George Michael's "Faith" in his head; suddenly he starts seeing signs and doing pro bono work and visiting an acupuncturist - who tells him that God is everywhere.

Next thing you know, he wins the case against the evil vaccine manufacturer, makes peace with his long-dead father and is planning a trip to India.

More here.




*that would be union-with-God yoga, not foot-behind-the-head yoga.





* * *



How funny - the evening news just showed A Red Orchid Theatre artistic director Guy Van Swearingen shoveling snow in front of the theater - like he's just another blue collar guy (actually, he's also a full-time firefighter). You just don't get that kind of dichotomy in NYC. Ah, Chicago....

FAIR IS FOUL
AND FOUL IS FAIR



The Washington Post recently ran a piece called, "In India's huge marketplace, fair skin sells."

It discusses how Eastern European models with dark hair and light skin are being featured in Indian adverts.

"Indians have a longing for that pure, beautiful white skin. It is too deep-rooted in our psyche," said Enakshi Chakraborty, who heads Eskimo India, a modeling agency that brings East European models here. "Advertisers for international as well as Indian brands call me and say, 'We are looking for a gori [Hindi for white] model with dark hair.' Some ask, 'Do you have white girls who are Indian-looking?' They want white girls who suit the Indian palate."

Indians' color fixation is also evident in classified newspaper ads and on Web sites that help arrange marriages. The descriptive terms used for skin color run the gamut: "very fair," "fair," "wheat-ish," "wheat-ish-medium," "wheat-ish-dark," "dark" and "very dark."

Family elders here commonly comment on a newborn baby's color, after checking out the gender. One of the best-selling skin creams in India is called Fair & Lovely. A men's version, Fair and Handsome, was launched last year.

"The Indian mind-set prefers light skin. My pictures are routinely Photoshopped to make me look a bit lighter -- a lot lighter, actually," Riya Ray, 23, a dark-skinned Indian model, said with a laugh. "But when I work in Britain and France, my color is praised as exotic. It is a two-way trend: Indian models are going abroad, and foreign models are coming here."

I can't help but think of Raj, from my first trip in India back in 2002.

He made frequent trips between Mysore and Bangalore on his silver Honda Hero Super Special motorcycle, and was seriously thinking about getting a helmet.

To protect your head? I asked.

"No, Cadda. To protect face from sun."

Huh?

"So I do not become too dark."

Even Desi TJ - who's lived here for eight years - was concerned last month that his skin looked darker after two months in the Subcontinental sun.

Silly man. Doesn't he know that gori girls dig that sh-t?

Apparently not.

Click here for the full article.

CHAI-IN'

I must say, it's fun to be a frigid hipster once in a blue moon.

After seeing Redmoon's surprisngly good Hunchback last night, we went for tea and talking instead of Heather McAdams' sold-out show at Hideout. It's such a relief to find out you're not the only one without prior knowledge of the Hunchback story. Plus walking around onstage and touching the puppets, contraptions, etc. and chatting to cast members after the performance conspire to make one feel childlike again. And it was snowing the entire evening.

Despite all that I couldn't sleep past 7:45 this morn, so I went to Mysore class with Suddha, who always attracts such a nice group. Marikay was there and afterwards we made plans to cross-country ski tomorrow afternoon - provided the snow hasn't melted.

After getting home I did my sitting and then called Ammu, who is in Bangalore working on a film. I started babbling to him about the incredible karma yogi Shashi Kapoor, and he told me that he'd been part of some big brothel scandal last year. I was aghast, and after we hung up I went online to see for myself. But I found no evidence of it. Nor did I find anything about the massive tsunami he said was poised to hit the US today....

I had a bath, put on Indian dress (with long underwear) and drove up to Devon to see Kirti and and overgraze her buffet with my editor. It was snowing again and of course I wore the wrong boots (the suede ones that look good but act like a sponge). We had Kirti's special homemade Gujarati chai both before and after lunch, so the conversation flew fast and furious.

Afterwards, still high on chai, I came home and worked on The Magnum Opus and homework and a restaurant review. Somewhere in there I called the grand-niece, who turned three today and received a purple Barbie bicycle to mark the occasion. Apparently she can't figure out how to pedal the thing. This information came from her father; turns out her phone attention span is even shorter than my own.

The chai is still animating me; rather than paying bills though, I think I'll stop and watch a bit of Muqaddar Ka Sikandar before hitting the sack. The soundtrack, by the way, is sublime.

MAD ABOUT SHASHI



I've been sick the past few days, which has allowed me to catch up on sleep - and movies.

Make that Merchant-Ivory movies. Written by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala.

And starring the incredible Shashi Kapoor

First up was Shakespeare Wallah, about a touring British Shakespeare company playing to dwindling audiences in post-Raj India. The score was by none other than the great Bengali filmmaker Satyajit Ray.

Kapoor plays the playboy who falls for the daughter of the couple who run the touring company. She's played by Felicity Kendal - the younger sister of Kapoor's real-life wife, Jennifer.

Of course the playboy could not commit.

Next up was the first-ever Merchant-Ivory-Jhabvala production, The Householder.

In this one, Shashi Kapoor stars as an unhappy college lecturer in a new, unhappy marriage.

It was so depressing at first that I nearly shut it off. His character reminded me of the worst aspects of my (formerly negative) self.

But I stuck with it, and it paid off.

One hilarious scene had the straightlaced Kapoor visiting the home of some Bohemian American expats who love all things Indian. They kept hammering away at him: "What type of yoga do you do? Hatha? Bhakti? What type of yoga?" and he was, like, "What do you mean?" There's a similar sequence with a crazy western saddhu wannabe in Heat and Dust.

What is clear about these movies (and the M-I film Heat and Dust, in which Shashi plays a down-on-his-luck nawab who gets the firangi girl) is how much the filmmakers love India.

It's an interesting collaboration: James Ivory is an American Protestant, Ruth Prawer Jhabvala is a Eastern-European Jew, and Ismail Merchant is (was) an Indian Muslim. The Householder was the first feature for all of them. Merchant got the money together and did all of the lawyering, accounting, etc. Jhabvala wrote her first screenplay (in a mere two weeks) and her husband, an Indian architect, helped fund the film.

Ivory had only made documentaries before. They were using the crew usually employed by Satyajit Ray, and when they disembarked from the train with all of their gear Ivory was flummoxed - and had to pretend he knew what to do.

The films are stunningly beautiful, by the way.

Apparently Ray bailed them out again later, when they brought him their first edit.

He re-edited it, and Ivory kept what he did - adding just a single sequence.

My next M-I-J film will be Bombay Talkie - starring Shashi and Jennifer Kapoor as a mysogynist Bollywood film star and a rootless, needy writer. Hmmmmmm........

All of these films, by the way, are available on Netflix.



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Apparently Shashi Kapoor swore off acting in 1992 and spends much of his time working with cancer patients).

Apparently he finally found his yoga: Karma Yoga.

SOMEONE ELSE LOATHES PARTNER YOGA, TOO!

AND understands that yoga is a spiritual practice.

An excerpt:

Dharmanidhi referred to partner yoga as "a joke," rather than "bullshit," but the sentiment seemed the same.) Dharmanidhi, who is a recognized guru and Hindu priest, told me he thinks teachers who use partnering exercises to help their students gain more sensation and awareness "might have their hearts in the right place," but what they're doing isn't yoga. As Dharmanidhi explained it to me, the goal of yoga is to "achieve union with your essence" through a combination of physical and metaphysical means, including postures (asanas), breathing exercises and meditation. (Unlike the impression given by most American yoga classes, physical postures make up a very small part of this package.)

Traditionally, yoga is taught one-on-one, takes years to master and has nothing to do with improving the definition of your shoulder muscles. It also emphasizes emotional detachment, which is difficult to achieve if your head is in someone's junk. But Dharmanidhi's biggest point was this: Yoga is an integral part of Hinduism, and Americanized yoga -- whether it's called Ashtanga, Iyengar, Bikram, Vinyasa or anything in between -- is a bastardization of a spiritual practice.

The full article is here.

BLUE MONDAY

Everyone's making a big deal this year about January 21st.

Supposedly it's the most depressing day of the year.

This is according to U.K. psychologist Cliff Arnall, who specializes in seasonal disorders at the University of Cardiff, Wales. Apparently it has to do with money, weather, and failed New Year's resolutions. Arnall calculated it using seven variables: (W) weather, (D) debt, (d) monthly salary, (T) time since Christmas, (Q) time since failed quit attempt, (M) low motivational levels and (NA) the need to take action.

Sounds like fuzzy math to me - especially when you consider that he calculated this day for a British travel firm. Apparently Brits book trips to sunny destinations when they're low, and this company wanted to figure out when to make its biggest marketing push.

If this theory were indeed based on fact - and I think it's bullocks - then it makes more sense to see the glass half full.

If today really is the most depressing day of the year - and we're just three weeks into it - then the rest of the year will be a breeze.




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For my account of the hell that was January 24, 2005 - that year's worst day of the year - click here.

SIBS

Yesterday SportMarty and I finally went to see The Savages. It was a nearly perfect film. It explored the death of an abusive parent and one of the most complex and long-lasting relationships there is - between siblings.

It got every detail right, down to the adminstrator pushing the legal documents towards Philip Seymour Hoffman rather than Laura Linney, to the sad, slow waltz you make to the bathroom with an ailing parent, to the reckless sampling the deceased's medication, to the type of car driven by the married lover (a vintage silver Volvo wagon). It was written and directed by a woman, Tamra Jenkins.

Plus they shot it in Buffalo. In the winter. When it was snowing. That takes some nakas.


It tugged at the emotions, yet somehow wasn't manipulative. In fact it was more funny than sad. Not once did it become sentimental; witness Linney wrenching her prized red pillow from the arms of a wrinkled woman in wheelchair, who screamed in anguish. There was never a scene where the siblings tried to placate or patronize their father.

Nor were the points Jenkins was trying to make driven into the ground; either you got it or you didn't (these included sutble slaps at institutionalized racism, mainstream attitudes towards the immigrant underclass, and self-indulgent bourgeoisie art; its details - such as how the airline gets a wheelchair-bound passenger from the gate to his seat - provided a sly commentary on just how dehumanizing life is today).

This was the second film in a row where I actually saw someone like myself on the big screen, which is a rare thing indeed. Linney played an unproduced NYC playwright who'd been raised by wolves and was coming to terms with her father's dementia and a bad relationship (thankfully they did not give this role to Jennifer Jason Leigh); in Starting out in the Evening Lili Taylor was an NYC yoga instructor dealing with her father's decline and trying to get herself heard in a recently-rekindled relationship.

Both women were single. And my age. And struggling with real issues. And not portrayed as pariahs.

Maybe this isn't such a bad year for movies after all.





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After seeing the film, I had to call my brother (Dreyfus). It made me realize just how lucky I am to have him - a point my mother made again and again when he and I used to fight, and which was never driven home until after she passed.

MOVE OVER, SUKETU*

While listening to Eight Forty-Eight today I was reminded of my very first crush on a courageous Desi creative nonfiction genius -- sociologist and former Chicagoan Sudhir Alladi Venkatesh, author of the new book Gang Leader for a Day.

It reminded me that sociology was my first love (I once quit a PhD program in sociology).

He also used to be a filmmaker - my other obsession (I once quit a Master's program in film).

And he's a writer to boot (I also once quit Medill's Master's program in journalism)!

He's like the me I'd always wanted to be - only with balls.

Sudhir did a lot of work at the old Robert Taylor Homes - aka the worst projects in Chicago, back when there were projects - and I remember writing something (brief) about him way-back-when for the Backwards R. He spent some 15 years documenting the lives of the people who live(d) there.

Actually, he describes himself as a "rogue sociologist" - which makes him all the more intriguing.

From an article in yesterday's International Herald-Tribune:

Dissatisfied with opinion surveys and statistical analysis as ways to describe the life of the poor, he reverted to the methods of his predecessors at the University of Chicago, who took an ethnographic approach to the study of hobos, hustlers and politicians. Much like a journalist, he observed, asked questions and drew conclusions as he accumulated raw data.

Apparently no one knew what to make of him because he wasn't white (like the police) or black (like the residents). This made it easier to trust him, and he was taken under the wing of a gang leader named J.T.

One glorious day J. T. lets Venkatesh get a taste of power and the problems that come with it. He allows him to make the daily rounds of the platoons under his command — six-man crews that deal in crack cocaine — and try to sort out the petty squabbles and mistakes endemic in a criminal enterprise comprising 250 underpaid, uneducated and violent soldiers.

All this is much better than toting a clipboard. "It was pretty thrilling to have a gang boss calling me up to go hang out with him," writes Venkatesh, who ridicules his own naïveté but just as often fails to rise above it.


Without question, Venkatesh is dazzled by J. T. and seduced by the gang life. He maintains enough distance, however, to appraise the information he is given and to build up, through careful observation, a detailed picture of life at the project. He writes what might be called tabloid sociology, but it rests on a solid foundation of data, like records of the gang's finances turned over to him by T-Bone, its treasurer.

Like everyone worth their mettle, Sudhir has ditched Chicago. He's now Professor of Sociology & African-American Studies at Columbia University.

One can't help but wonder if he too lives in Park Slope.

The radio piece I heard today is here. The interviewer, by the way, often attends my Thursday night ashtanga class.









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*I still adore Suketu Mehta and will continue to stalk him whenever I'm in Park Slope.

Both he and Sudhir:

1. Did years and years of research before taking even more time to write their utterly amazing books

2. Were in verrrrry dangerous situations but stuck it out (among other things, Sudhir's affiliation with Gang A, made him a target for Gang B; Suketu had a gun put to his head by one of Bombay's top mobstas)

3. "Crossed the line" with their subjects (among other things, Sudhir adminstered a kick in the stomach to a wife-beater who had a choke-hold on one of his gangsta friends; Suketu accepted one of his subjects' invitation to co-write the film Mission Kashmir.

4. Ditched Chicago for NYC

SANTOSH*

On Friday night 20/20 did a theme show about happiness, exploring who has it (denizens of Demark, Singapore and Asheville, NC) and how to get it (stop shopping / quit complaining / get on a bicycle).

I prefer the word "contentment," since it's less loaded / manic.

But it's their show.

The found that having children does not make people happier. Ha!

Being married does. Wah!

So does having connections with other people, doing meaningful work and thinking positive thoughts.

They're also happy in Denmark because they don't spend all of their time shopping and they're not afraid of the future. If something happens, they know they'll be taken care of (the government pays for health care and spends more per capita on children and the elderly than any other country). Also, even the worst jobs seem to bring in a good salary, and 92 percent of Danes belong to some sort of hobbyist club. Plus they trust their government and ride bicycles.

I think we're unhappy in the US because we're isolated from each other and our culture is based on fear and accumulating useless dreck. We'd rather watch people abuse each other on our flat-screen TV than see our friends. (Also, the people here seem to think that the right to "the pursuit of happiness" means they are should be happy all the time - and if they're not, they're missing out on something everyone else has. This thinking breeds a very dangerous sense of entitlement.).

The most amazing thing about the show was this:

They said that 50 percent of a person's "happiness" is based on genes (this was bad news for me, considering the forebears' attempts at hari kari). Ten percent is based on current circumstances, and a whopping 40 percent is in our control.

Forty percent! In our control!

And then they dropped the biggest bomb of all: If you spend a half hour every day sitting quietly and thinking about kindness and compassion for two weeks, your perspective will change and you will start to become happy. It's actually been scientifically proven:

"The happiness activities are not going to surprise anyone," Lyubomirsky said. "I mean, they're things like gratitude, forgiveness, relationships, savoring the present moment, meditation. I try to sort of determine to what extent those things are supported by research."

Davidson would agree. He has studied the brains of Buddhist monks, men who spend their lives deliberately forcing positive emotions, and their happiness is off the charts. His new data claims that if a person sits quietly for a half-hour a day just thinking about kindness and compassion, their brain will show noticeable changes in just two weeks.

"In many ways, this is the most important idea in neuroscience in the last decade," he said. "Our brains are just waiting to be transformed, and they're always being transformed. But we can take responsibility and change the brain in more positive ways."

"Research is showing pretty convincingly now that happiness is really within us, it's not outside of us," said Lyubomirsky. "It's in what we do. It's sort of how we act, how we think every day of our lives."



One can only magine what would happen if people watched 30 minutes less TV each day, and used that time to sit.....

GlaxoSmithKline and Eli Lilly would go out of business.







Part I of the 20 / 20 piece is here.

Part II (with the monks) is here.

(Funny - I don't remember them talking to any nonwhite Americans for the show).

More on Denmark here.

I can't help but wonder about their immigration policy, being a quarter Dansk and all....





*Santosh = Hindi for contentment or happiness